#armed with ​indoor shades in the fight against eye contact

[d1rthaus]

David Byrne at CBGB’s c. 1976-77

[douxspider]

— 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐲 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐧.

‘ARVIN RUSSELL x READER INSERT’

( potential spoilers for “the devil all the time” ) —  Reader is new to town, working at a bakery ran by a kind old lady. Getting used to the ropes of the city, a man in blue arrives unsettled, holding a bloody rag against his knuckles and shivering just slightly. (occurs after arvin approaches the three bullies.) 

warnings: blood, mentioned alcohol abuse, bullying. word count: 2,330 published: 9/17/20 ao3 link — part 2, 3

— — • — —

You didn’t ask for much in life. You didn’t want much. Your entire life you let the sea take you where it wanted to take you, and if it brought you to a flourishing island with the most beautiful sunsets and the softest sand, you let it. If it wanted to take you to the dangerous, icy hurricanes where waves clashed and thrown against each other and you drowned in the salty depth, you let it.

You don’t have a will, the town would mock you.

You were new to Ohio, originally coming from New York, and they liked to call you city girl. Your accent was more urban compared to the rural dialect around you. You stuck out like a sore thumb. The community grew together, knew everyone’s names, and when a random strange girl with only a plastic bag of clothes arrived at the nearest motel, it was all the rage.

Luckily, you managed to find a sweet baker lady to take you in. She had a plump figure, rosy cheeks, and graying auburn hair that spoke of pies and sunshine. Her name was Marilyn McCann, she was in her late 50s, and she had lost her two dear sons in the Vietnam war, her husband previously passing from health complications. Marilyn opened the baker, naming it McCann Boys in honor of them.

You were seated behind the counter on a stool, picking at a lemon and poppyseed muffin, placing chunks of the bread in your mouth and eating slowly. It was a quiet day, rain splattering against the window, most people wanted to bake indoors.

While you fidgeted with the book in your lap, idly reading it, you heard the bell ring. You glanced up, and instead of the man moving to the counter, he only took a seat by the window, a rag covering his knuckles as his hat hid his face. He refused to return your eye contact, which was used as a silent method of do you want me to come to you?

You were running the shop alone. You couldn’t ask Marilyn who this strange fellow was. You had to take the initiative.

Getting up from your seat, the stool groaned against the hardwood beneath you, and you made your way towards him. He was bouncing his jean-clad leg excessively, winding the rag around his tightened fist. There were dark stains on it, but you paid it no mind.

“Sir?”

The man twitched his head in your direction, his cap revealing only an inch more of his face before moving back down to the table. “Yeah?” His voice was low, a bit hoarse.

You leaned to the side a bit, crossing your arms, crooking a brow upwards. “You good?”

“Yeah, ah,” he spoke, moving his chin upwards to look at you, and he stopped. You did as well, a silent, complex tension thick between the two of you, before he continued, “Just uh… needed to sit down, s’all. Do I…” he cleared his throat after a voice crack, “do I need to buy somethin’?”

Shaking your head, you gave a quiet, slow, “No.”

Taking a better look at his hands, you noticed it was blood on the rag. So, he was getting that post-fight clarity. You moved to the back and grabbed some pure alcohol you and Marilyn liked to keep, pouring only a bit on a clean washing rag, before heading back to the mysterious man’s location. Taking his hands, he gave a quiet noise of surprise as you tore open his fingers from the old rag and placed it to the side.

“Lady, what are you— ow! Shit...”

Lightly sponging the rag against his knuckles, you then placed the new cloth in his hands, taking a seat in front of him.

The man in front of you seemed somewhat offended, clutching onto the rag and padding it over his knuckles, but also giving you a scowl. “The hell you do that for…? ‘Didn’t need that, I can take care of myself.”

“So, what’d the man do? Pissing contest taken too far?”

He removed the cloth from his hand and wrung his knuckles together, and you stared at the scabs. “Maybe you should keep your nose where it belongs, darlin’.”

You hummed, leaning over the table and resting your bare arms against the surface, looking out the stormy window. “Y’seem like a sweet girl,” the man spoke up, catching your attention, “but that kinda behavior here… askin’ too many questions, it can get ‘ya hurt.”

Eyeing him up and down, you tilted your head so it nearly rested on your shoulder. “Well… y’gonna hurt me, stranger?”

Brown eyes fogging over with clear distant memories, you watched his expression dampen, no longer seeming agitated but only conflicted. “No… no, I wouldn’t hurt ‘ya.” His voice was only a low grumble. “I was taught better than to hurt girls.”

Giving a hum as a response, you tapped your painted fingers against each other. “I’m not trying to be nosy,” you then confessed, “...just curious. Don’t hear much from this town regarding fist fights.”

“You’re the city girl?” With a wince, you nodded. “Ah.”

“That a bad thing, mister?” You asked, trying to analyze his expression. He seemed distant, staring off, before his eyes turned as round as saucers glancing at you.

“No, no, miss, I ain’t imply that. Lotta people know about you ‘round here, it’s rare for a cityfolk to come to this dot on the map,” he explained, “Just curious.”

Clearly that was an insinuation for you to indulge him on his question. Though, feeling smug, and honestly in your right, you told, “You tell me why you’re bleeding from your hands, I’ll tell you my harrowing tale of ending up in Ohio. How about that?”

Surprisingly, the stranger let out a quiet laugh. It was breathy, and for some odd reason you could tell he doesn’t do that often by the way it seemed foreign coming from him, the product from his lips being stopped with his mouth closing. “Fair. You’re good at this game, little lady.” He let his knuckles out into the open air before crossing his arms together, leaning back in the booth.

“My old man,” he started with a distant voice, grimacing at the latter, and you assumed there was a dark history there, “he taught me t’protect myself. To protect others. Now, he was no layabout, he was straight outta the war,” the stranger chuckled, “if anyone tried anythin’, he wouldn’t let ‘em. He taught me that with physical expression.” The jean jacket around his arms got tightened with his whitening grip. “Now, y’see, lotta folk in this town ain’t kind. They ain’t acceptin’, they don’t like new things. They don’t like concepts.”

You listened quietly, feeling your heart slow its pace within your chest, trying to silence itself to take in every word. “I got a sister. Step-sister. She’s sweet, but she ain’t like the others. They don’t like that.”

His jaw tightened as he looked out the window, his blue cap shading his eyes. “...Had t’put an end to it.”

An understanding finally settled in your head. You fiddled with the apron draped around your legs, chin tilted downwards as you took in the information. You looked back at him. “...That’s a good thing.”

“What?” He glanced at you from the corner of his eye.

“Protecting your sister. That’s a good thing.” You could tell he felt guilty only slightly, perhaps he was scared of himself, scared of what he did. “I never had a sibling growing up,” you told, “having someone there to protect me would’ve done me wonders.” The stranger moved his hand up to his mouth, rubbing the side of his index finger against his chin. You gave a weak smile. “People aren’t too kind here to me, so I don’t need to fantasize your sister’s reality. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be outcasted from your own town like that. Your sister must be a kind soul, being thrown to the wolves like sheep like that.” You shook your head. “It’s not right. I think you did what you had to do. Sometimes that’s the best you can do.”

He was staring at you, and you couldn’t help but to wonder if you said too much. If you were prying too much. You had never met this man before, he could’ve just killed someone for all you know for no rhyme or reason, he could be a sociopath, luring his next victim, but you trusted your gut on saying that this man was right in what he did.

The corner of his lips quirked upwards and he gave a quiet exhale through his nose, nodding his head before glancing at you, head tilted downwards. “Now, your story. Fair trade, little lady.”

With an amused smile, you shrugged. “Came from New York, had no ties. Father ditched when I was still learning my ABCs, mama abused alcohol, that’s what wound her up in the grave. Took that as my sign to go.” You recalled the dirty poor Manhattan streets you grew up on. “Manhattan… it’s a busy city. Too busy. No one knows ‘ya, but they assume they do.” You pointed at him to exaggerate, closing an eye, “If you’re in the wrong neighborhood, that’s what you are now. Wrong. I was a wrong, poor girl with no faith.”

“No faith?” The stranger asked.

“Faith didn’t keep me alive there. Only money.”

He nodded slowly. “Surprised to see someone here not lookin’ to God.”

You clasped your hands together and shrugged. “Well, when he brings me something nice, I’ll go to church.” Glimpsing up at him, you asked, “Do you have faith?”

“Only for my grandmama and sister. I ain’t got no interest listenin’ to a man for hours.”

“You seem like a family man, mister.” You smiled, leaning back. “Are they the only reason you’re here?”

A moment of hesitance resulted from him. “Yeah.”

You decided not to press further.

Taking in the quiet rain, you tapped your hands on the table beneath you three times and stood up, placing your hands on your hips. “Well, mister, do you drink coffee?”

He seemed so small in the booth, huddled up with his arms crossed, brown eyes that were no longer iced over with memories, but instead focused on you with a round childish charm to them. “Ah… yeah, I do.”

Smiling with a nod, you headed and started up the yellow coffee machine. You looked back at him, saw him staring out the window, and you finished up the mug of coffee and gave it to him, hot. Sitting in front of him with your muffin, you both indulged in your delicacies in a peaceful silence.

When his coffee was just about gone, he asked, “Mind if I smoke in ‘ere?” He wondered, and you gave him permission.

“Sure. The only thing I’m concerned about is the gross taste coffee and tobacco must have together,” Wrinkling your nose at the thought, the man laughed, amused as he placed a cigarette in his mouth and used a lighter.

He puffed in the smoke and then removed the cigarette from his mouth, pulling over an ashtray that rested on the table. Blowing through the thin slit between his lips, he murmured, “Arvin.”

“Hm?” You asked, wiping off your hands on your apron from crumbs.

“My name is Arvin Russell.”

Blinking at him, you smiled, testing out his name carefully. “Hi, Arvin. I’m Y/N L/N.”

Arvin seemed a little shy, his cap hiding most of his face before he moved his head up just slightly, catching your eye, pointing out, “‘Like that name. Suits you. A pretty name for a pretty girl.”

A little flustered, you pinched your bare lips together before giving out a breathy chuckle. He moved his cigarette to his lips, watching you closely, inhaling the smoke. “You’re sweet.”

Arvin smiled, the paper-wrapped cancer stick between his lips, he pulled it out with a quick huff and said, “You’re the sweet girl talkin’ to bloody strangers sulking in the corner of your shop and givin’ em free coffee, Y/N.” He was staring at the window when he said this, but his head turned towards you, relaxed against the seat behind him, tapping the ashes into the ashtray. “Y’deserve better than this place.”

Feeling overwhelmed with all the positive comments— you didn’t receive many— you tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Well, Arvin, I think you deserve good things, too.”

Arvin gazed at you, a soft expression on his face before checking his watch. “Have to head home.” You both stood and you began to clean up. Arvin went up to the counter and gave a few dollars, and you stared at the money, gawking before giving a nervous smile and shaking your head.

“You don’t need to do that, Mr. Russell—”

“Arvin was doin’ just fine, sweet girl,” Arvin said with a smile. “Y’helped me out today. Thank you. Genuinely. I wanna pay back however I can.”

You took the money cautiously, feeling shy.

“Take that money for yourself. Buy yourself another pretty dress,” he said, eyeing the one you wore and tipping his hat. He was about to leave before he turned, hand flat against the glass, the other tucking his old rag into his coat pocket and gazing at you. “...We’ll be seein’ each other again, Y/N.”

Feeling overrun with flustered emotions, you smiled and said, “I would sure hope so, Arvin. I liked having you around.”

Arvin looked to the side, murmuring, “Likewise.”

You were left in the silence of the bakery, the rain turning into a light mist outside. Pressing your lips together, you changed your weight from foot to foot, turning to lean your back against the counter and giving a sigh.

Each encounter with him from then on would slowly grow into something more.

[kiribaku-queen]

Home [3/10]

Pairing: Bakugou x reader, Kirishima x reader

Fluff, angst, werewolf!au

Word count: 2.9k

Warning: cursing, makeout session

A/N: let me know if you want to be tagged in the next part! I will try to update this once every week. I’m just working so much that I barely have free time to write but if you guys are enjoying this so far, let me know!

Summary: Being called the beauty of the clan isn’t as nice as it sounds. The beauty of the clan is supposed to exude confidence, power, and well, beauty. You were quite the opposite, only possessing one of those traits. Yet, the older you got, the more you fit into the role you were given. After your brother and all the boys of age come back from their training period, it was time to find a mate. But who will steal your heart? Is it Bakugou, the rising leader of the pack, or is it Kirishima, the personal guard and the strongest in the pack?

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10]

“What the hell do you mean fiancée?” Bakugou questioned, not giving a care in the world who this girl was in front of him. He then swung his arm around your shoulder, bringing you in close. “Last time I checked, we already discussed who was to be my mate before I left.” His frown getting deeper and deeper, his grip on your shoulder tightened. His father didn’t seem fazed by the aggressive behavior his son was giving.

“Let’s discuss this inside,” his father redirected the conversation and motioned for them to move indoors but Bakugou didn’t move.

“We can talk. Now.” Bakugou was speaking through his teeth. A vein popped on the side of his face, indicating that he was beyond pissed now. You? All you could do was stare at Uraraka with hurt and disbelief written all over your face. She, on the other hand, refused to look at you. You could tell by the way she continued to look at the ground. Bakugou’s father cleared his throat and put his hands behind his back.

“A lot happened when you were gone,” he started out. “No shit.” Bakugou remarked.

“Our pack is getting weaker by the day and I was running out of options. The opportunity came by and the only way for our pack to get stronger is to merge with another. But both packs needed something that could connect us together and…”

“…and you needed me to be that connection?”

“Precisely,” Bakugou’s father didn’t hesitate to say. No matter what the reason was, you can’t go against the clan leader, even if you are his son. But no matter how much Bakugou thought about it, it wasn’t fair. To him or you. He didn’t wait 2 years for you to come back to this being his only outcome. How could they even come to this conclusion without discussing it first? There had to be other ways besides marriage.

“You don’t think I know how weak we got? Do you even know how hard I trained just so that I could lead this pack? I can bring us back to how it was before! If you just give me a few years, we can-”

“When will you understand that you will not be enough!” his father shouted, causing everyone to be silent. Bakugou’s voice got caught in his throat as he looked away from his father. He wanted to retaliate but what could he say? Before his father could continue, Bakugou took your hand and ran. He didn’t know where he was going. All he knew is that he had to get out of there. With you. As long as you were with him at that moment, that’s what all that mattered. Mid run, he pulled you on his back as he transformed into his wolf form. His blonde fur was rough against your skin at first touch, much like his personality when you first meet him. But as you dug your fingers deeper into his fur, it’s as soft as a blanket which comforts you. You were surprised by his sudden actions but you knew his frustration. He tends to do this whenever he faces a problem: walk away. Instead of fighting more, he needed to walk away from the situation just to clear his head. You gripped onto Bakugou’s fur and laid on top of him while he takes you who knows where.

When he finally stops, he lets you off gently despite the pent of frustration and anger he has been holding. You look around and smile softly. It’s the same river from when you two first met. Man, did this site bring back so many memories. But that hurt your heart even more knowing that that could all be over because of this marriage. You turn to Bakugou, seeing him pace around in circles. You know trying to intervene right now would end up badly, so you let him pace around like that until he cools down. In the meantime, you laid down in the shade, under the tree and took a deep breath. You needed to clear your head as well. Too many things were happening at a time and you just needed time to slow down right now. You felt Bakugou walk up behind you and he laid down right next to you, his muzzle snuggling into your neck. You laughed a bit and pet his fur, nuzzling him right back. He slowly transformed back into his human form, his whole body leaning over yours. For a moment, he didn’t say a word. He just looked deep into your eyes like if he looked away for just one second, you would disappear like a dream. You could only look back with sympathetic eyes and your hand came into contact with his cheek. This made him relax into your hand. He took your hand in his and kissed the palm of your hand.

“You know I only want to be with your right?” Bakugou says, giving you the softest eyes. You smiled back.

“I know,” you softly whispered. “What are we going to do?” Bakugou groans and rolls off you. When his back lands on the grass, he hides his eyes with his arm.

“I don’t fucking know,” he lets out a frustrated sigh. “This is not how I was imagining my time back. I just wanted to come home, eat some hella good food, and make out with you until we fall asleep. Not this fucking shit! What the hell do arranged marriages even exist?! We don’t live in the shitty 1800s anymore.” He rolled back on top of you, pulling you in closer and rested his head in the crevasse of your neck once again. You honestly didn’t know what to say. Did you want to convince him to take part of the marriage to benefit the entire pack? Or be selfish and tell him to only be with you?

“Oi, were you listening?” your eyes snapped back towards Bakugou and he was staring down at you intently, a frown appeared on his face.

“Sorry,” You sheepishly smile at him, embarrassed you were daydreaming, “it’s just… everything is happening so fast. You come home and all of a suddenly your engaged? My feelings are just so confused right now,” you admit.

“Then tell me,”

“What?” you questioned.

“Tell me not to marry her. If you don’t want me to marry her, I won’t. We’ll run away together. We can start a family and-” he started to ramble on as he was getting desperate but you stopped him. No matter how much you desperately wanted him to stay by your side, you knew that it was his duty and his responsibility to the pack to protect them at all costs. If you were just going to ruin that just because you wanted him for yourself, then what kind of person were you?

“Bakugou, I think you should do what’s right,” you said without trying to put your own opinions on him. “What is your heart telling you?”

“My heart is saying that I want to be with you.” He said determined.

“I want to be with you too, but… do you want to risk your position as alpha just to be with me? You trained for this all your life. And you’re almost there! I wish there was another way but there isn’t,” you said, dejected.

“Let me mark you,” he said suddenly. A rush of pink went to your cheeks and you suddenly felt really hot.

“W-w-w-what?!”

“If I mark you, we are mates forever. Doesn’t matter if I’m married to someone else or not. Think about it! That’s the only way!” Bakugou was getting excited with just the thought. You, on the other hand, was just getting embarrassed. It’s true that getting marked by someone means you are theirs forever, but getting marked is such an intimate move. How would he mark you if you guys haven’t even had sex yet? Upon seeing your reaction, he knew that you didn’t feel the same. “Is that not what you want?”

“It’s not that! It’s just, it’s so sudden and I’m not ready…” you said shyly, refusing to look directly at him. Bakugou can be really hot tempered sometimes, but when it comes to you, he was always understanding.

“Fuck, sorry. I just… I don’t want to marry someone that’s not you,”

“But if it’s for your people then…” you didn’t dare finish that sentence because if you did, then you felt like you would be letting him go forever. And waterworks would be falling out of your eyes like there’s no tomorrow.

