#like the whistling... the humming... the music box...

[hrtley]

prison toys hitting hard tonight

[traveler-at-heart]

Doctor's In - Holiday Special

Summary: You get ready for your first Christmas with the Maximoffs.

Wanda Maximoff x F!R

A/N: So we'll have a mini special consisting of three small chapters for the holidays. This is mainly because the tone for each one will be kind of different and I didn't know how to put it all in one long chapter. If I'm on schedule, part 2 will be posted next week and part 3 the week of Christmas.

Enjoy!

--

It looks like a group of Santa’s helpers vandalized the place.

You return from Thanksgiving break to find that the hospital halls are adorned with candy canes, wreaths and other typical Christmas ornaments.

“Good morning” you greet Darcy and Kamala as you join them in the break room.

“What’s good about swimming in Santa’s vomit?” Darcy mutters.

“For an elf, you’re very grumpy about this time of year”

“I’m not an elf!”

“That’s exactly what an elf that works for Santa would say” you tsk, showing her the cookies Wanda sent her. “She said you had to share with me”

You sit in silence, eating and looking at your phone until she speaks again.

“I have to go back home for the holidays, they think this year Nana will kick the bucket for real”

“RIP Nana” you whistle, knowing Darcy isn’t particularly fond of her conservative, holier than thou grandmother.

“Remember when she called you a demonic lesbian?”

“You know what? Not my worst Christmas”

Kamala, who up until this point was sitting in silence, chokes on her drink, looking horrified.

“What’s up with her?” Darcy asks.

“Kamala has a very nice, loving family” you say with a grave voice, as if it was a dark secret.

Darcy and you get paged at the same time, continuing the conversation down the hall.

“Though I’m not happy about going back home, I’m glad you have an actual place to spend the holidays this year” your friend says, and you smile.

From previous years, you remembered Wanda’s house going all out with Christmas decorations. She’d also knock on your door to leave an apple pie and wish you happy holidays.

“Yeah, I think the Maximoffs have a ton of traditions I need to catch up with”

“Does she know?” Darcy says, and you shake your head no.

“You know it’s the same for me. I don’t think it’s important at all” you shrug your shoulders.

“I think Wanda would like to know. Make it extra special for you” Darcy says and you know she’s right.

“I’ll think about it”

—

Turns out, Wanda was ready to decorate everything, but decided to wait until the weekend so you could help her and the kids.

And by help her, she meant have you carry the heaviest boxes.

“Is that all of it?” you say, going down the stairs with a box with lights.

“Yes, I think so” Wanda goes over everything you have unpacked already. Decorations for the porch, wreath, lights, the Santa Claus that goes in the chimney and the reindeer for the front lawn.

“I never realised how much stuff you put up each year” you comment, scratching the back of your neck. It’s a little overwhelming.

“Sweetheart, I used to do it by myself every year, I promise with your help it will be twice as fast”

“And can I get a reward for helping?” you say, pulling her against you. She smiles, holding on to your forearms as you kiss her cheek and down her neck.

“We have our letters ready!” the kids say, going down the steps.

“Well, let’s set up the tree so Santa has a place to put all your presents then” Wanda says.

There’s the usual Christmas music, and you hum along to all of the songs that you know by heart.

“Someone’s finally getting into the holiday spirit” Wanda comments with a smile.

“The music is catchy, that’s all”

But still, you enjoy decorating the tree, noticing how Wanda quietly goes over the section that Billy and Tommy are doing, fixing everything so it looks better.

“I say we did a good job” Wanda approves when it’s all done, hands on her hips. “We’re only missing the star”

“Y/N can do it this year!” Billy says and you grimace.

“Oh, it’s fine, I’m sure I’ll mess it up”

“I’ll help you” Tommy insists, and Wanda nudges you. Well, you can’t say no to that.

With a sigh, you step forward, letting Tommy guide you.

“Does that look ok?” you say, not knowing if that is how it’s supposed to look.

“Perfect” Wanda assures you, her hand on your back as you climb down the small ladder.

“Can we have hot cocoa now?”

“Yes, and then we’ll decorate the porch”

The kids talk excitedly over each other, discussing the gifts they asked Santa. You follow the conversation, knowing there’s a huge pile of presents hidden inside your closet as you started shopping for the twins a few weeks ago.

“What’s on your list, Y/N?”

“Oh, nothing really. I have everything I need” you smile at Tommy, and it’s true.

“But we need to get you a present! There’s gotta be something you want”

“I’ll think about it, I promise. Should I address my request to you or Mr. Claus?”

“Aren’t you too old to ask Santa for stuff?” Billy intervenes, making Wanda laugh.

“You know what, I kinda am” you say, smiling.

The conversation keeps going for a bit, until Wanda decides it’s time to get back to work.

This time, it’s you who climbs up and places all the lights and ornaments she wants. You’re going back and forth, Wanda constantly asking you to go “a little bit to the right… no, to the left. You know what, it was better the other way” until you’re covered in sweat, muscles aching from all the effort.