“Fine. I’ll only do it to make the pack stronger. But that doesn’t mean that my feelings for you are going to go away that easily.” Bakugou was upset that you were giving up so easily, but given the situation, he was trying his best to understand where you were coming from. And knowing you, you already looked like you would crying any minute so dragging out this conversation anymore would only make you a mess. He took a minute to look over your features. He loved the way your eyes would disappear when you were completely happy. Or when your brows furrowed when you are either really concentrated on something or when you’re sleeping, it always fascinated him. Or the way your smile brightens his day and can lift any bad mood off his shoulders. Or even when you frown. No matter how upset you were at him, he always found your pout to be cute and he would always have to stop himself from pinching your cute, chubby cheeks until they were red from his grip. But he couldn’t stop staring at your lips. How they were always so soft to the touch. He found himself leaning in until his lips were right on top of yours, slowly leading from a few, passionate kisses to a hungry and steamy make out session. Both of your scents mingled together was intoxicating, only making you guys want each other more. Bakugou’s hands reached your hips and every time your tongues danced against each other, he would tighten his grip to stop himself from moaning. Your finger found its way to his soft, blonde locks, pulling him deeper into the kiss. Unlike Bakugou, whenever he grinded into you or bit your lower lip, you would help but give a small moan. Bakugou would growl in response and flipped your around so that you were straddling his lap. He continues to attack your lips with his as one of his hands slowly creeps up from your hips to caress the curves of your body. When he reaches the back of your head, he takes a handful of hair, gripping at the base which causes your head to fall back a bit, leaving your neck exposed. Bakugou took the chance to slowly kiss from your mouth to your neck, leaving a trail of saliva behind. God, how he wanted to just attack and abuse your neck right now to show everyone that you were his, but he knew when to hold back. Instead, he gently sucked on your skin, enough to build pleasure but not enough to leave a mark.  Before anything steamier could happen, your stomach growled at the wrong moment. You pulled away embarrassed but made Bakugou chuckle.

“Let’s get you home, princess.”

As much as you wanted him to stay, Bakugou didn’t stay for dinner. He didn’t want to impose on the welcome back dinner your parents had made for Sero’s return. And he knew he had to face his father sometime soon. He was going to get even more crap after what he just did earlier. So he took you home, leaving a kiss goodbye before returning back to his place. As soon as he left, you could feel a weight press heavy on your heart. You didn’t technically break up, but it sure felt like it. Even though his heart was with you, he was going to marry someone else. Your friend at that. You bit your lip to prevent the tears already streaming down your face. The feeling of sadness was overtaking your body. The emotion was too overwhelming, you could feel the dark shadow forming behind you, whispering nothing but bad in your ears. The more you hear your shadow talking, the more upset you felt and wondering if they were right.

“Fuck, (y/n),” you could barely hear someone say. The voice of your shadow was taking control of your senses, almost putting you in a daze. A pair of strong hands took hold of your shoulders, gently shaking you. “(y/n), you’re okay. Come back to me,” he said. As soon as one of his hands cupped the side of your face, you snapped out of your daze. Tears were running down your face as you looked at who was in front of you.

“Eiji…” you could barely speak. “What happened?”

“It happened again,” he explained, wiping the tears away. You groaned and grabbed your head. No wonder you feel exhausted and have a headache. You haven’t had one of these episodes in a long time. You cursed at yourself for losing control and letting it take over your body. Whenever you get extremely sad or angry, your quirk activates. Black ghost, you called it. The black ghost would appear out of your body and would act as your subconscious. But because it only activated when you were upset or angry, your subconscious thoughts were always negative which was a danger to you. Your family, especially your older brother, tried so hard to look after you and keep you happy so that your quirk never activates. And even if it does, they are there to stop it. But after being friends with Kirishima and Bakugou for so long, they eventually found out about it and also intervene with your quirk acts up. Kirishima is the one who catches it the most out of everybody so he knows exactly what to do in situations like these, even if they are rare.

“Fuck,” you cry into your hands. You couldn’t believe you were so weak to let this happen. Kirishima could feel his heart break at the site of you break down. Without thinking, he pulled you into a crushing hug, enveloping you in his arms. With how much stronger he’s gotten and how bigger he was, you’d think his embrace would be uncomfortable. But his hugs were just as comforting as before. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“Don’t be sorry. A lot happened. Let’s just calm down first, okay?” Kirishima pulled away and got eye level with you. You were breathing pretty heavily but all Kirishima could do was sit by your side. The more he observed you, the more he noticed how much more beautiful you had gotten. But he couldn’t admire your full beauty when your hair was in your face. He couldn’t help but move a strand of hair away from your face and tuck in behind your ear. You looked up at him and was surprised by how close he was. You were surprised yet you didn’t move away.

“Thank you, Eiji,” you thanked him, leaning your face forward so that your foreheads were touching. You’ve been doing this ever since you’ve met him, but this little action made his heart leap. One minute, his heart was aching but now you made his heart skip a beat? Man, what were you doing to him?

“All good now? Did that stupid ghost finally stop bothering you?” he joked. You laughed at his comment, although your energy was still diminished.

“She’s gone now, thanks to you,”

“Good. If she wasn’t gone within the next 2 seconds, I would have strangled her to death using my new, super manly moves I learned during training,” he tried to brag. His words were harsh, yet joking but his tone was still soft. After a few minutes of resting to recover a bit of your energy, you could finally stand. You didn’t need assistance but Kirishima insisted, afraid that you would collapse again if he wasn’t there to hold you up.

“Thank you again, Eiji. What are you doing here anyway?” you questioned. It was odd, you were having an episode and Kirishima happened to be here at the right time? Shouldn’t he be with Bakugou since he is his personal guard? Last time you checked, personal guards were supposed to be with their person at all times.

“I came to check up on you. Bakugou’s orders,” he explained. You nodded your head. He was probably busy fighting with his father so he made Kirishima go on an errand.

“Ah, so you didn’t come check up on me because you were worried for me as a friend? But as an order? I see…” you trailed off, jokingly seeming like you were disappointed. This caused Kirishima to panic which only made you chuckle at his response. Your stomach growled once again and only then did you realize how hungry you were.

“Looks like you better go inside and eat up. I know you’ll be much happier when you have a full stomach,” Kirishima pet your head. “Whether or not it was my job to come check on you, I still would have done it because I’m worried about you as your friend.” That last word was hard to say for him.

“Thank you, anyway. Then I’ll get going?” Kirishima nodded and you headed towards the front door of your house. When he saw you open the door, he turned and walked back to Bakugou’s house. Unexpectedly, you turned around and called out his name. He swiftly turned around, surprised and confused. 

“Would you like to join for dinner?”

Tagged: @superblyspeedydragon @goodpop9

[galactic-magick]

Let it Snow: Steve Harrington x Henderson!Reader

Summary: You and your boyfriend Steve take the kids sledding!

Rating: T (barely)

Words: 1800+

Warnings: some no-no words, snowball fighting, making out but mostly overwhelming fluff

Author’s Notes: I compiled a bunch of wintry things together in this one, I had a hard time sticking to just sledding XD I really like how this one turned out, hope you like it too!

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“Come on Steve, really?” Dustin groans. “Run faster!”

Steve rolls his eyes and sprints as fast as he can across the top of the hill, pushing Dustin on his sled until he starts sliding down.

“WOOOOO!!!” Dustin shrieks, gliding until the ground flattens again. “That was great!”

Steve chuckles, and all the other kids line up for their turn. He pushes them down in singles and pairs, their joyful laughs and screams echoing as they slip down the snowy terrain.

He flops down on the snow and grabs your hand, pulling you down next to him, “Staying warm sweetheart?”

“As much as I can,” you giggle, leaning into his side. He wraps an arm around you pulling you close.

You’d gone to the tallest hill in Hawkins, the same one Dustin uses for his big setup to talk to Suzie (although he had to take it down come winter). Everyone decked out in their warmest clothes and puffiest winter coats and snow pants, including you and Steve. You feel like an eskimo and you can barely move, but it’s worth it. The weather’s perfect, it’s chilly but not cold enough to risk getting frost bite, and the snow is the perfect combination of sticky and fluffy.

“Steve! Can you push us again?” Will asks.

“Sorry guys, I need a break,” he sighs, collapsing his head on your shoulder.

“What if we pushed you and Y/N then?” Lucas suggests.

“Sure!” you drag Steve upright and you both jump on the sled, you sitting between his legs and his arms draped around your waist.

“Ready?” Max calls from the back of the long chain.

“I sure hope so,”

“Go!” When Max calls herself the Zoomer, she isn’t lying. She charges into everyone, boosting their sprint as they push you to the edge. They trip over each other quite a bit, but eventually you start sliding down the hill.

You grip the string on the sled tight, squealing in delight. You almost get to the bottom when the sled swerves off balance and tumbles you both off of it, causing you to roll the rest of the way down and face plant into the snow.

“Holy shit Y/N are you okay?!” Steve races to your side and turns you over, surprised to hear you giggling. “Are you hurt at all?” he crawls on top of you, cradling your face in his hands.

“I’m fine, Steve, calm down,” you laugh, gripping his coat collar and pulling his lips to yours.

The kids all get on their sleds and slide down to meet you, rushing over to you to make sure you’re okay.

“You good?”

“Yeah guys, I’m fine, this snow is like a pillow,”

“Well in that case,” Dustin fiddles with something in his hands and before you know it there’s a snowball in your face. “Gotcha!”

“Oh you little-“ you whip one right back at him, nearly hitting him in the face as well. Steve grabs the sled and uses it as a shield to defend you, streams of snowballs thumping against it.

Although eventually, all alliances are off.

Your main targets become your brother and Steve, occasionally throwing snowballs at Mike, Lucas, and Will as well. You’re honestly afraid to get on El and Max’s bad side during a snowball fight, so you avoid hitting them unless absolutely necessary (and sometimes it is).

You pitch snowballs until your arms start to fall limp and numb. But when you see Dustin turn his back to say something to Lucas, you can’t just let the opportunity slip by.

You make eye contact with El, and she nods knowingly. You fling one last snowball into the air, watching as El lifts her hand and uses her powers to launch it at jet speed and knock Dustin to the ground.

Steve looks at you in amazement, but quickly connects the dots when he sees El wipe her bloody nose.

“You okay Dustin?” you yell.

“Physically? Yes. Emotionally? No,”

“Oh come on, you threw the first punch so it’s only fair I get the last,”

“I guess,” he brushes himself off and eventually showcases a smile.

“You guys wanna come to our place and make some hot chocolate?”

The kids all cheer in agreement, the anticipated taste of rich, creamy, holiday drinks giving them the motivation to embark on the long journey back to the car.

 -

 Everyone starts ripping off their chunky winter coats and snow pants as soon as they get in the house. Their cheeks are all rosy and their hair messy from their hats, and the kids immediately go to sit by the fire.

You fall into Steve’s arms, desperate for warmth. The indoor air slowly thaws the chills through your body, and as your face regains feeling you can feel his soft sweater and the calming beat in his chest. He strokes your hair and slithers his fingers along your jaw, lifting your chin slightly.

“We still on hot chocolate duty?”

“Mhmm,” you hum, stealing a kiss before taking his hand and leading him to the kitchen.

“So we just do some hot water and those packets, yeah?”

“We could, but I think we should make the really good kind,” you boop his nose. “We deserve it,”

He laughs, watching as you grab a big pot from the cabinet and put it on the stove. You pour some milk in and let it start heating up.

“How long does it take?”

“Well the milk needs to be just warm enough to melt the chocolate, and the melting takes a bit,” you shrug. “But it turns out really rich and creamy, so it’s worth the wait, trust me,”

“Sounds good,” Steve moves across the room to turn on the radio, which proudly boasts classic Christmas tunes. He takes your hands and sways you around the kitchen, spinning you around and singing very off key.

“In the meadow we can build a snowman,”

“And pretend that he is Parson Brown,” you sing back.

“He’ll say are you married we’ll say-“

“No man!”

“But you can do the job when you’re in town!”

“What the hell you guys?” Dustin yells from the living room. You and Steve burst out laughing as the song carries on, Steve still gripping your hands in his.

You let go temporarily to start putting the chocolate in, stirring it a bit until it looks evenly distributed.

Steve hugs you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder and pressing light kisses to your neck, “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

“Hmm I’m not sure you have,” you stop stirring and twist around in his arms to face him, trying not to laugh.

“Well, it’s a lot,”

“I love you too,” you grin, your gaze falling from his eyes to his lips. He takes no time to close the gap between you. His hands rise to your face, holding it gently as he runs his thumbs across your cheekbones. You smile, wrapping your own arms around his torso to pull him closer.

You break apart only to take a breath and allow Steve to pick you up. You wrap your legs around him and hold onto him tight as he spins you around and sets you down on the counter, quickly pulling your lips back to his. He slides his hands down to your waist and squeezes, sending warm chills through your spine. You pull his head closer, weaving your fingers into his hair and inviting his lips to overcome you.

He moves down your neck, kissing every inch of skin not covered by your sweater. You wrap your arms and legs tighter around him, bringing your chests together. Desperate for the warmth, you guide him back to your lips, fists still full of his hair.

“Steve,” you sigh, brushing his tongue as you lick your lips, “I think the chocolate’s burning,”

“Shit!” he picks you up and sets you down gently. “Is it still okay?”

“I think so,” you giggle, turning down the heat and stirring the pot. “You’re just not supposed to leave it that long without stirring it,”

“Sorry,”

“You did nothing wrong, silly,” you squeeze his arm and peck his cheek, lingering your lips by his ear. “But you’re welcome to continue that later,”

He grins, his face returning to a light shade of pink.

“Who wants hot chocolate?”

“Meeee!!!!!” the kids come racing in. They grab mugs and pour their drinks, many of them topping it with marshmallows before plopping back down in front of the fire. You and Steve split the last bit, sipping it slowly at the table.

“You’re right, this is way better than the mix,”

“Told ya,” you smile.

When you finish, Steve takes your hands in his and escorts you back to the center of the kitchen. He presses a kiss to your knuckles as “Let it Snow” begins to play on the radio.

“May I have this dance, my love?”

You chuckle, resting your palms on his chest with his hands still clasped around yours, “Yes, you may,” you rest your head under his chin and he wraps his arms around your waist. “You’re such a dork,”

He kisses the top of your head, “But I’m your dork, yeah?”

“Of course,”

“Oh the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful,” he hums, swaying you side to side. “And since we’ve got no place to go,”

“Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!” you sing with him, jumping onto your tiptoes to nuzzle his nose.

“Oh it doesn’t show signs of stopping, and I’ve brought some corn for popping,” the radio continues as Steve picks you up and spins you around. “The lights are turned way down low,” you hang on tight, burying your face into his neck.

“Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!” you both sing together, giggling uncontrollably as he sets you back down on the floor.

“When we finally kiss goodnight,” Steve cups your cheek and captures your lips in his. “How I’ll hate going out in the storm,”

“But if you really hold me tight, all the way home I’ll be warm!” he twirls you away from him and quickly pulls you back, holding you against him as close as he can.

“The fire is slowly dying, and my dear, we’re still goodbye-ing,” you find yourself back with your face against his chest and his arms around you, the soothing vibrations of his voice in your ears, “But as long as you love me so,”

“Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!” you lace your fingers between his and dance around back and forth.

“Let it snow! Let it snooooww! Let it SNOOOOWW!!!” you both drag out the last line before collapsing into each other in a sea of kisses and giggles.

“Are they okay?” you hear some of the kids say, only causing you to laugh harder.

Steve helps you regain your balance, rubbing his palms up and down your arms, “I love you so much,”

You wrap your hands around his neck and weave your fingers into his hair, pulling him down to you and interlocking your lips, “I love you too.”

[cheonsans]

Summer Lovin’

Group: ULTRAVIOLET.

Featuring: All of UV, ab.z’s Nayun and Aeri ( @abzlnd​ )

Genre: Mostly just comedy!

Word-count: ~2.3k

Warnings: Some language but nah.

Summary: A companion piece to Avery’s! ULTRAVIOLET just want to relax and pass the time before they’re set to perform at a music festival, but ab.z’s Nayun has other plans for Siyun. 

“It’s too hot, and I can barely see my fuckin’ phone.”

Taesong’s voice is borderline a whine as he squints at the device in his hand, no doubt trying desperately to read whatever message Areum had recently sent him. It is sweltering, he’s right about that, and Siyun’s hand has hardly left the front of his silky shirt in the past twenty minutes, pulling it away from his chest in order to attempt the seemingly impossible feat of cooling down. In fact, the only two not complaining are Minsung and Jamie, the latter of which having said at least four times that the heat was nothing compared to home. King, on the other hand, is about as miserable as taesong.

The group is milling around waiting for the go ahead that the makeup artists are ready for them, and they are all equally thankful for the fact that they aren’t baking under layers of stage makeup that would have surely melted off by then. Siyun already feels like his hair dye is just about melting out of his hair, and he has to consciously suppress the urge to check the back of his neck to see if his hand comes away dripping in purple. After the recent change from silvery-blond back to a more saturated color, he’s still flinching like an idiot every time he sees a tuft of violet in his peripheral.

“So put your phone away and spend time with us, then, Taesong-ah.” Siyun replies to the other rapper, grinning at the absolutely disgusted expression he’s sent in return.

“What, and listen to Sungmin-hyung whine about being refused soju and Jamie yeehaw every ten minutes? I’ll pass, thanks.”

Siyun opens his mouth to reply, but is cut off by King dramatically swooning, slumping against the purple-haired boy’s chest with a groan. Siyun stumbles back half a step at the sudden weight, but he’s used to it by now, shoving the leader back into an upright position just as quickly. It is simply too hot for any prolonged contact, even if King were ridiculously needy when he feels like he’s not getting enough attention. Considering how unrealistic that quota is to meet, they all resort to mostly ignoring his pointed sighs and impatient grumbling for the time being. Unfortunately, any unbearable attitude King would usually have is only exacerbated by the heat, which drains their patience as much as it brings out only the bitchiest sides of each of them.  

Maybe Taesong has the right idea, sticking his nose in his phone and waiting for the time to pass. The performances wouldn’t be for a few hours, and the group is more than well prepared, having gone through their setlist earlier in the morning. It’s nothing too special, just the usual few title tracks and a dance stage so King and Taesong could murder basically everyone watching, and being the impulsively natured boy group they are, they haven’t bothered practicing any further now that their designated sound-check and rehearsal time has passed. As King always says, if they fuck up onstage, it was meant to happen.

“Do you think someone would get me soju if--”

King is cut off by an unfamiliar and enthusiastic feminine voice, cutting through the sluggish, heat-induced reverie that has settled over the group.

“Hey! You!”

King whirls around immediately, brows raised and expression almost revoltingly hopeful.

“Me?” He rakes his hair back from his face, trying to make the action seem cool despite the fact that his dark locks are thoroughly dripping with sweat and not even remotely close to styled.  

“Not you, hag,” She croons, “I’m talking to Siyun!”

King’s expression falls without hesitation, settling in what Siyun can only describe as his bitch-face before crossing his arms. “I’m not even that old.” His defensiveness and disappointment shift to shock, however, that mirrors Siyun’s own countenance once they absorb her last words.

She’s what now? Siyun blinks at her, hand coming up instinctively to point at his own chest, as if she has to be mistaken. Both of the girls coming towards them look vaguely familiar, and Siyun tries his best not to laugh at the manner in which the louder one drags a taller girl behind her, much to the latter’s evident dismay. The taller idol clearly wants to be anywhere else, and Siyun figures she may have been dragged along simply as moral support for the clearly younger fan, but he’s proven wrong once again.

“Siyun-oppa,” The shorter continues, tone positively saccharine.  “You’re single, right?”

Siyun blinks at her, mouth falling open in disbelief at the bluntness exhibited by the female idol. While he’s more than used to disrespect from the other members of ULTRAVIOLET, this sort of blatant flippancy is a bit unheard of from anyone else. Thankfully, years of Jamie’s bullying have prepared him for this, and Siyun keeps his expression only mildly affronted. She isn’t done yet, however.

“See, cause,” She yanks the taller forward, putting her on display like a butterfly on a corkboard...or, maybe a piece of meat at the butcher’s. “I have it on good source that this unnie right here likes Siyun and you should totally do something about it ‘cause she doesn’t have the guts!”

Siyun feels heat rise to his face within seconds. He knows he should bow or thank her or something, but all he can manage is a very nervous laugh, his hesitancy prompting a snort from Jamie that’s poorly covered up. Siyun’s brain is drawing a complete blank, staring at the older girl, and he finally snaps out of it as she  begins to nervously stutter.