Still, once you’re done with everything it looks pretty damn impressive.

“So what movie are we watching tonight?”

“Let’s take a look at the list” Wanda says, hoping you actually wrote down some suggestions. “Nightmare before Christmas is not a holiday movie” she challenges you as soon as she reads it.

“It has Christmas in the title”

“And the word nightmare!”

“What’s it about?” Billy says and you gasp.

“You’ve never seen it?”

“No! Mama! We wanna watch it!” Tommy insists.

“Boys, I think it’s a bit scary… why don’t we watch… Ghostbusters?”

Wanda slaps your arm.

“What?”

“You are not taking Christmas movie night seriously!”

“I watch it every year, I swear!” you say, smiling when she rolls her eyes.

“We’re watching Nightmare before Christmas, but if the kids get scared, you are sleeping in their bedroom floor to keep the monsters away”

“Fine”

You take it as a small win when the boys actually enjoy the movie, and as they get ready for bed, they keep signing “this is halloween” over and over again.

“See? If it was a Christmas movie they would not be singing that” Wanda glares and you have to hold back a laugh.

“I’m sorry, I promise I won’t suggest any more movies for the next month” you kiss her temple, and she relaxes against you.

After taking a shower, you ease into bed and feel Wanda’s breathing even out, exhausted by the day you both had.

Still, you can’t fall asleep.

This has always been a complicated time of year for you. When you were a kid, it was your favorite holiday, mainly because your dad made sure it was extra special. And then he passed away and it just became another event in life that lost its magic. Your mother never really made an effort, at least with you.

It was only until you moved out that you found solace in the small things that reminded you of your dad. The lights, the snowy nights, the shorter days. It was all soft and gentle and it made you feel special again. The quiet life you found for yourself was all you needed to remember the better times.

Unable to sleep, you sneak out of bed and go down the stairs, turning on the tv and watching Ghostbusters, like you used to do with your father.

It’s halfway through the film that Wanda notices you’re gone, and she joins you, placing her head on your lap.

“What do you like to do for the holidays?” she asks, only realising now that she had been making you follow her family traditions.

“Watch Ghostbusters and eat junk food from a vending machine” you say, laughing when Wanda frowns.

“Why?”

“Because that’s what my parents did when I was born” you admit reluctantly.

“Your birthday is on Christmas Eve?”

“Yeap” you say with a smile.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Wanda sits up, hugging her knees.

“It’s no big deal”

“It is to me” she says, taking your hand, her thumb rubbing circles on your skin. “So, what did you do to celebrate before?”

“Same as Thanksgiving, really. Stayed at the hospital, though it is a bit more quiet than other holidays. Darcy would be there some years as well, and we’d just watch the movie and get any junk food we could find”

“And before that?”

“Well, my dad used to take me to pick out a tree and then we’d decorate it together. We’d also go sledding, drink hot cocoa… he told me he was going to teach me how to ice skate, but we never got around to do it”

“Was your mom not a part of it or…?”

Oh, your mother. You had almost forgotten about her and that ominous call. This is as good a time as any to share with Wanda more details about your life.

“So, when I spoke about them before I left out some stuff. My parents didn’t actually live together. My dad raised me on his own until he died and then I had to live with my mother… she was already married and pregnant with my half sister when I moved there”

“I see” Wanda nods, knowing it’s too hard to talk about all of it, even if you put up a brave face. “We’ll do anything you want. And you get to pick dinner and have two presents” she promises with a gentle voice, climbing into your lap.

“That’s not necessary” you laugh, hugging her tight. “You’re all I need, really. Plus, that apple pie you gave me each year was better than any birthday cake. You’ve been making my day special since we’ve known each other, Wanda”

“Still, I want you to have a perfect Christmas and birthday” she says with a determined look, and you know nothing will change her mind.

“Ok, my love”

— 

Second part of the Christmas plan was to get everything on the twins’ Christmas list.

“It’s three weeks for Christmas, aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves?”

“When it comes to twins, the sooner you do the shopping the better. Learned that the hard way when they had to share a Buzz Lightyear”

“I’m just saying, what if they change their minds about something on the list?”

“Excuse me, don’t you have a closet full of presents already?” Wanda mocks and you straighten up.

“How do you know that?”

“My house is right in front of yours, do you think I don’t see the delivery guy leaving stuff on your front door?”

“It’s not like I can sign up for them at the hospital. Plus, those are extra things, not from their list” you defend yourself, looking at the shelves full of toys.

“You are spoiling them”

“Wait until you see your present” you turn to wink at her.

“Is it in one of those boxes?”

“Oh, hell no. It’s more valuable than that” you say, examining the Nerf gun in front of you. “This was on the list, right?”

“Yes, two of everything, remember” Wanda says, looking for the Funko Pops they wanted. You add lightsabers, some remote control cars, and Pokemon figures.

Apparently, Pietro was taking care of the bikes and had promised to teach the kids how to ride during the winter break.