It occurs to Siyun that the reception from the other members of ULTRAVIOLET clearly isn’t helping the already embarrassing situation, any. King looks bitter and as judgmental as ever (his few brain cells are probably still working on a rebuttal for the hag comment), Minsung is more interested in a vaguely-dick-shaped rock he found, Taesong is still glued to his phone...and Jamie is, predictably, leering like the nosy maknae he is. It’s up to him to be the group’s ambassador, yet again, and Siyun normally wouldn’t have an issue, but the idea that someone like this pretty girl is interested in him before any of the others...all common sense goes out the window, leaving only what he hopes isn’t too dopey of a smile. 

He’s normally so good with names and faces, too, but all he remembers is that their groups had debuted at around the same time. Logically, he knows he could just glance down to read the boldly printed hangul on their shirtfronts, but his stomach turns at the notion of it seeming like he’s just staring at her chest instead. Rather, he wracks his memory, and while it’s a far less effective method, his brain does manage to conjure up imagery of glimmering stage outfits until oh!

“I’m sorry about, her…uh…she just–” Aeri (he remembers her name on his own, thank you very much, but a hopefully casual flick of his gaze towards her nametag confirms that) bows, and Siyun starts to mirror her instinctively, hands coming up in an attempt to reassure her, but the younger girl is already cutting in. He doesn’t hear what she says, too distracted by Jamie punching him playfully on the shoulder, probably in response to Siyun’s now probably completely red face. Maybe he can play the blush off as heat-related? The heat feels heavy and molten, dripping down his back and settling in the spaces between his ribs. A mosquito buzzes uncomfortably close to his left ear.

“No, it’s okay, really, I think--” He means to mention recognizing her and maybe offer some sort of compliment on their music, but King interjects.

“I think we need to go get ready.” He grumbles, already beginning to stalk off. Taesong follows without looking up from his phone, happy to leave the scene, and Minsung hurries after, his new rock still clutched in one hand. Jamie begins to urge Siyun after the group as the taller boy hesitates, bowing at the same time as Aeri, which prompts another bout of nervous laughter from the rapper as the crowns of their heads almost collide.

“Um, thank you, it was nice to m--” Yet again, Siyun is cut off, this time being bodily yanked by Jamie until he follows the group, face still warm as hell as they make their way into the shade to get their makeup finally done. Once they’re indoors and settling down, Jamie rounds on Siyun within a moment, grasping the elder’s face between his rough-palmed hands.

“Hyung, she was cute!” He practically shouts, squishing Siyun’s cheeks until the rapper lets out a prolonged whine of indignation. “Siyunnie-hyung has an admirer, oh, they grow up so fast!” The maknae cooes, feigning a swoon as he narrowly dodges a swat upside the head. “You should get her number, maybe try not to crash and burn next time. I thought you might throw up on her.”

“Jamie, please.” Siyun smiles tightly at him helplessly, holding up his hands defensively as the high energy Texan yanks at Siyun’s arm again and shoves him down into one of the makeup chairs. Siyun didn’t have a chance to blink before Jamie’s phone is out and AB.Z’s profile is pulled up and shoved into his face.

“Ooh, she’s from Florida…the land of alligators and the infamous Florida Man.” Jamie reads and embellishes, before breaking out in obnoxious laughter. “She’s taller than Sungmin-hyung.”

King glances up at the mention of his name, expression affronted.

“I’m tall enough to kick your ass, don’t test me. Ow, fuck!” The stylist ignores the leader’s yelp of pain as she combs through his hair with a bit more force than necessary, and Siyun fights down a bubble of laughter as she catches his eye in the mirror and offers him a wink.

“No one asked you, hag.” Jamie shoots back at the leader, and King looks as if he might haul himself out of the chair to break Jamie’s wrist if the makeup stylist weren’t between them. Unintimidated, Jamie continues. “God, she seems so sweet…the other one was Nayun, it looks like. I liked her vibe, she had major BDE.” Jamie scrolls through the group’s profile until he reaches the end, resting his chin dreamily on top of Siyun’s head. “You have to talk to her, promise me you’ll talk to her?” The youngest member is a hopeless romantic, and he pouts at Siyun in the mirror across from them, arms slung about the elder’s shoulders. He sways them both back and forth, Siyun a bit awkwardly from where he was sitting.

“I’ll try, okay? You know i’m not good with this sort of thing.” Siyun mumbles, sheepish, and he drums his fingers on the edge of the counter. While there’s certainly intrigue in dating, it’s not really something Siyun has ever let himself have time for. He tried to take up a more casual approach to relationships a while back, mirroring Taesong’s attitude then, but the long and short of it is that it made him feel absolutely awful. It had taken him weeks to get over the guilt of a handful of one-night stands, a consequence that no one else in the group seemed to understand. Since then, Siyun can’t remember the last time he had spoken to a woman he found attractive, beyond conversations where he didn’t realize he’s been flirted with until hours later, when it was too late to do anything about it.

“Excuse me? Look at yourself! Need I remind you who scored number six on that list of top 20 handsomest rookies of 2017?” Jamie insists, oblivious to the true root of Siyun’s hesitations.

“That doesn’t mean anything.” It’s much easier to stare at his tattoos rather than meet Jamie’s eyes in the reflection. “I just don’t wanna mess it up or scare her off. She probably just likes the idea of me and probably doesn’t want to actually get to know me, y’know? Most idols really aren’t like what they seem on paper, anyways. I didn’t get her number, either, so I doubt anything’s gonna come of it.” Not to mention the fact that Siyun doesn’t want to risk a relationship being publicized before he’s ready, not only for his own sake, but for the fans’.

“...Bullshit, but okay, think whatever you want.” Jamie backs off as a makeup artist approaches the two, shooing the younger out of the way. “I’ll leave you be, Romeo.”

“That’s such an awful nickname. They both die at the end, Jamie.” Siyun’s brows crease in the center at that, but Jamie waves off his concern.

“I know that. I read the manga version in middle school, thank you very much. Just shut up and think about it, okay? You’re a good guy, hyung...there are a lot of guys who’d be taking advantage of a situation like this, y’know? Just try to relax, and focus on having fun, for once! You deserve it.” For someone who seems to know more about obscure Animal Crossing facts than anything useful, Jamie can be remarkably insightful, at times. Siyun’s lips press into a thin line before he nods, trying not to melt at the endearing and brilliant smile Jamie shoots his way.

“I’ll do my best.” Siyun acquiesces as the makeup stylist begins to apply serum to his sweat-tacky skin, the scent of roses whisking away his tension.

When it comes down to it, his best is all he can really offer, anyways.

[stanskzseungmin]

Operation Miroh | Stray Kids Mafia! AU ~ Chapter 3

Mission Briefing

Location: Civilized Countryside

Weather: Clear

Date: 20XX 

Time of Day : Late day/evening

Mission Objective: Gather info

Kim Woojin

“Good evening.” Woojin smiled courteously. “Have you heard about the missing people?”

You hummed in response. “People are disappearing but aren’t marked as missing. The people believe that they escaped to a better life.”

“They haven’t shown up to our district though,” Woojin continued. “Should be an easy one to investigate.”

In a world torn apart by divisions and gang war, there’s hardly a place deemed “safe” anymore. The rise of gangs and mafia have become so numerous and so powerful that the government hasn't been able to stop them. Instead it turned corrupt, the government can no longer trust its own people, its own citizens believing that any one of them can be one of them, one of the bloodthirsty mafia or gang. Police brutality became a norm and is essentially unspoken law. The people live in false peace still blindly following the government like the sheeple they are too blind to see that the government are wolves in sheep’s clothing.

District 9. Known in the underground as Stray Kids territory, but to common citizens who knew of it puts it atop a shiny pedestal. However, there are others who doubted it. After all, it was ruled by one of the notorious mafias out there.

“We already know the why at this point. They aren’t escaping to freedom, they’re taken.”

“The true question that lies before us is where are they being taken,” Woojin finished. “Are you ready?”

Seeing Woojin before you was a strange sight. He always dressed according to his status- expensive clothing, several accessories- he even behaved formally. He would often have a straight posture. He stands upright with his chin up, legs together with his arms folded neatly behind his back. You often wonder if he knew the meaning of the word “casual.” However, this time he’s merely wearing what was once a comfortable black hoodie. Now it’s a dull dark gray color the dark shade fading away with time. His pants were somewhat casual- regular dark jeans with rips in them. 

“You gotta stop doing that,” you remarked tying your shoes. Woojin still stood upright with heels together and fingers interlaced neatly in front of him. He tilted his head slightly in confusion.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Whatever, let’s just go.”

~

“Apparently, the people who disappeared were last seen here in this countryside,” you started. 

The sun had just set behind the horizon and the dark hues of the night sky slowly settled in as you and Woojin waited atop the hill overlooking the quaint walled country village. Woojin hummed in agreement as he stood up from his spot headed toward the walls. You followed suit.

You both made eye contact as you went separate ways. Woojin disappeared in the shadows and you quickly joined a passing group of pedestrians. 

“Another one bites the dust, huh?” one of them started.

“Probably left to start a new life. I mean no one wants to stay within these walls,” another responded.

“It’s more dangerous outside.”

Woojin slides into the group from an alleyway the group was passing by. He joined your side and snaked his arm around your waist pulling you closer to him- a casual act for blending in. 

“Where were they last seen?” you asked quietly attempting to press for more information. 

“At the-” one started.

“At the bakery. The woman who worked there disappeared some time before closing.” Woojin interrupted.

They all solemnly nodded. You and Woojin parted from the group still huddled together.

“You kids best get indoors or you’ll get taken as well,” a man in the back separated momentarily to whisper that warning prior to rejoining the group.

~

Sliding on some black latex gloves, Woojin turned the brass knob old and worn over time. He cracked the door open a bit, a light creaking echoed through the dark bakery. Woojin knocked out of courtesy and respect before opening it fully.

“Why would you knock?” you chuckled at him, gripping his forearm gently keeping up the casual blending act. Your fingers grazed itself over the concealed knife through the cloth. Woojin gave no response other than a small smile. He rested his gloved hand on the small of your back and led you in the bakery closing the door silently behind the both of you. Then, you both went to work. Slipping on a pair of black latex gloves yourself, you began feeling around the place. You both do not have the luxury of sight so feel is your best bet. 

Everything seemed undisturbed. No sign of a struggle or forced entry. Your gloved fingers felt around the door frame, the lock and the windows. No splintered wood, no tampered locked, and no broken grass.

“Anything?” you whispered.

“Nothing,” Woojin responded. “No signs of a struggle.” 

“How did you find out about this disappearance so fast?” You inquired.

“The tightest lips can be loosened for the right price,” Woojin mused. “These people do not deserve to be missed or mourned. They traded dignity for coin.”

You merely hummed in response. Woojin headed to the back of the quaint bakery to continue investigating. You sighed. It was difficult fighting for the people when they’re hardly people anymore. Woojin interrupted your thoughts by walking in.

“You need to look at this,” Woojin led you to the quaint clean bedroom in the back.

“I don’t see anything?” 

“Exactly. No forced entry, no struggle. The closet and drawers are closed and tidy.”

“Not a kidnapping or a runaway,” you concluded.

Woojin was about to contribute his thoughts but a loud thud broke through the silence and rapid footsteps can be heard. Woojin reacted quicker immediately turning and dashing towards the open back door. You quickly followed suit as you both bolt after the intruder. The intruder weaved in and out of the alleyways attempting to break line of sight, but he wasn’t going to get away that easily. The both of you quickly cornered him in a skinny alleyway with a huge brick wall at the end. The man didn’t stop running though. Woojin let out an exasperated sigh as the man scaled the wall next to him, using his upward momentum to jump to the wall behind him repeating the process until he can grab ahold of the tall brick wall. Woojin glared at the man as he slowed to a stop. Your eyes widen at the face of the man who intruded on you both.

“You,” you gasp out menacingly.

He smirked. The man that caused the incident. The incident that left you severely burned and injured, forced to be bedridden in a hospital in the middle of nowhere for months until Stray Kids located and came for you. He turned his back towards you and jumped off the wall. You quickly followed, scaling the wall in the same matter. Woojin cursed under his breath as he doubled back to find another way, being unable to follow.

You stood upon the wall to see the man stopped in front of you on one of the rooftops up ahead.

Pain.

That’s all you felt as a searing pain tore through your shoulder. You hissed and lost your balance on the wall barreling towards the ground landing on your other shoulder. Your eyes clenched shut from the searing pain from both shoulders, one more than the other, as you attempt to stop the blood flow. You heard Woojin call for you, his voice muffled and sounded at a distance. He slid towards you, his knees scraped against asphalt as it tore and bled. Woojin cradled you in his arms as he glared at the man. The man smirked as he pocketed the pistol he had in his hand and jumped off disappearing behind the building. 

Woojin panted and held you tighter against his body, his head falling into the crook of your neck. 

Mission failed. 

Woojin will remember that.

~ Masterlist ~

[reckoningss]

Skin

Summary: These days, it feels like the marks on Matt’s skin tell you more than he does.

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Wordcount: 2.3k

Warnings: Descriptions of physical injury

A/N: This season of Daredevil reminded me how much I adore one (1) haunted Catholic idiot. 

You used to wake up in the middle of the night to a half-empty bed - Matt nowhere to be found, the wrinkled indentation in the sheets where he once lay growing cold fast. You reasoned that it was just insomnia, his blindness causing Non-24. You’d seen commercials for the sleep disorder; it seemed logical enough. But no amount of logic eased your concern. You couldn’t stand the idea of Matt rambling about Hell’s kitchen in the dark. When he started coming home with bruises - black eyes peeking out from beneath his tinted shades and split lipped kisses pressed to your cheeks - no amount of reasoning could make it feel ok. Matt was disappearing into the night and returning hurt and you couldn’t fathom why.

That’s when the secret came out - reluctantly - and only after intense fighting. Finally, It was all out in the open...and not much changed. You still sleep alone more often than not; you still have no idea where he goes more often than not. Yet you don’t sit by the window and worry about him, and you don’t interrogate him when he returns. Not anymore. But sometimes - on the few nights he spends indoors with you - when Matt has drifted off to sleep in a warm cloud of your scent, his heartbeat thumping steadily in his ears, you lie awake in the dark and read the story of his skin with your fingers.  

You start with the newest ones first - take your time with them - careful to memorize the various quantities and shapes because those ones will be gone soon. In the low light, you trace the edges of young bruises with gentle fingers, watch the yellow light trails of blood creep in toward purpling discs in the center like solar flare blooming across the milky surface of his arms and abdomen. Probe the gullies of lacerations lazily stitched or some just left to bleed until they heal all on their own. You study these new treasures, little offerings, and listen to Matt’s quick intakes of breath at the pain. That’s how you always tell. You read the tick of his brows and the winces and the wrinkle of his nose and you know - which wounds are freshest, which hurt the worst. It’s how he tells you without telling. Matt listens to your heartbeat to learn the things you don’t want to say, you read his skin. 

Then you move on to the older ones. The scabs and then the scars. Your fingertips run the length of his clavicle, recognizing the fault line of scar tissue that runs along it, each ridge a friend. Down over the scar across his ribs. You listen to his heartbeat slow, pained expression smoothing into one of unconscious contentment as you trace the lines of past violence that compose him. It’s a tome you feel privileged to read - a complete history of Matt Murdock. Unabridged and uncensored. His victories and defeats, his slips and falls and the beatings he’s taken for other people. It’s a chronicle you’ve memorized nearly by heart at this point, one you’d much rather hear from his lips than read on his skin in the night. 

Matt climbs through the window. You can hear the misshapen pane protest as it slides up in its frame and he pulls himself through from the fire escape. He’s sprawled on the floor when you round the corner into the living room, lying on his back in a heap of quivering muscle and blood and pain. You run to the still open window, slam it shut again - wood and glass screeching - then pull the fluttering curtains tight against the outside world. He groans when you lift his head into your lap, blood streaking his teeth like oversaturated watercolors. You pull the cowl from his head as gently as you can, unmasking the devil to reveal your partner, eyes circling unseeing through the air overhead. He blinks. 

You wipe a bloody patch of hair from his forehead and sigh. “What are you doing, Matthew?” 

The two of you sit there like that for minutes that feel like hours. Matt says nothing, just breathes through waves of pain you only wish you could understand. Chest heaving. You listen to the hollow rasp of every breath and imagine what hell he’s only just crawled out of. When he’s come back to himself, all of his screaming nerves piping down long enough for him to pull away, he flexes his way into a sitting position. You wince when he moves, watching every sore muscle bulge and strain against the textured material of his suit. You can practically hear his vertebrae and ribs popping like old floorboards as he hoists himself up to an uncertain stand. 

You’re on your feet too, hands gentle on his bruised sides. “Matt, let me help you.” You know he hears in your voice what you really mean. Need me. Need me. 

He shrugs you off, muttering an “I’m ok.” His labored breathing says otherwise. His limping gait says otherwise. You watch him disappear around the corner to your room. 

Later, when Matt has stumbled from the shower in a cloud of steam, he drops into bed like a body instead of a person. You keep your back to him. He reaches out, slips one arm beneath your waist and pulls you to him, chest to back. He teases your foot with his, hooks one leg around your shin, presses a kiss to the curve of your neck. 

“I’m glad to be home with you,” he says to your skin. 

You’re cold. The smell that creeps into your nose, the one that wafts from the open bathroom door and envelops you as Matt wraps his arms around you, is pleasant. It smells of suede and foam. Clean. But you still smell the coppery tang of blood, still catch notes of gunshot residue and sweat. You stay quiet. 

Under cover of darkness, when you’ve almost been lulled away by the even cadence of Matt’s sleeping breath, you turn toward him. Faint light is glancing through loose blinds and causing shadows to pool in bags beneath his tired eyes and you sigh. The Murdock boy has demons, that’s for sure, but he looks like an angel.

You push damp hair back from his forehead. A new contusion is beginning to purple into view above his left eye; you ghost the pad of a finger over its edge and catch the faintest twitch of his brow. There’s a cut hiding there in the arch and you touch it too. Matt winces. A scrape runs along the line of his jaw; you trace it, as well as the cut that mars his right cheekbone and the one that slants across the bridge of his nose. Your heart rate picks up with each new wound as you identify and catalog every one and attempt to decipher the trail of aching, bloody clues. 

Pulling the comforter back, you barely stifle a gasp. The skin of his chest and abdomen bare a constellation of bruises and lacerations - an angry Rorschach test in which you only see endless amounts of punishment. You don’t even bother to venture lower, to see the array of abrasions littering his legs. It’s overwhelming - the sheer amount of violence the human body is capable of taking. It’s like Matt eats the punches and the kicks and then recreates their vivid memory across his skin like brutal cave paintings. You want to be sick, want to run from this otherworldly being made up of hot nerve endings and pain. But this is your home - not just these thin walls and a handful of north-facing windows - but this person, this angry, haunted man. You won’t run from your home. 

“Get up.” The words come out angry and you realize - you are angry. “Get up!”

You push his side - not gently - and Matt winces awake, animated in his pain.  You might feel bad. Might. You hadn’t been gentle but you hadn’t been rough either and where can you touch him when he had more broken capillaries than skin?

He goes defensive immediately, half up from the bed, eyes darting frantically. 

“What? What is it?” 

You’re silent, as the grave. Deadly silent. Matt cocks his head to the side in the quiet, listening for any kind of threat in your shared apartment. You can see his wheeling thoughts slowing down as he realizes there is none, chest settling into deep, easy respiration again. He turns to you now, eyes still lowered. 