Once it was all settled, you struggled to pay before Wanda could reach for her purse.

“It’s not fair” she protests when you leave the store, taking your hand. “And you still won’t tell me what you want for Christmas and your birthday!”

“How about you, wearing nothing except for a little bow that I get to untie with my teeth?” you pull her against you, kissing the spot behind her ear. “Because that’s all I really want”

“I’d still like a list of other stuff” Wanda says, blushing at the image you just painted.

“Just bake an apple pie that I don’t have to share with anyone” you joke, putting away the bags in the trunk of Wanda’s car. “We should store these in my place, yes? Reduces the risk of the kids finding them”

“Sounds good. We have an hour or so before we have to pick up the kids. Want some hot cocoa?”

“Sure, lead the way” you agree, knowing one of her favorite cafeterias is close by. As you walk across the street, you find an ice rink in the middle of the square that is right in front of City Hall.

“You know… we could try” Wanda says as you walk past it, and you frown.

“Skating? Pass, babe”

“Why? It’s gonna be so much fun”

“I can’t even begin to tell you the amount of freak accidents that happen when you’re wearing a pair of blades in an icy surface”

“Ok, but can we focus on the fun for a second? I’ll be there with you, I’m great. You can hold my hand” she nudges your side, kissing your cheek softly. “Please, my love”

Wanda pouts and you have to roll your eyes. She always wins.

“Fine”

“Yay!”

You mumble incoherently the entire time you put on the skates, sighing when Wanda kneels and ties them up properly.

“What about protective gear?” you say, the girl in charge and Wanda sharing glances.

“What about it?” Wanda asks, trying to hold back a smile.

“What? No helmet? Knee caps? This is a safety hazard!”

“I can give you my elf hat” the girl says, not knowing how to proceed with a hysterical adult that refuses to go inside the rink.

“She’ll be fine” Wanda reaches for your hand. “Come on, sweetheart”

It feels like you’re learning how to walk, balancing on the skates and hoping you won’t fall on your ass.

“Relax” Wanda stands in front of you, smiling. You sigh, clearly unable to do that as people around you glide effortlessly. “Stand straight, knees slightly bent. Ok, feet in a V position, toes out and heels in” she nods, examining your stance. You feel like an idiot. “Ok, now just push to glide, alternating your feet”

“How do I decide which foot to move first?”

“What do you mean?”

“Left or right?”

“Whichever”

“That doesn’t make any sense” you insist, almost losing your balance. Wanda frowns, walking away from you and showing you how to do it. “Well, you make it look easy”

“Hold my hand” she says, skating backwards to pull you forward.

“Oh, God, I should have never agreed to do this” you complain, feeling stupid.

“Baby, relax. Close your eyes. Please” Wanda insists when you huff. With an eye roll, you relent, feeling her hands in yours. “Don’t think, just feel”

Wanda squeezes your hands, pulling you lightly and you take a tentative step forward. It’s not so bad, but you keep your eyes closed, brow furrowed as you focus on keeping your balance.

“I’m here” she reassures you, leaning forward and kissing you. It’s sweet, but definitely not so innocent as she opens her mouth and runs her tongue across your bottom lip. Without noticing, Wanda is dragging you along the ice rink, and you’re so focused on chasing after her lips that you fail to notice you’re finally skating.

“There we go” Wanda says, pulling away and skating backwards. The minute you stop feeling her hands in yours you open your eyes, terrified.

“Why did you let me go?” you shriek, stumbling around.

“You’re doing great”

Truthfully, you are not. Yes, you’re finally gliding along the surface, but your movements are uncoordinated and at one point, you push yourself too hard, going faster.

“How do you stop?” you say, crashing against Wanda. The speed takes her by surprise, and you’re on your way to hitting the edge of the rink. You turn her around in your arms so your back collides against the railing, the blow leaving you out of breath for a moment.

“You ok?” Wanda asks, arms around your waist.

“Fine” in spite of yourself, you laugh.

“Wanna try again?” Wanda says, her hands going up to your cheeks. You kiss her palm, nodding.

“Just don’t let go of me, please?”

“Never” she promises, pulling you back to the rink.

—

The kids are restless as you drive back home, almost as if they can tell you’ve been out shopping for gifts.

“Alright, settle down, you two” Wanda asks as soon as you walk inside.

“I’m walking Sparky now, just in case there’s an actual storm later today” you say, doubting the forecast can be accurate. It’s way too soon for snow.

Still, you put on a jacket and make sure Sparky is wearing the Christmas sweater Wanda got him this morning. For someone who didn’t want a dog, she sure as hell spoils him.

When you’re a few blocks away from home, you look back and dial a number.

“Hello?”

“Jenny. Hi. It’s Y/N”

There’s an awkward pause, and you’re not even sure if your half sister remembers you at all. Last time you saw her she was eight or nine.

“Yeah, hey. How are you? Give me just a second…” you hear a door closing, the outside noise muffled. “What’s up? Are you coming over for the holidays?”

You’re surprised to hear excitement in her voice. No one really cared if you did before.

“Uh, no. I got work” you lie. “I was actually calling you because your mom left me a voicemail the other day. Said you’re considering going to college close to where I live. So, just wanted to check if you know when you’ll be visiting”

It was the only way you could think of to get more information without having to call your mother.

“Gosh, I’m so sorry she bothered you with this”

“It’s no bother” you lie again. Half lie. If it was only Jenny coming you could handle it. The issue was always your mother.

“I think it’s gonna be after New Years but before school starts. Definitely not before Christmas” she says and you sigh with relief. You can at least enjoy the holidays without having to look over your shoulder. “I’ll text you when I know more. I-If it’s not too much trouble, I know you’re super busy”

“Yeah, no, that’s fine. Text me if you need anything. Take care and happy holidays, kid”

You hang up, feeling strange. It’s a relief, to know you didn’t have to worry about this in the immediate future.

But you also think about your siblings. About the family you could have had if things were different. What would have been like if you had pushed against your mother’s bitterness? Been yourself and an older sister for them instead of hiding and leaving as soon as you could.

Was she a better mother to them than she was to you? Or did they have their share of issues with her?

You come back home, deep in thought so you miss the kids and Wanda hanging stockings in the stairs.

“You’re just in time, come over” your girlfriend says, surprising you with one that has your name.

“This is for me?” you say with a smile, amazed. You hadn’t had one since your last Christmas with your father.

“Well, of course” Wanda says, pointing at the spot next to hers. “Put it there”

Before you do as she says, you pick her up and kiss her.

“I love you” you say, trying really hard not to cry.

“I love you too”

“Can we watch a movie now or are you two gonna take forever?” Tommy says, making you both gasp.

“Where is all this sass coming from?” you say.

“We want popcorn!” Billy asks and you roll your eyes.

“Fine. I’ll get the popcorn, you get the movie” you put Wanda down, kissing her cheek.

As it turns out, the film for today is a personal attack on you.

“You frown like the Grinch!” Tommy says, laughing.

“And look, Sparky is sitting next to you, just like Max”

At Billy’s words, Sparky and you turn to look at each other, the dog looking embarrassed at the comparison.

“You know what, little brats? I’m hiding all your presents” you say with a Grinch voice, chasing after the kids as they shout, the movie forgotten.

“Run, boys!” Wanda says, pretending to be scared. You turn to look at her, a smirk on your face.

“Or better yet, I’m taking your mom and keeping her to myself!” you go back, carrying her over your shoulder and going upstairs while Wanda laughs.

—

Turns out a storm did hit during the night. You wake up before anyone else, amazed at the thick snow that is covering the street. You catch sight of Mrs. Davis trying to clean her driveway and you sigh, changing clothes to go out and help her.

“You’re such a dear” the woman says from her doorway as you shovel the snow out of the way.

“It’s not a problem, really” you reassure her. Once you’re done you take the cup of coffee she offers, making small talk until her phone rings.

You walk back to your place, feeling your face numb from the cold air. Even if you don’t have to work today, you clear the snow and the car, knowing it would be a pain to do it later.

Wanda’s driveway is next and by the time you’re done, you can’t feel your fingers or face.

“Sweetheart, why are you up so early?” Wanda says as soon as you step foot inside,  taking off your shoes and coat to keep the rest of the house clean.

“Mrs. Davis needed help” you explain, your nose a little runny from the cold.

“Come here” Wanda almost flinches as she feels your low temperature, but her hands find their way to your face, and then through your hair, getting rid of the snowflakes that landed there. “You’re freezing”

“Warm me up, then” you say, smiling as she kisses you, her lips warm and inviting. Wanda gasps when your cold hands travel south, sinking in her curves. “So hot”

“Snowball fight!” you hear the kids upstairs, who finally woke up and looked out the window.

You smile, greeting them as they walk downstairs to get breakfast. Wanda makes pancakes and you stand next to her, appreciating the warmth of the stove as she finishes cooking.

“Can we build a snowman?” Tommy says, eager to go outside and play.

“Sure. We’ll go after breakfast, ok?” Wanda promises, sitting next to you. There’s a comfortable silence, the boys gulfing down their food and looking at both of you, eagerly.

Though you were looking forward to a slow morning, it’s clear that’s not gonna happen so you wash the dishes while the Maximoffs get their coats and gloves.

Sparky is the first one to run down the stairs, and you’re shocked to find him wearing his own winter jacket and boots.

“I’m feeling a little jealous of all the love he gets” you tease Wanda as you open the door.

The sky is clear now, and the sunlight reflects softly in the white surface. Wanda and the kids use the snow you plowed to build the first part of the snowman, talking while they work. You would be more than happy to help, but you’re too busy admiring the way Wanda’s profile is illuminated, an ethereal glow around her as she laughs with Billy and Tommy.