“You’re mad.”

You shake your head incredulously. “Yes, Matthew, I’m mad.”

He cocks his head again. “Why?”

“What is this?” You gesture to the wreckage of his chest, widening your arms with each pass to indicate the harsh immensity of the damage. “What the hell is all of this?”

Matt catches your hands easily, blank eyes are still trained on the mattress. He holds them gently in his own, pulls them closer to his chest. 

“What? What is what?”

“This!” you press a finger into a particularly ugly bruise in the center of his left pectoral muscle and he winces away from the contact, teeth gritted. “Why are you black and blue, Matt? Who nearly killed you?”

Matt shakes his head, flicking a hand as though to ward off your concern. “This is nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

“It’s part of the job.”

You pull away from him, falling back onto your ass on the foot of the bed. Resisting tears because you don’t want to cry, you want to fight. Your hands have curled into shaking fists in the sheets. Soft, silk, 1,000 thread-count so as not to grate against Matt’s hypersensitive skin. You glare at Matt, still crouching at the head of the bed. 

“I won’t do this.” 

Another tilt of the head, like a lost puppy. “Do what?”

“This.” Your voice is flattening, all emotion, nearly all hope leaking from your words. “Living in the dark, waiting for you come home so I can try and fail to piece together your secret life from the news and the patchwork of your beaten skin-”

“It’s not a secret.” Matt is up in arms now, familiar indignation rising in his voice. “You know all about me. You know what I do when I’m not here. You know about Daredevil.” 

You slap the bed with both palms, angry tears beginning to slip down your cheeks. “I’ve heard of the Daredevil, Matt. I don’t know anything. I don’t know where you go, I don’t know what you’re doing - or with who! I don’t know why you are covered - head to toe - in wounds. I try to imagine. Sometimes I lie awake and try to fathom what you’re doing and I just can’t. And that’s what you want! You want me in the dark.”

Matt sits back, wincing as his back meets the headboard and a pillow tumbles onto the floor. “I want-I want to keep you safe.”

“This isn’t safe! Ignorance doesn’t make me safe, it makes me doubt you, Matt. It makes me lonely.”

You can read guilt on his face, shame sliding filthily beneath the bruising, but you won’t stop now. 

“You’re not protecting me, Matt, you’re controlling me. You’re controlling me because you don’t trust me.”

“That’s not true!” Matt is pointing at you, one bruised hand curled to single out an accusatory finger. A lawyer’s finger. “I trusted you with my secret. I told you everything about m-”

“No!” Matt quiets beneath your crescendoing anger. “You lost your dad and then you lost Elektra and you don’t trust me not to leave you too!”

Matt looks like you’ve slapped him, eyelids fluttering as he reels. “That’s no-”

“I won’t do this anymore,” you whisper now because you don’t trust your voice not to quaver. “Something has to change, Matt. Or I’ll leave. I will walk out that door and you can’t control that.” You’re shaking your head, tears blurring your vision and sprinkling onto the oversized Columbia tee you often sleep in. “And I don’t want to. I don’t want to, I’m home her-”

There are hands on your face now. Gentle fingers brushing away tears, knuckles floating over your trembling lips. When your vision clears, Matt is there, his beautiful, beaten face only inches from yours as he kneels before you on the bed. You can tell that he wants to cry, weak tremors shaking your body twice over as he leans in to press his forehead to yours. 

“What can I do?” he whispers, “What do I do?”

“Just tell me,” You hands find the rise of his shoulders, palms holding on tight, fingertips dimpling flesh. “Just tell me.”

Nodding, Matt lies back against the headboard and you lie beside him, careful not to agitate any of his many wounds. He raises his brows, blind eyes weaving uncertainly overhead. 

“Where should I start?”

You take your time with a response, considering carefully the choice put before you. The tip of your index finger touches down on the bridge of his nose. 

“Here.”

Matt starts slow. “The-the guy I was pursuing - an assassin - he headbutted me. Pretty hard. He’s got a big head.”

You smile at that and locate another bruise. 

“Here.”

“Roundhouse kick. Good one. Solid.”

“And here?”

“I fell - about three stories. Landed in a dumpster.”

That’s how it goes for hours. Call and response. He tells you the origin of each bruise, the story behind every scrape and cut. He describes his memory of each scar and you memorize it all, never tiring, and ask to hear more. Late into the night, you lie awake and listen to the litany of Matthew Murdock’s skin.

When he finishes, you’re running your thumb gently along the purple mountain of Matt’s knuckles. Carefully - skin grazing beaten skin like a sigh. He turns toward you and laces his stiff fingers with yours. 

“I trust you,” he murmurs, leaning in to trace the hollow of your cheek with the tip of his nose, “entirely.”

You don’t need to say anything for him to know that you know, so you kiss him instead.

I love my technically blind husband

[hcavensarrow]

reunion.

Humans have been trying to understand monsters since the beginning of time. Giving them names. Sharing stories. When writing came about, recording those stories. But for all of those attempts--for every sentence written and read about the weaknesses of vampires and ghouls--there will always be something else that remains unknown. Something that humans, maybe, were never meant to understand. There were a million names for different creatures and still some existed that never quite fit within the box drawn around any one in particular.

That was the first thing Hiroko had learned when she began training for her hunts; there will always be something that you don't know. Things that will catch you off guard. Things you can't fathom. All you can do is to take nothing for granted. Prepare for anything. Expect surprises.

Hiroko had thought she'd taken that advice to heart recently.

Cursed, directionless, and tired--how could she not? Every minute she sunk deeper into the unknown, searching for a person she wasn't sure was dead or alive and a creature she couldn't even imagine. But there was a lot she took for granted.

They’d found their way to a town. Not a village, because it was big enough to have a proper market, an inn, even a teahouse--more than just a collection of homes and fields. At Ryouta’s insistence they would end up staying for a few days. Hiroko gave in fairly easily; they were both exhausted from traveling. A bit of hunting (of the normal variety) and a trip to the market later and they had enough coin on their hands to pay for a room at the inn. One night wouldn't hurt.

It felt so strange to sleep indoors, with a roof over her head and a pillow under it. After so long on the road, the comforts of a bed was almost uncomfortable. Of course, Ryouta had no problem falling asleep, unlike his elder sister. She was restless. Rolling over and over every few minutes. Tired, but unable to sleep.

In the end she'd simply stop trying. She threw something other than her nightclothes on and ventured out into the streets. Perhaps it wasn't her wisest decision, in the long run - the only people you were liable to find out this late were those who had too much to drink and the only light came from what had to be be the red-light district.

Even those seemed to be in short supply tonight. Nobody passed by Hiroko as she wandered through the empty streets, towards the river that ran around its edge. The only person she saw was a man passed out in the gap between buildings, seemingly a beggar. Other than that, a few stray dogs. It seemed to be a quiet night.

Across the river was situated a large shrine. A well cared-for one, too, it seemed. The gates were painted to a beautiful polish, trees on the grounds placed just so to provide shade and privacy. It was far better tended to than most she’d encountered; across what felt like a hundred villages few had shrine maidens to perform the daily tasks of tending to them, and certainly not for performing any rites. Most were tiny, out of the way--you would even suspect they’d been forgotten if not for the well-worn paths leading to and from them. She doesn’t really know why she feels like visiting. She’s far too exhausted to attempt to contact the gods, to hear nothing but silence and her own frustration again and again. Perhaps it’s simply for lack of anything better to do. Pay her respects and move on. Whatever it is, she crosses the bridge over the river and begins her walk forward.

Something feels off from the moment she passes through the gates. Hiroko writes it off as paranoia; she’s tired and it’s late, so surely it must be her imagination. The creeping sense that she isn’t alone, the telltale shuffling of feet against dirt is surely just a wild animal. She steps into the shrine’s grounds with a sense of unease, but once she rummages around its structures and finds a match to light a lantern, that feeling quickly fades away.  It was just the dark, she tells herself. It was just her mind playing tricks on her.

For all of the knowledge the Tsukishita have collected on creatures of the night, there would always be things they couldn't quite understand. Creatures that never really fit into the names and definitions given to them. In that case, all you could do was create a new definition in the hope of understanding them better. The corrupted fell into one such category. They were a bit like ghosts. Vengeful spirits, to be specific, but that implied it was some fault of the person they used to be. The corrupted were different - and they weren't spirits, not necessarily. Really, they were more like zombies--the person they once were had died, but their body was still there. They were souls tainted by darkness, by beasts borne of all of the darker emotions mankind felt.

When enough anger or grief or fear lingered it became something, it became a monster, a monster that embodied the tragedy it was born from. War would create such a beast, and wherever it went it would bring more, more anger and violence and death. It would thrive off of the suffering it caused and grow stronger. And when creatures felt that emotion it was born from - the bloodlust - was when they became corrupted. Part of the monster seeped into them. It took over. And it kept the cycle flowing.

She’s barely set foot into the shrine’s interior, but some part of Hiroko knows before she even realizes it. That same part that had the sense to dread whatever lurked here. She has no time to react, though--an awful weight crashes into her back and pins her to the ground. The lantern splinters beneath her; it’s almost frightening how quick it is to ignite, fire lapping up the frame and quickly moving on to the wooden floors and fabric of Hiroko’s sleeve and everything from then on seems to happen just as fast. Desperately, she tries to smother the flame  working its way up her arm, wrestling against the weight of whatever attacked her to move and as she rolls over two hands close around her neck. And then she gets a glimpse of her assailant.

Hiroko has seen monsters--seen them, fought them, killed them. Monsters were commonplace; they even were normal. But when she saw the empty, dead face that stared down at her, she screamed.

Its form was that of a human--or something formerly human, at least. A girl. Ugly, ragged chunks of flesh were missing from her body. What should be blood was replaced with a sickening black ooze. Claw marks gouged her face, ripping through an eye, but Hiroko could still recognize her. Despite the blood stains, the robes she wore were the same brilliant red as her own, with the emblem of a crescent moon on a foggy night embroidered at the breast.

Fuyuko had died a month before Hiroko left. They were friends growing up; where Hiroko had pursued the role of a priestess, Fuyuko wouldn’t settle for anything short of a fully-fledged samurai, like all her family before her. When Hiroko had last seen her, it had been in the wake of another death--Fuyuko had asked how Hiroko could still have faith in the gods. That night, she would go missing; a week later, they found what remained of her.

She’d always been far stronger than her small frame would suggest, and Hiroko can’t break free of her--no, this isn’t Fuyuko, she reminds herself--its grip. Ragged fingernails sink into her neck as it gets harder and harder to breathe. Flames creep further and further up the walls around them. Surely someone has seen the fire by now. Soon enough men will come to collapse the building, to let the fire choke itself out on its own smoke and stop from spreading. Hiroko doesn’t have time to think about what she’s doing, but if she can’t pry herself free of this monster’s grip, she needs another way. She gropes for something--anything--that she can use as a weapon and her hands close on the burning splinters of the lantern’s frame. Air wheezes its way from her lungs. She can feel herself getting dizzy, be it from the smoke or the strangulation. She uses all the force she can muster to thrust the burning-hot stake into the creature’s missing eye.

The corrupted Fuyuko reacts more like this is merely an inconvenience--like a bug flew in her face rather than being stabbed through the empty eye socket. It must not feel pain. But even that little reaction was something--a split second of hesitation before Hiroko could pry the creature’s hands from her neck and kick it off of her, screaming profanities as she fights her way free. And the second she is, she runs.

And she keeps running. Stumbling out of the burning shrine, not daring to look back and praying to the gods that the flames will stop Fuyuko from pursuing. Her feet carry her down to the river, across, through the streets; if there was anyone around to witness the fire, she took no note of them. She didn’t stop until hit a dead end she hadn’t realized was there in her blind escape, just barely stretching out her arms at the last second to lessen the force of her collision with the wall.

When nothing follows, she seems to finally process that she’s safe. She sinks to her knees. Her arm--gods, her arm hurts, puckered red burns  visible through the singed remains of her sleeve. That same hand is blistered from grabbing hold of the lantern’s remains. She’s still struggling to catch her breath. Her throat burns. There’s so much for her to try and unpack and she doesn’t think she can manage it. The hows and whys and a million other questions feel like they’re miles away, even in her mind. It isn’t until the next morning that she seems to be able to process what happened that night. Shock has left her in a daze; around dawn she makes her way back towards the inn, wandering through the unfamiliar city until she finds her way.

Ryouta--Ryouta is still fast asleep when she enters, and she breathes a sigh of relief. He’s safe. Whatever that was, whatever had nearly killed her--it had only targeted her. Or... perhaps it had only targeted the shrine. She was in no shape to theorize; a wave of exhaustion sweeps over her and though she knows she should tend to her injuries, try to understand just what happened, she instead sits. Lies down. In a few hours, her brother would surely be awake and want to know what had happened--why his sister was injured and smelled of smoke and ash. But for now, she’d simply let sleep take hold. It had been a long night.

[leagueofbane]

“There are consequences to our actions.”

Talia prepares to leave Bane and Henri in this next installment of my fic THE DEMON’S LEGACY.

This story is also available at Ao3 and FanFiction.net.

Chapter 6

             A sunny morning brightened the small dining room where Bane, Talia, and Henri ate breakfast. Because Bane and Talia had slept late after their night of lovemaking, it was already too hot to eat on the veranda. Talia preferred to eat indoors with Henri because, outside, the child was too easily distracted from his meal by the call of birds or the sound of voices in the courtyard below, an entire world beckoning his adventurous little mind. Also, the boy would attempt to climb the ornate veranda railing and risk a fall to his death if he was not watched every second.

           Henri, finished with his meal, though he had not eaten everything on his plate, seemed momentarily deep within his imagination. Two small, plastic dinosaurs—t-rexes—kept him occupied as he made them fight on the table, complete with varied roars and screams. Bane looked up from his newspaper to see Talia watching their son, lost in thought, her brow furrowed, one hand to her mouth as she absently chewed her fingernails. Bane frowned. He would not allow her to change her mind on leaving, though he could see that was exactly what was in her eyes.

           A quiet knock against the open door drew his attention to Yemi’s arrival.

           “Good morning,” the Nigerian said. “Please excuse the intrusion.”

           “What is it, Yemi?” Bane asked.

           “We will be ready to leave for the airstrip within the hour. Is that acceptable?”

           Talia’s stricken gaze went from Yemi to Bane. “I…I’m not packed. I haven’t talked to Jiddah. I need more time.”

           Patiently, Bane said to Yemi, “Ninety minutes.”

           “Very well,” Yemi said and slipped away.

           Henri all too well knew the dreaded phrase “leave for the airstrip.” The dinosaurs froze in his grip as he looked to his father, worry widening his eyes. “Papa Baba go?”

           “Do not fear, my cub. I am not leaving you. I promised, did I not?”

           Henri smiled, all right with the world again, and went back to his dinosaurs’ fight to the death.

           The very fact that Henri never considered that it was his mother who was bound for the airstrip gave Bane’s heart a twist. He dreaded the boy’s reaction when told the truth.

           “Bane,” Talia said. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all.”

           “I asked you to trust me, habibati.”

           “You know I do.  But, last night, yesterday…I was just tired and frustrated. Maybe I shouldn’t have said some of the things I said. Things will be better now that you’re home. I’m sure of it.”

           “So am I, my dear. And that is why we must stick to the plan.” He reached for her hand before she could say anything more, but her attention was glued to Henri. “It’s for the best. You will see, once you are there.” He leaned over to kiss her cheek and whisper into her ear, “Now, why don’t you pack and talk to your grandmother while I entertain our cub? Then we will come to say good-bye.”

           Talia gave him one last beseeching, conflicted look before obeying. She kissed Henri’s cheek on the way out, but he protested, “Mama!” for breaking his concentration from his toys.

           Bane pushed his chair back. “Come now, dinosaur king. You have as much food on you as in your stomach. Let us remove those pajamas and take a quick dunk in the pool before a shower.”

           Henri beamed. “The big pool, Papa Baba?” he asked, referring to the Olympic-size swimming pool downstairs.

           “No, the spa this time.” He lifted the child from his chair. “We shall go to the big pool this afternoon, if you are good.”

           “I’m always good, Papa Baba.”

           “Hmmm. That is up for debate, little one. But hold onto your dinosaurs. They may enjoy a swim as well.”

           In the windowless spa, Bane turned all the lights on, adding illumination to the muted lights already shining in the twelve-meter by seven-meter pool. He still carried Henri, who was already squirming in anticipation. He knew better than to free the child because the boy was apt to leap into the water with his pajamas still on.

           “Patience, my little worm,” Bane said as he lumbered over to the steps that led into the pool.

           “Turn bubbles on, Papa Baba!”

           “No, we are not going to be here long enough to bother with the jets. We must take a shower afterwards and get dressed.”

           Bane set Henri down but held onto him.

           “Hurry!” Henri threw the dinosaurs into the water

           “What did I just say about patience, Jin?” he said firmly, momentarily halting the boy’s wiggling. “Do you want to play in the water or not?”

           “Yes, please.”

           “Then hold still while I undress you.”

           “You swim, too?”

           “Yes, I will come in with you.”

           As soon as he was free of his pajamas, Henri squealed with joy, and instead of using the steps into the pool, he squirted away from his father and leapt into the water from the side. He came up sputtering happily and proceeded to dogpaddle the length of the pool. Henri required no flotation devices like Bane knew so many of today’s children used. Both he and Henri scoffed at such things, though Maysam often scolded Bane over his decision.

           Stripped of his own clothes, Bane entered the pool, chuckling over his son’s happy shouts. When Henri swam back to him, Bane knelt so the boy could clamber onto his back and ride his father like a sea serpent. The pool was only a little over a meter deep throughout, so Bane walked in a crouch more than swam. Now and then he would rear up out of the water and make sounds like a monster, drawing giggles from Henri. Other times he would submerge, Henri clinging around his neck, laughing underwater.

           When Bane finally carried the boy out of the pool, Henri protested.

           “Silence, little one. Here, take your dinosaurs. Let me dry you off a bit so you don’t drip all the way down the hallway.”

           Bane reached for one of the immaculate white towels that lay folded on a teak bench against the near wall. Wrapping his son in one of them, he instructed the boy to sit on the bench while he used another towel to dry himself. Then he put Henri on his lap and sighed, considered the shimmering surface of the pool.

           “When I was a little boy your age,” he said, hugging his child, “there was a pool where I lived. It was a little bigger than this one, but it was not for swimming. It was for drinking and washing. But your mama was determined to swim in it.” He chuckled at the memory, though at the time the prospect of Talia swimming in the pool and potentially revealing her true sex through her threadbare clothing had terrified him. “I had a devil of a time keeping her out of it for a while.”

           “Mama swim with us in the big pool today?”

           Bane hid his frown from the boy and only grunted, noncommittal. “You must appreciate this spa and your big pool, Jin. You must appreciate everything. That means you must always be thankful. You must never think you will always have these wonderful things. Do you understand, little one?”

           “Yes, Papa Baba,” he said, though Bane knew he was too young to truly understand the significance.

           “Not all children are as lucky as you. They live in poverty, not in palaces. They don’t have enough to eat.”

           “Why not?”

           “Because they don’t have money. They were born into poor families, like I was. So you are a lucky boy.” Bane secured the towel around his waist, then stood with Henri still in his arms. “And you must never forget how lucky you are, not just to have a beautiful home and all the food you can eat, but to have a mother and father and great-grandmother who love you dearly.”

           Henri made the plastic dinosaurs kiss Bane’s cheeks. “I love you, too, Papa Baba.”

           “I know you do, my son. Now, let us take a quick shower, then we shall go see your mother.”