Once the first part is done, you help them with the middle and the head, making sure the sizes are proportional. Sparky keeps jumping around, the snow covering most of his small body.

“Carrot” Wanda requests, acting as a surgeon requesting a scalpel. She makes sure the eyes and smile are straight, while you pick rocks that will work as buttons.

“Are these ok?” Tommy shows her mom two branches for the arms.

“Perfect. Nice job” she says, nodding approvingly. “And now, the scarf”

She pulls out a red scarf, wrapping it around the snowman. It looks pretty darn cute to be honest.

“What are we naming him?”

“Y/N should name him this year!” Tommy says and you tap your forehead, considering your options.

“I propose… Slushy”

“Nice” Wanda nods, and you’re about to show your agreement when a snowball hits your back.

“Who did this?” you say, crouching like the Grinch again. Tommy and Billy giggle, both pointing at each other. “The Maximoffs have declared war!”

Chaos unleashes after that statement, everyone making snowballs and throwing them at each other while Sparky barks and runs around. Wanda finds cover behind her car, and you lift your fist in the air.

“Truce! We have a runaway! Go get her, boys!”

“No, boys! I’m your mothe-“ she never gets to finish that statement, as a snowball hits her square in the face. She spits out snow, looking shocked. You can’t hold your laughter, especially when she tilts her head and goes after the twins. “You are gonna be grounded until you turn eighteen! Come here, little brats!”

The Maximoffs engage in a battle for a few minutes while you record them, amused. It isn’t until Wanda beckons them to join her that you realise they are now planning an attack on you.

“Wait!” you plead, but you’re too slow, and by the time you run, they are already throwing snowball after snowball at you. You end up falling face first in a small snowbank, and they begin to use their hands to shovel more snow until you’re completely covered.

“Maximoffs win” Wanda says, while Billy and Tommy cheer. “Now go back inside, before you get sick”

You stay on the ground, too tired to move.

“Everything ok?” Wanda says, laughing. You manage to lift your hand and do a thumbs up.

“Spectacular”

—

The rest of the day is thankfully slower. The kids insist on going back out to walk around in the snow, because they think it’s funny how Sparky gets so excited, jumping right into it even if it goes all the way to his ears.

After dinner, everyone is too tired to watch a movie, so Tommy and Billy go up to their room, and fall asleep before Wanda can even close the door to their bedroom.

“I’m so happy we could all be home today” she says, smiling. You nod, closing the door and biting your lip, eager for some alone time with your girlfriend.

As she changes into her pajamas, you step closer, helping her out of her clothes.

“You know, I wanted to talk to you about something… uh…” she stutters when your lips leave a trail of kisses down her neck. “It’s i-important”

“Ok. I’m listening” you nod, pushing her against the bed.

“I can’t focus when you do that”

“Do what?” you feign innocence, settling between her legs, hands going up and down her thighs. “I can multitask, baby. Just tell me what’s on your mind”

Wanda tries really hard to remember what she had to say, but then you’re lifting her legs over your shoulders, pulling her shorts down and biting gently on the flesh of her inner thighs.

You lean forward, about to swipe your tongue across her slit, but stop, looking up at her.

“I’m listening, Wanda”

“Huh? No, please, just…”

“Just what?”

“Just fuck me” she whines, digging her nails in your scalp. You tsk, laughing as her back arches off the bed.

“You forgot what you were gonna say? My baby just likes to be a pillow princess that much, huh?” you taunt, not waiting for a reply. Your tongue finally dips into her pussy, Wanda’s reply to your mockery forgotten as she whines and moans, eager to feel more of your mouth on her cunt.

Finally, you have mercy, and let your tongue circle her clit.

“Fuck” Wanda moans, trying to keep quiet. That upsets you, so you nuzzle your nose against her clit, dipping your tongue deeper to fuck her. Now she can’t keep quiet and you want to smirk, pleased with the way she’s canting her hips up to meet your movements.

“If you don’t stop I’m going to…”

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence, as you increase the speed of your movements, not stopping even when she comes, and tries to move away from you.

You only stop when her legs give out, and you climb up, kissing her stomach, breasts, neck and cheek.

“You were saying?” Wanda tastes herself on your lips, sighing against your mouth.

“I think you fucked it out of me” she mewls against your neck and you smile.

“Let’s see if it comes back after I fuck you again”

[midnightwritingsessions]

Promises of forever

Summmary: Louis planned a special date night for the both of you, where unbeknownst to you he planned to give you a promise ring. [1.1k]

Masterlist

Requested

-

The soft hum of your curling iron filled the bathroom as you carefully wrapped a section of your hair around the hot barrel. Tonight wasn’t just any date night, Louis had insisted it would be ‘special’. Though he hadn’t given you much to go on, you could tell by his excitement and how much effort he’d put into planning that he wanted everything to be perfect. His cryptic hints and mischievous smile over the past few days had only heightened your anticipation. You’d spent the afternoon pampering yourself with fresh nails, styled hair, and a simple but elegant black dress that fit you like a dream. As you added the final touches to your makeup, you couldn’t help but feel a flutter of excitement. Whatever Louis had planned, you knew it would be memorable.

Meanwhile, Louis sat on the edge of the bed in your shared apartment, fidgeting with the small velvet box in his hands. His thumb traced the edge of it as his mind raced. “What if I muck this up?” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. He’d never been nervous about speaking to you before, you had a way of putting him at ease, making him feel completely at home. But tonight, with this ring in his pocket, he felt the pressure. He thought back to the moment he’d decided on the promise ring. It had been a few weeks ago, during a lazy morning at home. You were curled up on the couch in one of his oversized hoodies, laughing at something on the telly, and he’d felt it so strongly. The certainty that you were it for him. That he wanted to spend his life with you. He’d thought about proposing outright, but he didn’t want to rush it not because of doubt, but because he wanted it to be perfect. This ring was his way of telling you how serious he was about your future together, a promise of everything to come.

Louis took a deep breath, slipping the box into his jacket pocket. “You’ve got this” he murmured to himself before heading out to meet you in the living room. When Louis saw you waiting by the door, he stopped in his tracks, his mouth going dry for a second. “Wow” he breathed, his eyes wide as they traveled over you. You blushed under his gaze, smoothing your dress nervously. “Do I look alright?”. “Alright?” He let out a low whistle, stepping closer to wrap his arms around your waist. “You look stunning, love. I mean, you always do, but tonight… you’ve outdone yourself”. His words and the way he looked at you sent a warm flush through you, and you smiled, reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of his face. “You clean up pretty nicely yourself, Tomlinson”. He grinned, offering you his arm. “Shall we?”

The car ride was filled with soft conversation and laughter, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that Louis was unusually quiet. You didn’t press him about it, assuming it was just part of his plan for the night. When you arrived, the venue took your breath away. It was an intimate rooftop setting, softly lit with fairy lights strung above. A small table for two sat in the center, surrounded by candles that flickered gently in the evening breeze. Beyond the edge of the roof, the city skyline glittered against the darkening sky. “Louis…” you murmured, taking it all in. “This is incredible”. He smiled, a little sheepishly, as he guided you to your seat. “Only the best for my girl” he said, brushing a kiss against your temple before sitting across from you.

The dinner was perfect- your favorite foods, soft music playing in the background, and conversation that flowed as easily as always. Louis was still a bit quieter than usual, but his eyes never left you, his gaze filled with a mixture of love and something else-nervousness, maybe? As dessert arrived, a decadent chocolate tart, Louis shifted in his seat, his hand sliding into his jacket pocket. He cleared his throat, catching your attention. “Alright” he began, his voice steady but soft. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you- well, more like show you” He hesitated, pulling the velvet box from his pocket and placing it on the table between you. Your breath hitched as you stared at the box, your heart thudding in your chest. “Louis…” you whispered, looking up at him.

He opened the box to reveal a delicate gold ring, adorned with a small diamond in the center. It wasn’t flashy or over-the-top, it was understated and beautiful, perfectly you. “This isn’t an engagement ring” he said quickly, his voice trembling just slightly. “Not yet, anyway. But it’s a promise. A promise that I’m serious about us, about building a life together. I can’t wait to marry you someday, but for now, I want you to have this. To know how much you mean to me”. Tears pricked at your eyes as you listened, your heart swelling with emotion. He reached across the table, taking your hand in his. “You’re everything to me” he continued, his blue eyes locked on yours. “You’ve been my rock, my best mate, my safe place. I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I do know I never want to let you go”.

A tear slipped down your cheek, and you laughed softly as you wiped it away. “Louis… I don’t even know what to say. This is… perfect. You’re perfect”. He smiled, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Does that mean you’ll wear it?”. “Of course I will” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “I love you, Louis. So much”. He stood, walking around the table to slip the ring onto your finger, his hands steady despite the racing of his heart. Once the ring was in place, he pulled you into a tight hug, holding you as if he never wanted to let go. As you pulled back slightly to look at him, his lips found yours in a kiss that was soft, tender, and full of unspoken promises.

Later that night, as you both lay tangled together on the couch, the ring glinting softly on your finger, Louis rested his head against yours. “Y’know” he murmured, his voice thick with contentment, “this was the scariest thing I’ve ever done”. You laughed, threading your fingers through his hair. “Well, you pulled it off beautifully”. He looked up at you, his eyes filled with love. “One step closer to forever, yeah?” You smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Yeah, Louis. Forever sounds perfect”.

-

Thank you for reading! As always requests are open <3

[nhlclover]

CAPTAIN CHRISTMAS RYAN LEONARD

— event masterlist !

pairing: fem!reader x ryan leonard

summary: you and ryan decorate your home for the holiday season, only for ryan to find out your particularity when it comes to your ornaments

warnings: none!

wc: 1.63k

notes: second fic in my twelve days of christmas celebration! honest to god this is me when i decorate everything has it's place.