           The prospect of more aquatic fun made Henri smile. He clutched his toys as he and his father left their clothes behind for Hisham to gather later and wash.

           “I think you should stay out of the village until Diya Panjabi’s daughter is gone,” Abrams said.

           Maysam eyed him over her cup of tea as they sat on the veranda outside the salon. While the early heat made Abrams perspire, Maysam was impervious to its influence this early in the day when the veranda lay blanketed in shade. The diffused light made Abrams’s brown eyes appear much darker, familiar lines of concern lowering his broad brow. To Maysam, there was something amusing about seeing such a rugged man so worried.

           “Very well,” Maysam said. “If you feel it wise.”

           “I do. I’ll try to learn a bit more about this Nyssa woman today through our contacts. In the meantime, Davos will keep an eye on her.”

           “He will have a boring day. Diya’s daughter will be tending her mother’s wares in the bazaar again.” She smoothed the deep tangerine silk of her blouse. “Well, Aaron, if you will forbid me from shopping locally, perhaps you will agree to take me to the Johari Bazaar in Jaipur. I’m sure Talia would love to come, too. I’d like to buy some things for John’s baby, and Henri, of course.”

           “Until we learn whether Nyssa poses a threat, I think it’s best if all of you stay here in the palace.”

           “How much of a threat can Nyssa pose to me in Jaipur, sitting here in the bazaar all day or at her mother’s bedside?”

           “Maybe none. But we don’t know. If she’s harmless, she’ll probably be gone soon, then you’ll be free again.”

           Maysam studied him. He held her gaze longer than usual but eventually looked away. He was so different from both Siddig and Barsad. Bold, forthright men, those two. With Abrams, everything was veiled except his inner strength; Maysam saw that clearly. Getting to know him was like peeling back the layers of an onion, yet his layers failed to peel away easily. She was determined to do it, though. He was a challenge, and she enjoyed the game. Maybe if she could get him away to Jaipur or Jodhpur, and if she went alone, maybe he would feel less inhibited by the palace presence of Bane, Barsad, and the others. Perhaps he was more concerned with insulting them than with shocking her with an advance.

           Maysam’s cell phone on the tea table between them sounded a small chime to notify her of a text message. She frowned at the timing and almost ignored it, but she never did because of her great-grandson’s presence in her home.

           “Do you agree to stay within the palace?” Abrams pressed.

           With a sardonic smile, she reached for the phone and said, “Will my jailer at least allow me to go outside, as long as I stay within the compound?”

           A lopsided smile managed to enliven Abrams’s gaze as he got to his feet. “That’s fine. But I’ll have you watched to make sure you stick to the agreement.”

           “Just make sure I don’t notice the guards,” she teased. “At least give me the illusion of freedom on my own property.”

           Abrams gave a slight snort, followed by a brief bow of his head before turning to enter the salon. Maysam’s gaze lingered upon the rear of his military-style khaki pants. Abrams worked out every day in the gym, and it showed. She appreciated his effort.

           Maysam read Talia’s text: Can you come to my room right away?

           On my way, Maysam quickly replied. What had Henri done now?

           When she reached Talia’s suite, she found her granddaughter pacing beside her bed where a suitcase lay, packed but still open. They were alone in the room, yet Maysam could hear Henri’s laughter from down the hallway, answered by the deep tones of Bane’s voice.

           “Where are you going?” Maysam asked, immediately worried by her granddaughter’s agitated state. “Is something wrong? You didn’t mention—”

           “It’s Bane’s idea.”

           “What is?”

           “Going away.” Talia gestured to the luggage.

           Maysam saw only one suitcase. “You’re going away?”

           “Bane thinks I should. He says I need to get away.”

           “For how long?”

           “Two weeks.”

           “By yourself?”

           “I will have protection, but, yes, just me. Bane is staying with Henri. He thinks it’ll be good for Henri to be without his mother for a while. He thinks it might help improve Henri’s behavior.”

           Maysam hesitated, collected herself. Before Bane’s last mission, he had spoken to her about Talia’s need of a break from motherhood, so Talia leaving now did not take Maysam by complete surprise, only the abruptness of it.

           “Where will you go?”

           “Chateau Blanc.”

           Maysam reached for her granddaughter’s hands to stop her from pacing. “Hafida, Haris knows what’s best for you. And I must say I agree with him. You need a break, not just from Henri but from here. You have been a caged bird for so long now.”

           “But Henri—”

           “He will put up a fuss, but he must learn independence.”

           “I don’t want him to feel abandoned.”

           “Abandoned?” Maysam tsked. “He will have me and his father, as well as Barsad and—”

           “I know, but… I mean, I know how I felt when my mother was suddenly taken from me.”

           “Hafida, it’s not the same.”

           “But to him it might be. Even after all these years, Jiddah, I remember what that felt like, how terrifying and heartbreaking it was to be with my mother one minute, then to lose her the next.”

           Maysam hugged her, the memory of her daughter’s death as painful now as it had been so many years ago. “Henri is strong. After he cries for a while, he’ll be distracted by playing with his father, and before he knows it, you will be back.” She held Talia at arm’s length, crushed by the sheen of tears in those gorgeous blue eyes, and forced a smile. “It will be hard the first couple of days for you, but then you will enjoy yourself and be glad that you went.”

           Talia frowned, but her lack of response told Maysam that her granddaughter knew she was right.

           Bane finished dressing Henri in cargo shorts and a gray t-shirt, and as soon as he let go of the boy, Henri bolted out of his bedroom and sprinted down the hall, calling to his mother. As quickly as he could, Bane followed.

           “Jiddah!” the boy cried in surprise.

           Maysam swept the child into her arms and smothered him with kisses, making him giggle and struggle.

           “Good morning,” Bane said.

           “Good morning, Haris.”

           “It appears Talia told you the news.”

           “Yes, and I think it’s a wonderful idea.”

           Henri paid no heed to the luggage, which now lay closed upon the bed. A suitcase signified nothing to him; when Bane left on League business, he carried only a pack. Neither did the child notice his mother’s anxiety.

           “Henri,” Bane said as he crossed the room and settled in his leather massage recliner. “Come here, son.”

           Brimming with morning energy, Henri darted across the room and into his father’s arms. Bane sat him on his lap just as Yemi rapped on the door and announced that Talia’s car awaited.

           “Go ahead, Yemi,” Bane said. “She will be down shortly.”

           “Where we going, Mama?” Henri finally acknowledged Talia’s presence.

           “Henri.” The serious tone of Bane’s voice drew the boy’s attention back. “We are going to have a little talk, you and I, so you must pay attention. Understand?”

           “Yes, Papa Baba.” Henri shot his mother one last glance before smiling at Bane.

           He’s expecting a scolding for something and is already trying to win leniency. Well, my cub, this will not work. Bane cleared his throat, felt Talia’s unrest, hoped she would not fight him on this, especially in front of Henri.

           “I understand that while I was away, you were a very naughty boy.”

           “Nuh-ah.”

           “Don’t ‘nuh-ah’ me, young man. I know better. I have seen the proof.”

           Henri’s smile vanished. His next tactic was false contrition, bowing his head and looking up at Bane from beneath his feathery soft, defined eyebrows.

           “I have told you before, there are consequences to our actions. When you choose to be naughty, there is a price, a punishment.”

           “Mama spank me.”

           “Yes, I know she has, many times. But it seems to do little good because you keep being naughty, don’t you?”

           Now a hint of color reddened Henri’s cheeks. “I sorry.”

           “Yes, I’m afraid you will be now, little cub. Because you have been so bad for so long, your mother is going away for a while.”

           “You come, too?”

           Bane shook his head. “I’m staying here, and so are you.”

           “Why?”

           “You have made your mother very tired and sad. She needs some time away, so she can rest and be happy again.”

           Henri began to squirm, looking to his mother, who had drawn closer and sat on the edge of the nearby sofa, her expression pained. “I go, Mama.”

           Talia started to speak, but Bane broke in before she could surrender. “No, Henri. You are staying here with me. Your mother’s car is waiting, so say good-bye.”

           Henri stared from Bane to Talia and back, as if waiting for one of them to tell him that this was merely a ploy.

           “I won’t be gone long, baby,” Talia said, her voice catching.

           “Say good-bye,” Bane said flatly, directed at both mother and son.

           “I go with Mama.”

           “No.” Bane patiently shook his head.

           The tears came then, and Henri pushed away from Bane and ran to his mother, who folded him in her arms and kissed him.

           “I go, Mama. I go.”

           Talia could no longer speak, eyes pressed shut against her tears. Maysam stood nearby, wringing her hands.

           Bane allowed Henri to cling to his mother a moment longer, then stood and said, “Your mother must go now, son. Come here.”

           “No!” Henri clutched Talia with all four limbs.

           “Bane…” Talia’s eyes pleaded with him. “You’ve made your point with him—”

           “No, my dear, he only wants you to believe that.”

           “He’s just a baby.”

           “A very wily one. Now, Henri, let go of your mother.”

           Anger in the child’s voice now. “No, Papa Baba! I go with Mama.”

           “Henri,” Maysam intervened. “Listen to your father.”

           Henri buried his face in his mother’s thick hair. “No!” He was trembling now.

           Bane stepped over and snaked one arm between the boy and Talia. No matter how Henri tried to cling to her, screaming, he was no match for Bane. Henri turned his fury on his father, kicking and punching. Bane pinned the boy so tightly against him that the blows had very little range or effect.

           “Go,” he said stolidly to Talia. “Contact me when you arrive.”

           Talia wavered, staring at Henri and wiping at the tears on her cheeks.

           “Go, habibati,” Bane said over his son’s shrieks.

           Hisham was at the door now, and Maysam let him in so he could take Talia’s suitcase. As Hisham had left, Maysam put her arm around her granddaughter’s shoulders.

           “Come now, hafida. I will go with you to the airstrip.”

           “Let Abrams know,” Bane said. “He will want to accompany you.”

           “Mama!” Henri sobbed over and over, his body vibrating with grief.

           Maysam forcibly ushered Talia from the suite.

           “Come, Jin,” Bane said calmly. “You may wave good-bye from the veranda.”

           “No! Wanna go with Mama!”

           Bane leisurely made his way to the veranda, swaying slightly in an effort to succor the boy. Once in the shade outside, he looked over the railing to see a white SUV waiting below, armed men standing around it. Hisham was putting Talia’s suitcase in the back.

           “Show your mother how brave you are, Jin. Stop your crying. Here…look down. There is her car. You will see her any minute now, and she will look up to see her. Let us dry your tears and show her a brave face.”

           “Wanna go,” Henri pouted.

           “Yes, but that is not happening, so here…” He loosened his hold on the child and turned him to ride on his hip. “Look down.”

           No longer struggling, Henri dragged his forearm across his snot-glued nose. Bane saw a light of hope spark in the boy’s eyes. Bane made sure his grip was secure in case Henri planned to jump down to his mother.

           “There she is,” Bane said.

           “Mama!” Henri cried forlornly.

           Talia looked up, wearing sunglasses and a dark mustard-colored hijab.

           “Don’t go, Mama! I be good. I promise.”

           Talia lifted her hand but words failed her.

           “Don’t go!” Henri called, tears coming fresh. He reached for the railing, but Bane kept a tight hold. “I be good!”

           Maysam gently turned Talia to the vehicle, and at last they climbed in. Abrams rushed out of the palace, appearing confused and harried. Hearing Henri’s shouts, he looked up to the veranda. Bane nodded. With a frown that reflected Abrams’s dislike for unexpected changes in Maysam’s agenda, he got into the SUV with Yemi. The closing of the door ramped up Henri’s anxiety, and his protests grew hoarse and louder. As the vehicle pulled away, the boy could no longer form words, only quivering sobs. He was too stricken to fight against his father as Bane drew him close and watched Talia’s SUV leave the courtyard in a swirl of dust.

[artificialqueens]

Chapter Two: We'll Show Them-Luci

an: here’s chapter two! sorry for the lack of writing, I have to get through a fair few exams this summer! I’ll be able to write more now though, since I’m only in school for a few hours a day (yes, I’m writing instead of revising but that’s not important) hope you like it

summary: Alexis’s concern leads to Sasha questioning the blurring lines of her relationship with Shea as she fights to save her damaged reputation  

The rain from the night before had refused to clear up in the morning and, after a motivational cappuccino before leaving, Sasha ran out into the busy streets to catch the bus waiting for its passengers. The bus journey wasn’t long, but it provided enough time for Sasha to watch raindrops race down the window. She made a mental note to paint a picture from this perspective of the weather. Sasha had never been a fan of rain, whether she was trapped in it or not, but she knew Shea loved watching the rain from the safety of indoors.

The bus had dropped her off around the corner, a dreaded ten minute walk away from the office building she needed to reach. Sasha huffed; focusing her eyes in the direction of her destination. She’d hoped that the rain would have calmed down by the time she’d been forced to walk in it, but she was wrong.

Her ivory shirt, ironed and pressed, clung to her dampening body. Two stains on her collar, one rose pink and the other mint green, had proven almost impossible to wash no matter how many times she’d put them through the washing machine. The acrylic paint from the previous night had gotten onto her laundry and, running out of her trusty acetone; she was forced to deal with her co-workers’ inevitable stares. They knew way too much about her artist alter ego from just her clumsiness. Alternative to fixing the stains, Sasha strategically placed two pins over the stains. One was a greyhound and the other was a vegan slogan she’d been handed on the street, ‘animals aren’t ingredients’.

Sasha shielded the papers in her arms from the rain, hoping she wouldn’t smudge the ink. The rain was worsening, and Sasha struggled to avoid the puddles in her heels. She waited for the cars to slow down for her so she could cross the busy road. The cars didn’t slow down for her; instead they drove faster so they didn’t have to make eye contact with the shaking woman. Eventually, a taxi took pity on her and stopped, allowing her to stumble towards her building. As she crossed, a car pulled up beside her, the splash of a puddle almost ruining her light shirt. The figure ran over to Sasha, holding out a red umbrella over her hair, saving her flattening curls from the cruel rain.

“Thanks.” Sasha spoke breathlessly, blinking rain out of her eyes so that she could see the stranger who had become her knight in shining armour. She noticed, after seeing the dark eyes looking down at her, which her saviour wasn’t a stranger at all. Shea held up the umbrella so it covered Sasha’s soaked frame. Shea seemed to be reasonably dry but the rain was ruining the left side of her black and white blazer as she sacrificed the majority of the umbrella to Sasha.

“No problem, can’t have my favourite employee catching a cold, how boring would my job be then?” Shea greeted, rolling her eyes to put across her point.

Sasha gave Shea a grateful nod as she held the door of their building open, collapsing the umbrella before following Sasha into the hallway.

The gust of air from the central heating was a blessing to both women as they shivered at the reception desk. The door that held all the superiors’ offices behind it was pulled closed, a sign saying ‘MEETING IN PROGRESS’ placed in the centre. Sasha felt herself shrinking, as she imagined the meeting was probably discussing her fate. The public meeting was in a week; and if it didn’t go in her favour, Sasha knew she’d have to pick up the paint-covered newspaper she had led down in her house and search for a new job.

Shea had clearly noticed her discomfort because she moved a bit closer, frowning in concern. Sasha tried to flash a reassuring smile, but it came off as more of a grimace.

“It’s probably about the broken coffee machine, not you.” Farrah called from behind the desk, noticing the atmosphere in front of her. She had her elbow placed on the surface of the desk; her head rested in her hand. There were two pencils behind her ears, one stained with red lipstick from where she’d chewed it.

“Yeah, probably.” Shea agreed, leaning over to the desk to sign in for the day. Sasha did the same, thanking Farrah as she handed them the schedule for the day.

The stairs led down to the live room where both girls worked. They paused in the room before it, however, once they reached the base of the stairs. It was where Sasha tended to hide when things got too serious, namely when Alexis yelled at her for being too forthright. Shea was normally the one who had to bring her back before a show, so she was aware of all Sasha’s hiding places. It was why Sasha always lost when they played hide and seek in the office, usually with Farrah in first place since she was able to fit in the smallest of places.

They usually played it on the first Monday of each month, but often indulged if someone was having a particularly hard day, like when Alexis’s dog was having surgery. Even Alexis, the most sensible of them all, couldn’t resist running around like a child. That’s what Trinity had called them when she’d found them, saying she ‘hadn’t left her children at home to come to work and look after bigger, more stupid children’. She hadn’t tried to stop them, however.        

“You’re alright, aren’t you?” Shea asked, hands on Sasha’s shoulder. She knew Sasha was worried about going live again, anticipating all the hate she is going to receive. Each negative comment means bad news for Sasha, as Trinity had said.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be fine.  Nothing a block on Twitter won’t fix.” Sasha waved her hands in dismissal, smiling at Shea.

“When you call yourself a strong independent woman, you sure aren’t lying about the damn independent part. Just let me know if you need anything bitch.” Shea sighed, throwing up her arms dramatically. Sasha gave her a smug smile and sauntered through the doors into their office room.

It was much quieter than usual in the early mornings; the hive of activity had subsided until the upcoming live show was being directed. Sasha never liked being shouted at and Shea never liked being given orders, so neither woman enjoyed the time of day that introduced the producers and directors.

Sasha’s desk was exactly as she always left it, perfectly organised and colourful. She had sketchbooks piled in desk drawers and pots of pens and pencils of a variety of shades. Sasha had disregarded paperwork neatly on the edge of her desk, as if she was ready to push it into the recycling bin below at any second. She gave it side eye as she took a seat at her desk, sighing as she continued to procrastinate reading through everything.

“Did you guys have a nice kiss in the rain?” Alexis commented from the desk beside Sasha’s. She gritted her teeth as Alexis’s focus turned to Shea, who was being bombarded by questions from her employees.

“Shut up, Alexis.” Sasha mumbled; her mind blank of clever retorts. Alexis obviously noticed this, because she raised her eyebrow.

“I wonder who she’ll have secret rendezvous with when you don’t have a job.” Alexis mused maliciously. Sasha didn’t respond, she just balled up her fists and frowned in the direction of her computer screen.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you. But if you don’t start thinking about how you act, you’re gonna end up where you don’t want to be.” Alexis shrugged, gesturing to the post-it note on top of Sasha’s pile of papers that read, ‘Sasha- public meeting @7:30 next Tuesday. Good Luck!! -Farrah’.

“Just because I’m gay, doesn’t mean every woman I’m friends with is too. We’re friends; does that mean we’re in the midst of a secret gay romance?” Sasha tried to distract herself from the conversation by using jokes, but her usual comedic mask was torn off by Alexis’s stubborn need to argue. “The difference is that I have a boyfriend. You can’t deny that you would’ve been fired a long time ago if Shea didn’t think you were cute. I mean, you haven’t been on time since you’re second day. I’d say first but I’m pretty sure you turned up late then too.” Alexis spoke matter-of-factly.

“Shea isn’t that shallow.” Sasha argued, looking up towards Shea, who had just walked through the doors. She looked stressed, her eyebrows knitted together as she frowned.

“The fact is you’re not seeing the bigger picture. You choose each other or your careers.” Alexis finalised her point.  Of course Alexis would reduce her friendship with Shea to some dramatic rom-com. Sasha watched her turn to another co-worker who needed her help with some files. Groaning, Sasha turned to her computer and clicked open the fifty pending emails flashing on her screen. Each less important than the one before it, Sasha flicked through them distractedly until she was called onto set by one of the directors.

She noticed Shea waiting for her, long legs crossed as she perched on the edge of the desk. Her heels tapped gently against the wood as she swung her legs. The head producer was talking to her, holding a clipboard close to his chest. Shea’s legs stopped their rhythmic motion when she noticed Sasha approach. She gave Sasha a pointed look and rolled her eyes in the direction of the producer. She clearly wasn’t listening to a word he was saying.

“Miss Velour, have a good show.” The producer nodded politely before walking away to talk to an equally as bored cameraman.

“Hey stranger, I haven’t seen you all day.” Shea hummed as Sasha pulled up a chair next to her.

“I know darling, that’s the price we have to pay when someone,” Sasha nodded pointedly at Shea, “is a successful business woman with meetings every hour.” Shea laughed and gave a smug grin.

“So, what was that about?” Sasha asked, looking towards the producer curiously. Shea shrugged dismissively.

“Oh, just wanted my ideas on a set change. Honestly, I’m pretty sure he just wants a chance to accidentally touch my ass. If he was being paid for flirting, he’d actually be good at his job.” Shea huffed, her voice laced with mirth.

Sasha hoped there were no physical signs of the sudden drop of her stomach. She looked up in surprise.

“Oh, did he ask you out?” Sasha asked, hoping she had managed to keep the tone of her voice consistent. Shea didn’t seem to notice either way.

“Oh please, he’s been asking me out for months, doesn’t mean I’m gonna say yes,” Shea answered, turning to look at Sasha, “besides, he isn’t exactly where I’m keeping my eye.”

Sasha’s lips separated slightly as she searched for something to say, but the shouts of directors and producers tore the pair apart as they were taken to their desk spaces.

The lights signalling quiet, we’re live blared above the camera and the two co-anchors prepared to read their Teleprompters.

“And now Alexis Michelle, discussing what happened when Trump arrived in Saudi Arabia, and we place our bets on how long it will take for him to get every country to hate him.” Shea grinned, pausing to let Sasha say her final lines.

Sasha was grateful when the cameras turned to Alexis, who perfectly delivered a story without even a pause of breath. Though she often lacked in charisma, Alexis was a talented newswoman, and Sasha wouldn’t be surprised if she was her replacement.

They went off air a while after, and both women were grateful for the chance to joke around again. They got told off for speaking too loudly, being shut out until filming was over and scolded, and Sasha was a repeat offender. Much to Shea’s amusement, Sasha found it extremely difficult to hold in jokes once she’d thought of them.

“Have you heard anything new from Trinity?” Shea asked, her legs swinging absentmindedly beneath the chair.

“Nah, I guess they’re waiting till Tuesday to tell me. It’s a bit cowardly, isn’t it? Keeping me in the dark. At least if they told me now that it’s not looking good, I could start finding a job. I’m sure that charming pub on the corner would hire me.” Sasha finished sarcastically, grimacing at the prospect of the cat calls and having shots spilt on her already paint stained clothes. Shea wrinkled her nose, reminded on the story she once reported on the drunken fights between Brooklyn men and invading neighbourhood raccoons.

“I won’t let you do that to yourself. You’d be a terrible barmaid; I’ve seen how many laptops you’ve destroyed. Spill resistant keyboard doesn’t mean half a cup of boiling coffee.” Shea laughed, placing a hand on Sasha’s shoulder in mock concern. Sasha pouted, remembering when she’d tripped and spilt a latte on her laptop and Farrah’s arm. The woman had whined for a week, mostly because the burn meant she couldn’t wear her favourite bracelets. Sasha would’ve made fun of her, but she felt she’d done enough damage.

“Yeah, you know, you’re probably right.” Sasha laughed, her hands covering her face in embarrassment.  

“Now come on, sitting around here isn’t going to help you, let’s go home. It’s like seven, time for food.” Shea exclaimed, pointing to their co-workers that were beginning to leave. Sasha sighed loudly.

“I’m not hungry for dinner, I’m hungry for justice,” Sasha collapsed into her chair, limbs sprawled out in exasperation.

“You can’t fight social injustices on an empty stomach. Come on, I’ll take you to dinner.” Shea argue; pulling Sasha reluctantly to her feet.

Sasha was about to follow Shea absentmindedly, but she hesitated. Shea looked back in confusion. The change in tone had been a surprise to both of them. Sasha imagined a metaphorical Alexis sitting on her shoulder. To her heart, Alexis was the angel, but to her mind, she was the devil. One thing Sasha knew for sure was that, unfortunately, Alexis Michelle was right. If Sasha really did care about her career, she couldn’t throw it away on a date.

Sasha looked down at the floor, her eyes landing on the black leather of Shea’s heels. They were ambitiously tall, and Sasha suspected that she’d probably be taller than Shea if she’d stop wearing them. She’d tried to get Shea to wear flats, but to no avail. She liked having the edge. She felt smaller than usual standing in front of Shea as the woman waited for her answer. Sasha felt a pang in the pit of her stomach, but she couldn’t tell if it was regret or guilt. Possibly both.

“I’m sorry, Shea, but I can’t. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Sasha scurried away, trying her hardest not to look back. Shea watched her go, the offering of a lift home left as a breath on her lips.

[4lyeskas]

recollect me, darling

read it on Ao3 SERIES: Yuri!!! On Ice PAIRING: Otabek Altin x Yuri Plisetsky RATING: NSFW / E WARNINGS/TAGS: WttM skate; underage (Yuri 16, Otabek 19); post-canon; blowjobs ( @otayuriwriterscollective )

 To Otabek Altin, Yuri Plisetsky is many things.

Yuri Plisetsky has the eyes of a soldier; Yuri is strong, a force in and of himself. Yuri has storms at the tips of his fingers, the blades of his skates. His beauty and grace are crushing in their intensity. He flows like molten steel on the ice.

Yuri is an enigma. Otabek has long grown used to the different ways he treats people; his anger towards JJ, his resentful admiration of Viktor, his brash regard for Katsuki. And then he turns and that dazzling smile is directed at Otabek as he pulls Otabek down the street towards this café, as he asks about Kazakhstan and Canada and America. For all the sternness of Otabek’s expression, he doesn’t feel nearly as complex and inexplicable as this boy he’s befriended.

Yuri is bright, and surprisingly childish, and quick to insecurity. He is exceedingly competitive and uncertainly affectionate.

And, Otabek realizes as he watches that same boy step out onto the ice, Yuri is dangerous.

Yuri Plisetsky is a hurricane, and Otabek is quite frankly ruined.

His eyes are drawn first to the shades, because he distinctly remembers Yuri jeering JJ for wearing sunglasses on his head, indoors. Then his gaze flicks to the hair, his fringe pulled back in a half-ponytail, making him look older, harsher. The purple jacket is extremely Yuri, and the shirt—

Otabek inhales sharply. He knows that shirt.

He stands rooted to the ice (where Yuri had told him to stand at the beginning of the routine), staring, staring, as Yuri lithely shrugs out of that blazer to reveal a ripped black singlet underneath and that is Otabek’s shirt.

It’s big on Yuri, as is any piece of clothing that Otabek owns. The fabric pools around Yuri’s hips, which are clad in the tightest material Otabek has ever seen, and Otabek is desperately trying to keep his eyes at a more respectable level. Yuri tosses the blazer away carelessly, jumping right into a quad toe loop, stealing Otabek’s breath away with every flick of his arms, every bend of his body. And Otabek is sincerely regretting that he’d agreed to Yuri’s request that Otabek promise not to touch him for the entire day, because the curve of Yuri’s spine through the cutouts of the shirt is driving Otabek mad.

His hands twitch at his sides. His throat is dry. And Yuri Plisetsky, enigmatic and beautiful and dangerous, slides down to his knees and lifts his body into the most obscene arch, from which Otabek cannot look away. Yuri’s head is angled back, baring his throat, his torso one long line from the cant of his hips to the tip of his chin.

Otabek swallows once, twice, and remembers – Yuri coming up to him, right after his own routine had finished, leaning in close and mischievous. One hand resting lightly on Otabek’s chest, thumb stroking in tiny circles. One sentence, low and whispered, with a heat he hadn’t known Yuri was capable of. 

Don’t you fucking dare look away from me.

As if he could. As Yuri opens his eyes to stare at Otabek dead-on, lips parted and chest heaving, Otabek raises his hands in a little shooting gesture as he’d been asked. He wouldn’t tear his gaze away even if his life depended on it.

This is not Katsuki Yuuri’s eros, not Christophe Giacometti’s sensuality. This is filthy, and ruthless, and hot. Yuri bites his lip and Otabek flinches, feels something white-hot under his skin. Yuri leans back in a perfect cambré, baring his throat again, and Otabek cannot breathe.

Otabek wants.

Yuri meets his eyes at the end of the routine, chest heaving and hair a mess. There is a storm in his eyes; look at me.

Otabek realizes two things: he has severely underestimated Yuri Plisetsky, and he is in for trouble tonight.

Later, at the exhibition after-party, Otabek realizes one more thing: Yuri is infuriating as all hell.

Otabek still cannot touch him. Yuri hovers close, so close, and Otabek can feel the heat off his skin. He’s still wearing that singlet over a new and equally indecent pair of black pants. Yuri doesn’t shy away from contact with other people, suffering Katsuki’s scandalized flailing and Viktor’s overbearing hugs and even Chris’s arm around his waist. He meets Otabek’s eyes over his glass of cider and there’s a tease there, a challenge. Otabek grips his glass of champagne harder and forces air into his lungs.

He lets himself be distracted by Viktor’s loud begging for Katsuki to dance with him, but he can feel the weight of a gaze on him. It’s almost tangible. Then there’s a touch, a light graze of fingers to his hip, but before Otabek can react Yuri is with his rinkmates. Over her own glass, Mila smirks at Otabek, leaning in to whisper something in Yuri’s ear.

The gestures pile up. A tap to his wrist. A brush of the shoulder. A hand on the small of his back. Yuri’s gaze on Otabek’s lips, his chest, his throat. Yuri biting on his lip, running his tongue over a stray drop of cider. Yuri touching people who are not Otabek.

Look at me.

Otabek gives easily enough; it is nothing he doesn’t want. His gaze darkens when other people touch Yuri. His eyes follow the sway of those hips, the lean of Yuri’s neck. He breathes heavy, deliberate; the tension in his shoulders is unhidden. He watches Yuri drink in this adoration that borders on eye-fucking, knows Yuri is heady with it.

He lets Yuri read it, openly, that he wants.

Yuri licks crumbs off his fingers and smirks.

When Yuri finally makes his excuses to leave, Otabek is ready to just chuck everything and drag him into the nearest enclosed space.

There’s a light flush on Yuri’s skin, a sheen of sweat. The overhead lights of the hotel corridors throw shadows onto his collarbone, his neck, his back. Otabek watches Yuri’s muscles shift under the shirt, follows a bead of sweat down the dip of his spine.

He reaches out without thinking, and Yuri neatly catches his wrist. The young Russia skater clicks his tongue, glancing at Otabek in mock-disapproval.

Those slender fingers are fire on his skin, and Otabek could beg for more.

Yuri turns to face him completely, looking up at him with a taunt and a promise, and leads them in the last few steps to Otabek’s hotel room.

The heat is pooling in Otabek’s body.

The door clicks shut, and Yuri lets go. Otabek chases the contact, reaching, but Yuri steps lightly away and wags a finger at him.

“Not yet, Beka,” he says teasingly, even as he beckons Otabek further into the room. “Sit,” he orders, pointing to the newly-made bed. The crisply-laid sheets make Otabek want to pull Yuri down to make a mess.

Otabek sits.

Yuri comes in close, brushes his hands through Otabek’s hair. The Kazakh skater clenches his fists in the covers; his exhales come through his mouth, eyes flicking all over Yuri’s body. There’s a smirk pulling at the corner of Yuri’s lips as he leans down, right by the shell of Otabek’s ears.

“Watch,” he breathes out, and it almost rips a groan from Otabek’s throat.

He’s promised, so he holds back, fighting to control his breathing as he watches Yuri step back, lick his lips, sway his body. Yuri drags his hands down the singlet, tugging the fabric to expose more skin. In one smooth and unexpected motion, he drops to his knees, lifting back into that shameless arch as his hands push down to the waistband of his pants.

“Yura.” When Otabek finally speaks, it’s hoarse and pleading. Yuri bares his teeth in a grin while his fingers slowly, deftly unbutton his pants. The sound of the zipper is loud in the room where the only other noise is Otabek’s breathing.

Yuri lifts himself back up on his knees, fingers teasing under fabric. He pushes the pants down little by little, until Otabek can see the little strawberry birthmark in the divot of his left hip. Then he stands, shucking off his pants, left in nothing but black boxers and that damn singlet and Otabek cannot remember how to breathe. Cannot think of anything except want, want, want.

With a flick of his finger, Yuri gestures for Otabek to move further up the bed. He complies without hesitation. And without breaking eye contact, Yuri leans down and crawls up the bed after Otabek until their faces are inches apart and he’s practically straddling Otabek’s lap.

Otabek thinks he might rip the sheets with how hard he’s holding them.

“Were you watching?” Yuri asks softly, as he starts to unbutton Otabek’s shirt.

“Yes,” Otabek breathes in immediate reply.

The smirk returns. “Did you enjoy it?” Light fingers push the sleeves down over Otabek’s shoulders; he shrugs out of his shirt as fast as possible.

“Yes.”

Yuri’s index finger traces a long line from the dip in Otabek’s collar to where a trail of dark hair starts to disappear into his pants; Otabek’s skin burns in its wake. This is torture, and it is exquisite.

Yuri leans in closer and murmurs his words along the cut of Otabek’s jaw.

“Do you want me?”

“Yes.”

Yuri’s fingers play along his hips and Otabek is going to spontaneously combust.

“Yura,” he says again, brokenly, when Yuri does nothing but press his face into the curve of Otabek’s neck and skim his palms down Otabek’s thighs. His chest is heaving; he feels dizzy. He’s never been so turned on in his life.

“Yura, please.”

Yuri kisses him.

Everything he can reach, he touches. Palms splayed across Yuri’s back; teeth dragging down his neck. Hips pressed against each other’s, hot and heavy. Yuri threads his fingers through Otabek’s hair and pulls, scrapes lightly at the nape of his neck. Otabek groans against the dip of Yuri’s shoulder.

“You,” Otabek mutters into Yuri’s waist, where he’s sucked an angry red mark through the gaping arm hole of the singlet, “are extremely unfair.”

“Look who’s talking,” Yuri bites back, although it’s ruined by the hitch in his voice.

Otabek lies back on the pillows, pulls Yuri on top of him, a delicious and promising weight. They kiss and they kiss, open-mouthed and needy. Yuri rocks his hips in small motions, pressing harder and harder into Otabek. There’s a pretty red blush over Yuri’s chest, his cheeks. It makes Otabek want to consume him.

“Beka.” Yuri gasps his name between kisses, and Otabek answers by biting more marks onto his skin where people won’t see (but they both will know). “Fuck, Beka—”

Otabek growls, fingers digging into Yuri’s hips, pulling harder. They keep kissing, messier now, and Otabek keeps pulling away to mouth over as much of Yuri as he can reach. His hands move, sweep over thighs and calves and bruised feet.

“I’m going to blow you,” he states with as much composure as he can muster. Yuri groans into his shoulder.

With great reluctance, Otabek slides Yuri off his lap. The boxers come off while Otabek divests himself of his pants. When Yuri makes to take off the singlet, Otabek stops him.

“Keep it on,” he says, his expression dark. Yuri inhales sharply, but complies. He lies back, near the foot of the bed; Otabek drinks in the sight of those lithe limbs spread out. He wants.

(Look at me.)

He starts with Yuri’s ankles, little kisses to the bone, hands curled reverently around the joint. Up the calves, index finger drawing circles on the backs of his knees. The insides of Yuri’s thighs become littered with small red marks soothed by the press of lips, until Yuri is writhing and panting, the singlet riding up his body like it had during his skate program.

Otabek worships this boy, his strength and his beauty and his steel.

“Beka,” Yuri whines, reaching down to tug at Otabek’s hair again. The Kazakh skater smirks against the crease of Yuri’s thigh, drags his tongue over skin. He hitches Yuri’s legs over his shoulders, and heels dig into his back in a silent demand.

“So impatient,” he teases, biting at the soft skin of Yuri’s inner thigh. But he complies. After not being able to touch Yuri the entire day, he would rather not wait either. So he sinks down, takes Yuri in his mouth, ruins him with his tongue and with the hollowing of his cheeks. His hands press Yuri down onto the bed as he sucks, licks, hums. He flicks at the slit and Yuri muffles a cry with one hand, the other still pulling desperately at Otabek’s hair. And Otabek drinks it all in, the weight and scent of Yuri around him, the taste of his cock. He inhales and goes down, down, until the tip is pressing at his throat and Yuri is keening.

Then he pulls off, mouths down the length, and keeps going. His hands slide under Yuri’s ass, grabbing two handfuls and lifting up.

“Beka—”

Otabek drags the flat of his tongue up the crease of Yuri’s ass and Yuri loses it.

Otabek is neither skilled nor experienced, but he makes up for it with enthusiasm and acute attention to what makes Yuri squirm and moan. He alternates between eating Yuri out and lapping at his cock until Yuri is a quivering, aching mess, hand clenched almost painfully in Otabek’s hair and hips twisting frantically.

“Beka – hng – B-Beka, I’m going to – Beka –”

Otabek pulls up to fumble around the bedside table for the small bottle of lube he’d been using the other day to help jack himself off, letting Yuri catch his breath. Then he is back on Yuri, relentless, sinking back down onto his cock and moaning around it. One finger gently, carefully, circles Yuri’s entrance. He presses lightly, easing into tight heat (and he imagines it around other parts of his body, but that is not for tonight—), allowing Yuri to adjust. And then he starts to crook his finger, moving it back and forth, curling, until—

Yuri’s hips jolt as he screams into the palm pressed desperately against his mouth, and he comes inside Otabek’s mouth. The singlet has scrunched up by his armpits and is damp with sweat; his hair is plastered to his forehead. One leg has slipped off Otabek’s shoulder. He looks like an absolute mess.

He looks beautiful and ruined.

Otabek swallows as best as he can, pulling off Yuri with a wet pop. He reaches for the lube again, slicks up his hand, and jerks himself off with his cheek pressed into the inside of Yuri’s thigh. He’s so aroused that it only takes a few strokes for him to come as well, spilling into his palm.

“Yura,” he groans, hand tightening around Yuri’s hip. In response, Yuri weakly cards his fingers through Otabek’s hair, murmuring something Otabek cannot hear.

They lie there for a few moments to catch their breath, Yuri splayed out on the sheets and Otabek between his legs. Eventually, Otabek presses a reverent kiss to Yuri’s stomach, then up on his chest.

“You were amazing out there,” he says honestly, looking Yuri in the eye. Yuri’s gaze moves a little to the left, teeth worrying his lip in embarrassment.

“Look who’s talking,��� he grumbles in response, and he looks so shy that Otabek laughs.

“Yura,” he says again, just because he can, and he leans down to kiss Yuri. There is no heat this time, and Otabek rolls them so they are both on their sides. They kiss lazily, pressed against each other; Otabek skims his palm down the curve of Yuri’s side, around to his back.

Yuri Plisetsky is still a hurricane, a force on the ice, but in bed like this Otabek thinks he’s more like a lazy cat. After they’ve cleaned up themselves and the bed, they settle in for the evening, ordering room service and connecting Otabek’s laptop to the television. Yuri is in another of Otabek’s shirts, though one much less revealing this time.

“By the way,” Otabek says halfway through their movie, “why did you settle for this theme for your exhibition program?”

Yuri looks up at him with a mouthful of pirozhki. Otabek figures that’s a counter-question.

“Well.” Otabek taps his finger on his knee. “Your short program was about agape, and your free skate was about strength. This was very – different.”