The first snow of December drifted lazily outside the bay window of your shared home, the streetlamps casting a golden glow onto the fresh powder below. Inside, the strong scent of pine fills the air as you sat by the tree rearranging branches. Yours and Ryan's home was slowly housing more of a Christmas spirit as the soft hum of holiday music played through the speaker and the flames crackled in the fireplace. The two of you were in the process of decorating your home for the first time for Christmas, which seemed like an innocent enough activity at first.

Boxes of Christmas decorations sat open on the floor, a mess of mismatched ornaments, strings of lights, and an absurdly large tangle of tinsel that Ryan was currently attempting to wrestle into submission.

“How does it even get like this?” he asked, eyebrows furrowed as he held up the knot of silver, squinting as though the strands might untangle themselves if he stared hard enough.

“I don’t know… it just happens.” you replied without looking up. You were on your knees by the tree, carefully fluffing the artificial branches into a perfect shape. Each limb needed to look full and balanced before you could even think about adding ornaments.

Ryan finally surrendered with a sigh, dropping the tangle of tinsel into a pile. “Alright, I’m done with this thing. Maybe we don’t need tinsel this year.”

You glanced over, biting back a comment about how tinsel made the tree look finished. “Fine, but we’re doing the lights next. And they have to be evenly spaced, no clumps.”

“Evenly spaced, got it,” he said, standing and brushing off his hands and giving you a mocked salute. “Captain Christmas has spoken.”

Ryan set to work stringing the lights along the tree, his movements careful but a bit haphazard. The warm glow of the tiny bulbs illuminated the room in a soft golden light as he looped them around the branches, whistling along to the holiday music playing softly in the background.

You watched him for a moment, hands on your hips, before tilting your head critically.

“Wait, no,” you said, stepping forward. “That section right there — there’s way too much space between the lights.”

Ryan stopped mid-loop, looking at where you were pointing. “What? It looks fine.”

“Fine isn’t good enough,” you replied firmly, plucking the strand from his hands. “See, here’s the problem. You’ve looped the lights too many times around this branch, then just draped it over this section so it looks like a huge gap. It throws everything off.”

He leaned back, arms crossed, and raised an eyebrow at you. “Throws everything off, huh? I didn’t realize we were aiming for perfection.”

You ignored the teasing tone, unwinding the strand slightly and reworking the section in question. “Of course, we are. It’s our first Christmas in this house — it has to be perfect.”

Ryan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he stepped back to let you work your magic. “I see how it is. You’re a Christmas tree tyrant.”

“I prefer enthusiast,” you said without looking up, focused on spacing the lights evenly. “This tree is going to be the centerpiece of the house. People will see it when they visit.”

Ryan couldn’t help but snort at your answer, which caused you to shoot him a glare. He grinned in response, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. No more jokes. Just tell me where you need me.”

You ask him to get the boxes of ornaments, and once the lights were finished and met your approval, you began to decorate the tree. You started placing them carefully, each one balanced in size, shape, and color to create the perfect spread. Ryan, meanwhile, hung ornaments with the kind of carefree abandon that made you twitch. A tiny Santa was placed too low, and a sparkly reindeer ended up hidden behind a branch.

You tried to ignore it, focusing on your side of the tree, but eventually, the urge became too strong. While Ryan stepped away to grab another ornament, you subtly moved to fix his last couple of decorations.

When he returned, you were caught red-handed, adjusting the placement of the snowman he had just placed. He froze, holding a delicate glass snowflake, a knowing smirk spreading across his face. “Are you… moving my ornaments?”

“No,” you said quickly, too quickly. “This one was about to fall off the branch.”

He laughed, deep and warm, and came to stand beside you. “You totally are! This one was up on this branch, and that candy cane was about four inches to the right. What’s wrong with how I’m doing it?”

“Nothing! There’s nothing wrong.” you answered, placing a hand on his forearm. You met Ryan’s gaze that was clearly not buying what you were saying. You sighed, lowering your volume. “It’s just… they’re not in the right spots.”

He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “So, what I’m hearing is: I’m terrible at this, and you should just do it all yourself?”

“No!” you protested, though your guilt was evident in your voice. “I mean… maybe I’m being a little controlling.”

“A little?” he asked, grinning.

“Fine, a lot.” you corrected. “But it’s our first tree and I want us to decorate it together… I’ll back off a little.”

You resumed decorating, which went well for a few minutes, until Ryan could see you eyeing his every move. When he placed a glittery penguin ornament on a branch by the top, he saw you visibly cringe. An idea popped into Ryan’s head, turning to you.

“I don’t think I like the penguin there, where do you think I should put it?” he asked you.

“He should go… maybe a little higher, near the middle. Balance out the ornaments with all the gold and red around it.” you tell him.

Ryan nodded thoughtfully, taking the ornament down and holding it out to you. “Here, you do it. You’ve got the vision.”