There’s a pause, in which Yuri chews very slowly and Otabek looks at him expectantly. Yuri picks at the crust of the pirozhki, littering crumbs on the sheet.

“Because.” There’s another pause, and then Yuri huffs. “Because,” he says with finality.

(The entire program had been very Yura, truthfully; Otabek is just curious.)

Yuri eventually drifts off first, exhausted, slumped against Otabek and drooling slightly. Smiling softly, Otabek shifts him to a more comfortable position and turns off the movie. Then he, too, slides under the covers beside Yuri to sleep.

[quess-writes]

//Holy crap Enma’s one turned out longer than I expected//

Undercut for length

Tsuna

Tsuna is insecure as he is so when rumours arose that you were, well, essentially cheating on him, he panicked. Hard. You were so handsome and had both males and female admirers . He wanted to talk to you about it but never gathered the courage to. Will you confirm it? He doesn’t think he’ll be able to handle that. Will you deny it? He’d take your word for it but there would always be a lingering green monster whispering in his ear. So against his better judgement Reborn he started to follow you.

First of all, he’s a horrible spy and tapping into his HDWM will light a giant fucking fireball on his head so that plan was a no-go (he has the subtly of a kid on crack). Actually, he stumbled upon you by complete accident. He lost you somewhere in the market area and decided to abort mission for that day - what was he going to do? Stand around like a lost puppy? But as he was heading back, his intuition was nagging at him to go the other way. So naturally he followed.

Through dense forestry and unpaved roads, Tsuna stumbled stumbled an abandoned warehouse of some sorts. Dead trees, debris, broken crates littered the area.

One look and he left - wait? Feet? What are you doing? Turn back around! Why are you going closer to the LITERAL FUNHOUSE OF SERIAL KILLERS???

Upon entering Tsuna will scream. He’s seen some shit from Reborn’s training and the mafia but oh lord, that’s so much blood. And in the middle of it all is a limp man suspended in the air by the hands of some man covered in blood. His body was taunt, fangs sharp with broken sunglasses hooked onto the curve of his shirt as piercing red eyes bore straight into his victim. 

Recognizing the scream, you quickly turned your head, dropping the limp body; like a deer in headlights, you froze. “T-Tsuna! It’s not it looks like…?” Great excuse brain.

“What are you…?” Of course he recognized you. You could see Tsuna’s hyper intuition working itself trying to rationalize the situation. “There’s blood on your f-face.“

You stuttered, your mind going into overdrive trying to think of some bullshit way out. Can you use the prank excuse again? No you already used that too many times. Maybe the whole dream thing? Like that’ll work. Shit.

Meanwhile, Tsuna was equally uncomfortable abut the situation as you were. Does this explain your tendency to stay in the shade? He just thought you get hot easily underneath all that clothes. Your preference for late night dates? He’s never dated before so he followed your lead. Wearing sunglasses indoors and circle lens all the time? He just thought you were manly and cool the bodyguards you see in anime. Your inhumane strength? The mafia warped his brain on what was considered and accepted as “normal” - he forgot that normal everyday citizens couldn’t just jump twenty feet in the air. No wonder you ate so little, skipped physical ed. all together and still looked like a fucking model.

“Tsuna…?“ you say, unsure.

He snaps out of his thoughts, straightening up. “Y-Yes?“

You wipe your mouth and throat trying to appear non-threatening as possible - though it made it worse as your clothes were smeared with blood. “I’m not going to hurt anyone.“ His eyes gravitates over the body discarded next to you. “He’s not dead, I swear! A-And I swear I didn’t bring someone from their homes or something!” You could feel your cold, undead body getting colder. “He was out in one of those red light districts drunk off his ass harassing some girls so I stepped in and got him here and I did something that was necessary for me I didn’t beat him up or anything he was just so drunk that when he tried to hit me I dodged and the momentum flew him straight into those crates outside and I brought his unconscious body inside-“

You rambled on, Tsuna’s nerves calming down as he saw the unconscious man’s chest moving and your regular self back in you. Of course you wouldn’t kill someone! Even covered in blood you were still the same cute and slightly awkward mess he fell in love with.

But that still didn’t explain the blood.

“-and well… Oh… that…“ He said that out loud, didn’t he? “I’m. Err…“

Tsuna could hear his heart pounding but his intuition told him to trust you - or at least hear you out. “Please tell me the truth. I know you. You wouldn’t do something like this out of pleasure or sport. So please, tell me the truth.“

You closed your eyes. Could you trust him? No, you could. This was Tsuna, the most kindest humans you’ve ever met. He wasn’t like the others. Like them. “…please promise me you won’t run or attack me or scream or try to kill me. At least not without hearing me out.”

His eyes widened bigger than saucers. Just what were you hiding to say those things? Just what did you go through to say those things? “I promise.“

You took one more breath before confessing, “I’m a vampire.”

Byakuran

When Byakuran was faced with problems, he would consult his parallel selves. But you were the one person he couldn’t extract any information from for various reasons. It gave him a bit of anxiety that the relationship may not work but you proved him wrong on several occasions. That is until the rumours started. Byakuran, surrounded by weird people and being one himself, didn’t notice all your suspicious actions. Well, he did notice but he didn’t particularly care. You weren’t betraying him or attracting unwanted attention so he let you do your thing. It honestly shouldn’t have bothered him, rumours were mostly consisted of false pretenses after all, but what irked him was you. You denied the rummours but gave him some bullshit excuse to as why you left in the middle of the night with a pair of clothes and some needles.

(When Byakuran pointed that out, you could only reply with, “No, I’m not a drug addict calm down. It’s just for a friend’s experiment I’m helping with. We’re testing on honeypot ants and how food colouring changes the honey in their abdomen.”)

So naturally, he followed you out of curiosity. Though his previous selves might have been prone to jealousy, his present self rarely felt envious. He had no reason to be because once you were in a relationship with him, like it or not, you were his. So any other men, or dare he say women, who tried to seduce you were like trying to fight a toddler - not even worth it and so easily... discouraged given the right circumstances.

During another one of your “science experiments” he had followed you to an abandoned house in the middle of scenic nowhere. He was instantly intrigued. There was no way you would try to fuck an unconscious person in a dinky little shack when there were hundreds of love hotels located around you - no matter how paranoid someone was. So either you were a hitman or an unregistered scientist. Either way, he wanted to know what you were doing.

Okay, that wasn’t what he expected.

What he expected was you being from another famiglia or a freelance hitman disposing of a body or something. Not laying them down, checking their vitals, then drawing some blood, testing for negatives, then drinking it. You didn’t even for for their jugular, you just extracted their blood, placed it in a glass, then tended to the bleeding man before sitting down on a nearby couch and drinking it while scrolling through your phone. Well, no one can’t say you weren’t classy.

Byakuran left without another word after confirming all he needed to. “A vampire, perhaps a dhampir, hmmm?” Byakuran hummed happily, “I heard the wendigo were also blood suckers and even in some myths shape-shifters. Considering his human appearance vampire has the highest possibility.” He chuckled, calling Kikyo to cancel all his appointments for the week. “Well, I guess some punishments are in order for that naughty lover of mine.”

It was one thing to hide something, but to hide it from him? Good luck, friend.

Enma

Enma wasn’t exactly the picture-perfect boyfriend or friend in general so when he heard of your “nightly escapades” his reaction shifted back and forth from defeated acceptance to burning white fury (10% himself, 30% you, 60% this “mystery man/woman”). Though his unstable emotions were nothing compared to the absolute rage his family felt.

He didn’t even want to confront you about it - maybe if he lived in ignorance, it’ll all just go away? You were still nice to him at school and everything so maybe the rumours were baseless and from the mill. But it was late one night where he was off feeding one of the stray cats under the bridge he spotted you crossing it… with your arms over some busty woman. Laughing. Joking. Smiling.

His heart shattered into million pieces.

He felt as if every one of his heart strings snapped, and someone set his blood ablaze. His throat was dry, his eyes glossy, and it wasn’t until the warmth of the kitten he was feeding rubbing against him that he snapped out of it. He laughed humourlessly, stroking its chin mechanically. Of course. He should’ve excepted it. You were strong, smart, funny, handsome; comparing him to you was unfair. He left the scene knowing his rage taking over wouldn’t solve anything. It’s wouldn’t take the pain away. It wouldn’t.

Because he still loved you.

The moment he stepped into the house, his family (especially Adelheid) noticed his depressed mood. They tried to cheer him up without bring the situation up knowing it had something to do it you. Enma, ever the introvert, was rarely depressed (shy and anxious maybe but depressed? Never.) so the only person who could’ve made him like this was you. Days passed and the Shimon refused nay and all contact between you and Enma. 

You were confused. Why was the Shimon acting like this? Why was Enma avoiding you? Did you do something wrong? Was something going on? With no answers and no one else to turn to, your turned towards the night. You didn’t want to, but at times like this, it felt just like that incident.

(You needed a distraction and what better way for a filthy monster like yourself to do what you do best?)

It was about a week later when Enma saw you again. He was under the bridge feeding the local strays when he heard you talking to someone. Peeking out through the shadow of the bridge, he saw you carrying an unconscious man into a forest? Honestly he could care less what you were doing but he needed confirmation. He had to see you in the act with his own two eyes so he could extinguish any love he still had left for you. So he did.

What he expected was some kinky outdoor voyeur shit. The last thing he would ever think in his mind was you walking into an abandoned building, setting the man down over a small make-shift bed made of wooden boxes and tarps, leaning over his sleeping body, and biting his neck.

Enma just stared in morbid awe and fear as your sharp fangs dug into his flesh, your tongue lapping up the blood like sweet honey. You weren’t exactly the epitome of perfection in this scene but you still managed to look beautiful even with that blood painting your face and staining your shirt. He couldn’t look away. On one hand, he was relieved you weren’t cheating on him so the dread in his heart was gone. But on the other hand, seeing you like this? A completely new dread filled his heart.

You were in the middle of a feeding frenzy. You could smell the sweet nectar of succulent humans every step you took and your primitive desires tempted you to act upon those urges. But you didn’t - at least not in the way you attacked every human you saw. You hunted and targeted drunk humans, people who were alone intoxicated. It wasn’t the most ethical thing to do but for someone like  yourself, what could you do? You practically lived in the red light district these days. Enma was your boyfriend and though Tsuna and the others were great, you couldn’t feel the same connection as you did with Enma. But that didn’t matter now, did it? It all started this way. First they would distance themselves from you then they would never return. He was just like them. The same thing happened now as it did last time.

The guilt of feeding masked the pain of loneliness well.

Just stopped right before the man’s blood smelled thin, the pain hitting you harder as the taste of blood left your mouth. Thankfully you smelled another human nearby. This one smelled good, familiar, reminiscent. You wondered how long this one would last.

Enma saw your head detaching from the man’s neck, the man still breathing. He stared at you, the light of the moon lining your form in a pale ethereal glow. Your eyes were crimson - like fresh blood dripping into a rose. Enma would be lying if he didn’t find you incredibly attractive despite the blood (to be fair he’s seen much worse for less).

You just stood there, your desperate tongue savouring every last drop like a parched man deprived of his basic needs given a glass of water. Then you just stopped, twitching. And before Enma could even question you odd behaviour, his vision blurred and his body met the ground.

Enma groaned, opening his eyes to see your panting face. Your eyes were glazed, hands covering his mouth, fangs ready for the incision. He tried to push you off, but your other hand kept his arms in check. Kicking you off was no good as your blood-fueled body was vastly stronger than his noodle limbs. In one last desperate attempt, he called out your name.

It worked.

“E-Enma…?“ you said in disbelief. “What are you-?“ No… Where you about to hurt your own boyfriend!? No. No. No! You sprung away from him like he was scalding water. You hugged yourself, unsure if the action was to protect yourself or protecting him. You knew you were a monster but this? This was too much. All you wanted was to forget, not hurt!

Enma saw your claws dig into your skin, hyperventilating. In the midst of your meltdown, he walked over to you slowly, giving you enough space so you wouldn’t feel threatened but close enough to thwart your escape. He called out your name several times, using the softest voice he could muster, as if he was talking to one of his kittens. "Don’t hurt yourself, I know it was an accident. I’m not hurt. Don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you and I won’t run. Can I come closer? Please? I’m walking over there slowly, okay? I promise I won’t do anything you don’t like. And you can tell me to stop if you feel uncomfortable.” He came closer, and for some reason you listened. “See? I’m here now. Not a single scratch on me - well, besides from the usual anyways - but nothing from you. I’m going to get a little closer, okay? Are you cold? Do you want my jacket? It’s not much but it’s better than nothing. No, actually it’s great because you stitched it up for me remember? It has your gentle handiwork on it.”

Before you knew what happened, Enma’s arms were around you, his warmth encompassing your cold, undead body, and thought your mind told you to leave - to run - your body melted into his embrace.

[httpsung]

Ghoul

pairing: reader x taehyung genre: tokyo ghoul au, angst word count: 3,341 note: inspired by one of my favorite manga’s tokyo ghoul

GHOUL  /ɡo͞ol/ noun

1. A carnivorous and cannibalistic species that are only able to feed on humans and other ghouls, they normally have the same physical appearance and intelligence as a human except for diet.

A rangy male traipsed through puddles of murky liquid mildly lit by the city’s lights; he wore drab apparel which made it easy to blend into the darkness of the misty evening leftover from heavy rainfall. The lower half of his face lay hidden behind the wool fabric of a thick scarf, lackluster eyes on alert for anyone who could possibly threaten his entire being.

Anything could happen in the dreary town he lived in, danger usually lurked from every crevice, every corner; from male, female and children alike, especially since he was categorized as a danger to others, though deep down he wished he wasn’t.

Taehyung inhaled sharply, his feet coming to a halt once he got a whiff of something fresh in the air. The smell of wet earth and raw iron filled his nostrils to the brim along with the intoxicating scent of lavender. He swallowed hard; his heart palpitating, stomach emitting rumbling sounds only he could hear. He adjusted his scarf, sliding it under his mouth, his canine teeth aching to dig into something soft and supple.  His nose led him to the delicious aroma of a body sprawled across an alley floor, limbs separated from the corpse and half gorged, intestines shaded in all hues of red splattered against the wall as if it were a display of fine art. His dark irises rummaged over the deceased, noting it was a rather young woman and from what was left of her face he could tell she was beautiful, his eyes meeting hers, a lifeless pale green.  

He crouched down in the pool of crimson under his feet, his tongue slithering over his bottom lip, once then twice. His left eye twitched at the discomfort now settled in his stomach, his desire to feed on the young woman’s remains was strong but he couldn’t allow himself to devour the rest of her flesh, no matter how much it physically pained him.

The male shook his head as if he were trying to rid something from clawing at his mind, eyes squeezing shut in attempt to shake off his hunger as he had done many times before. Taehyung needed to get away from the scene before he lost all control; the nerves around his left eye pulsated rapidly, threatening to reveal the true evil that it was a tincture of obsidian and rogue. He stood hastily and wandered away from the disturbingly appetizing scene, fingers digging into the side of his head, tugging at the stands of brown and green hair at the sudden pain throbbing underneath his skull. It had been happening for the last month; the longer he went without consuming human meat at the refusal to kill the innocent, the weaker he got resulting in excruciating pain from trying to deny his true nature.

A crack of thunder echoing through the heavens had Taehyung searching with slow wobbly steps for shelter from the upcoming downpour.  With one hand dragging aimlessly across the brick wall of a building, he tried to keep his balance, knees weakening until he had no choice but to slump onto the concrete. Rain began to fall, pedestrians passing by the helpless figure, avoiding all eye contact with the boy that bit back his urge to lunge and feast on them all. Every person smelled delightful, his conscious screaming at him to eat, meat, meat & more meat. He tucked his legs against his chest, hands over his ears as if to silence the shrill voice that nagged him. Taehyung closed his eyes giving into fatigue, low murmurs of “You’re in control its okay, you’re in control” slipping out in hesitant breaths. He slumped forward resting his forehead to his knees, the ache of indescribable hunger coursing through every muscle, every bone, until everything went black.

Icky and sticky, those were the words that described how unpleasant you felt as you plodded through endless puddles of water flooding over the sidewalks. You cursed under your breath at your own stupidity for leaving the house in your favorite pair of boots instead of the dirty rain boots which were better suited for the horrible weather. The way the wet clothes clung to your body was uncomfortable, a huff of annoyance escaping through gritted teeth; you couldn’t wait to be rid of them. The umbrella you held in your hand wasn’t enough to protect you from the heavy downpour and you were sure your groceries were ruined by all the water seeping into the plastic bags.

Peering through the thick droplets of rain up ahead, you noticed a dark silhouette of a person sitting near your doorstep. It was a person, right? You couldn’t remember if you sat the garbage out before you left home or not.  As you approached your home your pace slowed, realizing it was a guy resting near your doorstep, his face hidden and his body drenched from the never-ending rain. “Hey…” you called out to the male. Is he sleeping? There’s no way. You cleared your throat when there was no response, your eyes darting from left to right at the few people passing by, debating if you should ask for help. You rolled the soft flesh of your lower lip under your teeth before releasing a deep sigh.

One step toward the guy resulted in no movement. You placed your soggy bags down on the ground, reaching out hesitantly for the stranger who was bound to be sick as a dog later if he didn’t get going. You nudged his shoulder a couple of times and still there was no movement, not even a sound. Your brows creased out of concern and you decided to take a braver approach, tilting his head back to reveal a rather handsome face flushed red from fever. “Shit.” You cursed, stepping back from the unconscious male, moving quickly to grab your groceries and unlock your front door. You threw your bags and umbrella aside hurrying back to the boy, eyes searching around for a helping hand.

There was no one on the streets now; leaving you alone with the boy you were determined to get inside. You cracked your knuckles reaching for the stranger again, pulling him toward you, his body slumping forward. “Come on big guy… we gotta get you indoors…”

He was heavy and it was a struggle but you managed to get the soaking male as far as your living room floor, the thought of moving him to the couch nonexistent. “What a work out…” You stood over him admiring his features, your hands resting firmly against your hips. “Let’s get you better.”

Soft hums, the sweet fragrance of honey and cinnamon had his lashes parting, irises adjusting to the unfamiliar room shrouded in bright light. A soft graze of fingertips across his forehead triggered his fight or flight response, his body moving instantaneously to retreat from the gentle touch. “Calm down pretty boy.” She stood with her arms crossed over her chest, gazing at him with curiosity. “I knew it.”  Her tone kept him on edge, fingers tucking into his palm as he waited to see what she was going to do next.

“You’re a ghoul, aren’t you?” She raised her brow and he averted his gaze, swallowing back the lump in his throat, his mind racing with several thoughts, the one at the forefront of his mind was if she would taste as good as she smelled, her flesh giving off a nectarous aroma that had his stomach grumbling something fierce. The next thought was what would he do to her now that she knew he was a carnivore meant to feed off her kind, did he have the guts to kill her right where she stood just to protect himself? No, he didn’t, he couldn’t do such a thing.

Before Taehyung could part his lips to speak, the girl spoke again. “You don’t have to answer; I know it for a fact… I’m not afraid of your kind like everyone else.” His eyes met hers, her features soft and un-threatening, every tense muscle in his body starting to relax.  “All humans are afraid of us.”  He wanted to believe that she truly wasn’t afraid him, there had been plenty of false claims of ghoul friendly people, but in the end, they would rat them out to hunters once they felt the least bit threatened by their so called “predator friend.”

She chuckled and shook her head as if he’d said something absurd, her index finger pointing in the direction of a set of clothes resting on the couch, neatly folded. “They’re dry.” Taehyung glanced down at his body now realizing an unknown pair of briefs covered his waist, the rest of his figure completely exposed. The girl turned away from him with a Cheshire smile, throwing up her hand and waving it dismissively. “Don’t freak, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. And for a ghoul it’s no different than a human.” Heat flushed over him at the comment, his olive cheeks tingeing pink.  Taehyung grabbed his clothes hurriedly while her back was turned to him, slipping them on easily before making his way to her front door.

“Hey where are you going?” He could hear small steps behind him, his head turning slightly to look over his shoulder. “Thanks for taking me in… but I have to go, it’s not safe for you if I stay any longer.”  

“Because you haven’t eaten, right?” Taehyung pursed his lips deciding not to respond, leaning down to slip on his thick black boots. He could hear a sigh leaving her mouth and then she was speaking to him again. “Listen here, you’re not doing so well I can tell. Let me take you to a place where you don’t have to kill for a meal.” He straightened his posture, turning on his heels anxiously, his eyes weakening with defeat. Taehyung knew that if he kept up the act that he wasn’t absolutely starving, he would end up slipping into depravity unable to come back. He took a step back when she took a few steps forward, fearing the proximity. “Would you relax already— “She bit her tongue, eyebrows knitting together. “Taehyung��� My name is Kim Taehyung.” His tongue darted out to skim over his bottom lip, heart rate increasing as she persisted to move closer, her palm pressing against his forehead not giving him the opportunity to flinch. She moved her hand under his dark fringe checking his temperature, her warm breath grazing his skin. “Nice to meet you Taehyung, I’m Y/N.”

You were glad the ground was wet, the light splashing of water emitting from the ground as his boots met concrete reassured that he was still following behind you. Taehyung walked quietly, his eyes avoiding yours every time you would glance back at him, face burying deep into the comfort of his chunky scarf. It amazed you how timid he was, ghouls were a carnivorous species, dominate predators, but he was entirely different. You stopped suddenly, a small chuckle emitting from your throat when the male behind you bumped into your backside, spitting quick apologies. “It’s okay we’re here.” You reached back to grab hold of his arm, tugging him inside the heated establishment, a variety of aromas whisking past your nose.

“This is a safe place, a café meant to serve ghouls like you who refused to eat fresh.” You let go of Taehyung, swiveling around to find a table or booth meant for two. The place you brought him to fell under the radar to most; it held the ruse of a normal little restaurant which any average person wouldn’t expect a ghoul to indulge in, though in reality it was a haven just for ghouls alone, human meat turned into well disguised meals usually from the already deceased.

Your eyes located the perfect spot in the corner of the joint, feet moving quickly to claim it before any other could. Taehyung followed, sitting down hesitantly in front of you, his eyes glaring into yours, so many questions hidden behind them. Who were you really? How did you know about this place? Why were you helping him? You answered every query with ease, amused by the way he gawked while he waited for a meal you ordered for him prior to responding. You briefly spilled your heart, letting him know you were saved by a ghoul once, older and more mature but his nature unlike anything else.

Taehyung resembled that very essence and though that ghoul had been long gone from your life, you see a lot of him in the boy seated across from you. The two of them were the same, fighting to be good and on the verge of destroying themselves instead of harming others, a rare deformity that altered their DNA. Helping Taehyung would be like repaying a debt, an act of kindness that would give you a piece of mind.

From that night forward you cared for him, taking the once vagabond boy into your home, helping to further conceal his real identity from the rest of the world, providing him with a bit of normality.

With you around Taehyung wouldn’t be suspected as nothing other than a man who lived with his roommate or possible lover, he wouldn’t have to fear the dark streets any longer, able to go and return to a warm place where he was able lay his head. You broke down every protective wall the young ghoul had, learning his likes and dislikes, his interests and aspirations. The only thing different from the two of you was what you ate to survive and you really wished that both your kinds could coexist peacefully, lack of hatred, lack of death.

DEATH, the ending of life, a term that began to loom over the neighborhood you lived in as consistent news reports flashed from every television station about half eaten bodies being left behind by a ravenous ghoul. Taehyung was usually by your side when you viewed the announcements, but the one night he didn’t make it in at his usual time had you worried, an urgent report about a ghoul nearly being captured triggered a state of panic.

You grabbed your wool coat and set out in search for your companion, your heart palpitating with anxiety that Taehyung might be the ghoul on the run. You searched everywhere, every alley even the ghoul café you had brought him to often. There was no sign of brown and green hair among the people you encountered, your chest tightening at the thought that he might have already been captured and killed. Just when you were about to give up, making your way back to your home you heard a brittle cry, a pleading for help and the sloshing of liquid. You careened toward the source of the noise stopping between two shabby buildings, the scene unfolding in front of you turning your stomach in all kinds of intolerable ways.

You could barely find your voice at the sight of him standing there, two bodies underneath his feet, his tongue slipping from his mouth to taste the coat of red dripping from his fingertips. Blood, he was covered in blood and the intense smell of it was making you sick. “Tae…” your voice came out small when you called his name, his body radiated something unusual besides the visible crimson tentacles piercing from his waist, his posture was more confident and you feared the sight of him. He angled his body in your direction; the sclera of his left eye clouded in black, his pupil an ominous red. This is what he was really like, what he really is.

“Kim Taehyung, you didn’t….” There was an obvious crack in your voice, your heart breaking. Taehyung stared at you quizzically, his eyes widening with every step he made toward you. The discoloration of his eye faded, the disturbing claret appendages slinking back into his body. “It wasn’t me I swear…” his tone wobbled as if he were about to breakdown.

He stopped in front of you the thumb from his bloodless hand smoothing over your cheek. “I promise I didn’t kill her.” His eyes begged for you to believe him and you wanted to, warm tears stinging your eyes. “Then who?” You asked voice stiffening as you looked at the two corpses displayed behind him. “One body belongs to a ghoul… the ghoul who had been on the news reports. I caught him feeding on another victim… and I stopped him. This blood is his… I swear.” The explanation he choked out was believable, you could tell Taehyung was very much frightened himself; you realized some of his clothing was tattered as if he’d been fighting someone off.  He was innocent; you were going to trust him as you always did.

The sudden howl of police sirens urged you two to escape to your home, Taehyung putting his un-human like speed to good use as you escaped the crime hastily in his arms.

The night ended with a relieving news report, the half eating ghoul as they labeled the foul perpetrator, had been found dead and you were proud to know that it was Taehyung who done it. You sat on the plush carpet of your dimly lit bedroom floor, Taehyung resting against the wall. He looked exhausted, famished; it had been a while since he ate last, pushing two weeks to be exact. You knew that ghouls could survive for some time without eating a thing but you worried about the boy losing himself if he didn’t.

 “Taehyung…” You gave him a faint smile as you rubbed a white towel gently through his hair, drying it from the shower he just had. “Hm..?” His thick voiced hummed as he answered you. “You should eat.” You chewed on the skin of your bottom lip, his refusal already expected. “No not yet. I’m fine with coffee for now.” He tilted his head back until it thudded against the wall, his eyes closing as he let out a deep sigh. Coffee was just a temporary substitute for ghouls, the only human thing they’re able to consume without vomiting.

You huffed in frustration at the male’s stubbornness, muttering. “Forget the damn coffee…”  Your hands grazed over the smooth skin of his bare shoulders, your body slipping into his lap.

Taehyung’s eyes fluttered open immediately to meet yours. “What are you doing…Y/N?” You could hear his voice tighten in his throat, and you knew his heart was pounding exceedingly fast against his chest. His body temperature rose, tongue gliding across his lower lip. “What do I smell like?” You asked curiously, leaning in to brush your nose against his. Taehyung swallowed hard, “Honey and cinnamon…” was his response, an interesting combination of sweets. “You removed a hand from his shoulder, tugging down one sleeve of your night shirt. “Listen… you have to eat, when you don’t I worry okay?” The tone of your voice held a bit of frailty, you had come to care about this guy too much you couldn’t deny it. He shook his head and you stopped him, running your fingers through his silky strands of hair. “Please just a bite, I want to do this for you, you won’t kill me Kim Taehyung I know it.” You gave him a reassuring smile, his eyes fighting back tears.

Taehyung wanted this, he wanted to taste you badly, the desire to have a tiny bit of your skin grinding between his teeth had been stronger than ever, the more time you spent together.

His left eye began to change, revealing the familiar colors of obsidian and rogue and you braced yourself for what was to come. Taehyung pulled your body closer to him, taking in your delicious scent, mouth brushing against yours to whisper an apology as he rubbed soothing circles into your backside. “I’m sorry…” With those words, he lunged at your shoulder, his front teeth sinking into your flesh, grazing veins and muscle. You whimpered underneath his strong grasp, the pain almost unbearable and pleasurable at the same time, white light spotting your vision before your lids drifted close.

You felt your body weaken, the sound of your skin ripping and your blood slurping had become a melodious lullaby that guided you slowly into oblivion

[takeenata]

Those Folk

( By request of @kryptonitic, reuploading an old story about a group of Doppelgangers.)

Walked into Demetri’s restaurant the other day. He owns this classy diner called the Chez Tzaz, one of those places that need a reservation planned days prior; portions are smaller than a sardine can but cost like they’re made of gold; it’s considered rude to not be wearing your finest suits and ties. I personally don’t give much thought on suits and ties; most of my suits don’t fit since I last wore them, and I think the only time I wore something formal was to my wedding and to a friend’s funeral.

So naturally I walk into this high class establishment in my cargos, boots, red flannel, and leather jacket. In my hands was a copy of a newspaper, and a caramel latte for Demetri if he had so happened to be here this morning. But he wasn’t, so I guess the latte was just gonna go to whoever wanted it now; I can’t drink coffee, leaves a bad taste in my mouth. So when I noticed that Demetri wasn’t here, I started to head out the door. I was then halted by the hollering of someone with an almost heinous french accent.

“Hey lumberjack!” This voice shouted across the diner, drawing the attention of everyone in the diner. At first I thought it was Deme bringing out his inner heritage, letting loose and fully accepting his french self. I laughed, a friend making a joke at my looks is nothing but funny to me. I turned around, seeing he wasn’t there. All eyes were drawn to the back corner of the diner, where a group of fancy schmucks were sitting.

So I just grunt and head back for the door, but the same voice calls for me again. “Where you going beardo?” Twice now he had attempted to insult me. Had it been Deme, I wouldn’t have cared since he’s my pal. But I didn’t even know this joker. Twice was more than enough to send me over to this table to confront him. Good lord was I surprised with what I had seen.

The prick was blonde. He wore some fancy looking shades that tried to hide his eye color, but I had a good guess they were a shade of blue. The frenchman had a crisp and clean white collared shirt with his sleeves neatly rolled up, not some chopped-up-jumbled “made-in-a-minute” rolled sleeves, fitted with a tie and gold clasp. He also wore a belt and suspenders, which confused me why when you only needed either or. He looked exactly like Demetri, but a human. I’m confused as all Hell when I seen it.

I tried to say something that wasn’t going to be taken rude, it went in the lines of “You called me over?” Odds are it came out as “What’re you wanting?”

Regardless of what I had said, he still said something. “You know this is a regal restaurant,” he said with a smug look on his face, drinking some fancy bullshit from a tiny glass cup.

I scanned him over. I missed that he was wearing a watch with a gold frame around it, odds are some high-class brand that I had no clue existed, or could even say the name right. I made eye contact with him, and with an angry glare I said “What’s it to you?”

“Don’t understand? I figured as much.” He would laugh, and so would his little group of hellions with him. “This is a fancy place. Everyone is wearing their expensive clothes and enjoy everyone else’s expensive clothes. You come in here looking like that and it throws off the vibe and ruins everyone’s time.”

“I don’t see how being in here for more than a few seconds makes everyone uncomfortable. I’m just lookin’ for-”

I started to lose my mind when he cut me off by raising his hand, like he was in charge of the whole world or something. “See here, Mister Lumberjack. You come in here, and you look like you're wearing clothes that a bum donated to like a lesser-tier Goodwill for even worse-off homeless people.“ There’s no chance he just made that up on the spot. “And what’s that, a newspaper? You know phones exist; are you stuck in the 90’s?”

“Now hold on a second.”

“Oh! Mr knife ears needs a second to think of something to say?” That was all it took for me to say fuck this place and leave. I wasn’t about to start a fight with a bunch of random people, let alone random strangers in Demetri’s restaurant. He’d probably try to make me pay for any at all damages done to the place, and believe me if there was a fight here there would’ve been damages to everything. Namely the pricks.

…

Trying to tell my friends what happened the other day. They all think I’m overreacting to basic schoolyard bullying. Demetri was more upset with the fact that I wore flannel into his establishment, instead of a suit. Him and that guy that looked like him, it’s weirder than hell to think that there’s now a successful doppelganger running about with Demetri’s look. It’s weird to think that there’s an entire group of people that have successfully managed to pull off the looks of a few friends of mine, and myself. And yes, from the group of six each one looked like some alternate reality versions of us.

There was one that looked like my good friend Archer with his pale skin and dyed blue hair, even had a lot of piercings dangling from his ears. Another male was taller than the rest of his group, had a thick beard that connected to a mane of curly hair, and oddly enough he was wearing plaid inside the diner when I first went in there. Why is it acceptable to wear plaid but not flannel in that place? Fuck that guy.

There was a mighty minotaur there. He had red fur, big black horns on the sides of his head, all the works of a beast. Though down his face was a navy blue colored paint that went to his arms, like he was apart of the Braveheart cast. To add stranger parts to him, he wore a pair of goggles on his forehead. I could tell that he was this group’s version of Baku, the youngest friend of mine that enjoys telling puns that make me rethink why I’m friends with him.

There were a few gals there too. One that was a reasonable height with some sort of violet shade dyed into her hair, her eyes were brown, and she was sitting rather close and tight to the blonde guy that was insulting me. It was safe to say that was the Oola of this clusterfuck. Another one of the ladies was shorter than the rest of the bunch, her hair was kind of like a light blue, damn near snow white colored. She was loaded with rings around her fingers and on her ears, and I’ll be damned if these rings weren’t made of silver and sapphires. There was also a woman with long brown hair, green eyes, and the way she glared at me with death in her eyes has kind of stayed with me.

I’m going to try to talk to Demetri about seeing these people in person. I went to my bar last night to unwind from all that but guess who was there?

Them.

…

That went as well as you’d expect.

Managed to convince both Demetri and Oola to join me in meeting the group of comedians that hung around the Chez Tzaz. Had to put on some sort of formal attire, which irked me. As said, a lot of my old formal wear don’t fit around my arms and chest as much as they used to, since I’ve gotten bigger since I last wore them. Thankfully, Demetri said it was acceptable to wear a turtleneck to a formal restaurant like this.

Demetri wore his usual outfit. No shirt, but suspenders and a tie nonetheless. Of course he would’ve worn his sunglasses inside, after all they’re designer and “meant to be worn and shared with the world,” right? Oola wore a nice yellow dress that really brought out her golden eyes; I always counted on Oola to make up for the lack of shirts that Deme gave. But I guess he can wear whatever the hell he wants in his own place.

We three entered the building. Almost instantly Demetri and Oola were asking me where they were the last time I seen them. All I had to do was look for another guy wearing sunglasses indoors. Sure enough; I gazed into the back right corner and spotted the seven. I wanted to start calling them the seven sins, but to be frank none of them represented anything sinful. Yet.

We stood in front of the group. I was recollecting on what had happened the day prior to really say anything that wouldn’t come off as rude, so Demetri took the floor. "Heeeey guys. Hope you're enjoyin' the food. I'm Deme, by the way- the Maître D'emon 'round here. Quick question- I heard you were giving my buddy a rough time yesterday?"

I had expected an answer that would’ve thrown Demetri over his limit. Instead, this dickhead responded with “Oh Hello! Fine domicile you’ve thrown together Monsieur Marquette. But yes, I am afraid I did give your friend a hard time yesterday morning, but it was all in good fun really! Not everyday you see an elf, right?”

"True. Tak is..." Demetri ran his eyes over me again. "Something. But you'll get enough of him the first time someone vaguely mentions "working out."" The two frenchmen would share a laugh at that, as well as Oola, and the group of humans, plus a minotaur. Fuck me.

"Alright, quit teasing poor Tak and let's get to ordering,” Oola said, trying to calm down her laughter. Yeah she always did join in on teasing me for being old and weird looking sometimes, but she was always the first to stop and say sorry. So everyone halts their laughter and gets their menus out.

Everyone ordered something unique, namely involving some kind of meat and sauce. I didn’t want to spend about thirty-bucks on a steak when I can go home and roast a fat piece of meat for free, and even feed my family in the process. But what bothered the shit out of me was my doppelganger that wore plaid ordered from the vegan menu…

I’ve nothing against vegans. But like I said, it bothered the shit out of me when he ordered from the vegan menu, only because this guy looks like me, talks like me, almost dresses like I do- but chooses from the vegan menu. I’m not afraid to admit I’m ignorant about the vegan culture, but buddy how did you get tree-trunk-arms when you’re eating salads all damn day?

So for next hour or so they’re all joking and having a good time. I’m only listening to bits and pieces of the conversation, sitting there watching everyone with my arms crossed. I was absolutely furious that I was being showed that I was wrong, and I was slowly starting to think my friends were right. Maybe I was just overreacting to all of this. Maybe I was getting old, even for an elf.

I had learned their names by now. There was Dominici; Demetri. Ulla; Oola. Dona; Donaugh. Anthony; Archer. Leo the Minotaur; Baku. Linda; Sek, which didn’t make much sense to me but whatever. Then there was mine; Timothy.

I had looked up after a blank moment and noticed that Oola wasn’t with us anymore; her seat was empty but the purse she brought with her was still in her seat. So I lean over to Deme and ask “Where’d Oola go?”

“Oh she went to-”

Deme would’ve been cut off immediately by the salad eater.. “Off to go burn a village down probably.”

“Excuse me, what?” Though I couldn’t really see past his black tinted sunglasses, I could at least see the sudden rise of his brows in question.

I was surprised too. I narrow my vision at Timothy, eyes scolding him before my mouth could. “The hell do you mean by that?”

“What, she’s a dragon.”

I’d stand up and slam my hands down on the table, shaking everyone’s plates and cups. I didn’t care if it caused a scene, I’d scream at this boy. “That don’t mean shit!”

Deme soon stood up too, putting a hand on my shoulder in his attempt to calm me down. “Tak chill, you know this can be considered harassment?”

The other frenchman would shout an audible laugh at us both from the other side of a white coffee mug. “You’re harassing our eyes with this catastrophe you call your tenue.” I was stunted a little bit. I know he was speaking french but I had no honest idea what the hell he was saying. Demetri understood, and it wasn’t exactly well. I came to find out later that tenue meant outfit. “At least you tried though, but honestly. Wearing Hermès from last season? Try to catch up.”

Without a word, Demetri committed to a face full of anger and exploded. Exploded as in, combusted; returning home to Hell. Not exploded like yelling at these brats, which I would’ve loved to have seen more than anything. Oola soons returns from her stop in the bathroom, asks me where Deme was. I had told her Deme left to go back to the office odds were. Without further questioning she takes her purse and thanks myself and the group for their company for the night, then walks herself out the door. I told the group nothing, but gave them a strong finger before I left.

Hope Deme’s alright. I’ve never seen Deme up and leave like that before, maybe what these folk had said might’ve hurt him a little. I’ll talk to him when I get the chance. Looking back now I realize that Deme didn’t pay for his food or Oola’s food, probably leaving the bill to the gathering.

Ha! Yeah. Fuck those guys.