You hesitated, glancing between him and the penguin. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” he said, leaning against the arm of the couch with a sly smile. “You're clearly the expert.”

With a sheepish grin, you took the ornament and placed it exactly where you’d envisioned, stepping back to admire your work. “Perfect.”

Ryan watched you with an amused glint in his eyes. The gears in his mind were turning, and as you turned back to the box of ornaments, he picked up another. This time, a sparkling gingerbread man.

“Hey,” he called, holding it up. “What do you think about this guy? Where does he belong?”

You looked up, your eyes darting over the tree for the ideal spot. “He should probably go somewhere lower, to balance the heavier ornaments near the bottom.”

“Right, makes sense,” Ryan replied, walking toward the tree. Instead of hanging it, though, he handed it to you with a grin. “Here, you’d better do it.”

You gave him a look but couldn’t resist taking the ornament. The pattern repeated itself. Each time Ryan picked up an ornament, he’d stop and ask your opinion, nodding sagely at your suggestions before handing it over with a smug smile. Soon enough, you were practically decorating the entire tree by proxy.

“Alright,” you said, grabbing the gold star tree topper from the bin and handing it to Ryan. “You do the honors.”

Ryan reaches up slightly, carefully placing the star on the top of the tree. When he stepped back, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you in close as you both admired the completed tree.

The tree was, without a doubt, stunning, each ornament shimmering in the glow of the twinkling lights. It looked like something out of a Christmas catalog—perfectly curated, yet undeniably warm and personal.

“You know,” you said, leaning into Ryan's side with a soft smile, “I knew exactly what you were doing, getting me to decorate for you.”

Ryan grinned, his dimples deepening as he glanced down at you. “Oh, you knew, huh? And here I thought I was being so subtle.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, nudging him. “I mean, if you were trying to avoid decorating, you might’ve just said so.”

“Not avoiding,” he countered, his tone laced with teasing. “Just… delegating. You’ve got the eye for this stuff. I’m a humble assistant to your artistic vision.”

A laugh escaped you, but it faded into a quiet moment of reflection. “I’m sorry if I was being a little… okay, a lot controlling. I just—”

“Wanted it to be perfect,” Ryan finished for you, his voice gentle. “And it is. Look at it, babe. The tree’s amazing because of you.”

His words softened the lingering guilt in your chest. You rested your head against his shoulder, watching the lights twinkle like tiny stars. “You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?”

“Not at all.” He kissed the top of your head, his lips warm and lingering. “I love that you care so much. You make everything special.”

The two of you stood there in comfortable silence, taking in the sight of your newly decorated space. Snow continued to fall outside, a pristine blanket of white forming across the lawn. The glow of the tree illuminated the room, casting a soft, golden light over the cozy chaos of unpacked boxes and loose decorations still strewn about.

Ryan pulled back slightly, looking at you with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Now, about those cookies we were supposed to bake…”

You groaned dramatically. “Cookies? After all this? Do I have to do that by proxy too?”

He smirked, taking your hand and leading you toward the kitchen. “No way. I’ll be the captain of that operation. You can be my assistant this time.”

[tmnt-l0v3rrr]

Hello, my dear. 🥰

Been enjoying ur writing. 👀 Was reading ur yan bay don head canons and it mentioned Donnie essentially summoning Reader like they're a pet and tbh.... I'm like this irl. Idk. Scratches the brain right.

So I was wondering if you'd be willing to rottmnt yandere head canons where the figure out they can summon Reader like an animal? Like maybe they do it on accident/without thinking and they're like "oh... oh!" And it just works. Every. Damn. Time. Even if it's to the dismay of Reader.

🥂

Omg thanks for the request 😋

Yandere Donatello x Reader

Warnings!

Kidnapping, yandere content, human pet training, unhealthy relationships, forced love. Overall, dark content. Read at your own risk.

A/N sorry if this got off track I was hungry writing this XP (sorry if it's too short)

800 words

It was a nice afternoon (at least that's what time you think it is) in donnie's lab. He was working on something nice and easy. His brothers were out doing who knows what- But it was nice. Calm.

He had this nest of bedding under his desk for you, it was nice. Comfy too-

You were sitting there, drawing on some mandala coloring book he gave you with some nice markers Mikey had gifted the two of you.

You heard a small snap and whistle, rising from your position, standing in front of him. Wait- why'd you do that- before you could think too much Don was already talking to you.

“I was wondering if you would want to help make lunch today, I see you picking at stuff all the time. I think it would be good sensory input.” He says, sounding excited about trying to get you to do something. You sit there, thinking about your option like you had a choice.

He whistled at you, quickly getting your head to turn to him- wait… why’d you do that? Why are you answering like a pet? Have you really been here that long…? Time must fly down here, or maybe it’s the sheer amount of times he’s drugged you, or the sewer smells are getting to you.

“Yeah, that sounds nice.” You weren't lying, doing something outside his lab or bed sounded really nice, maybe even seeing April or the two casey’s would be exciting, you don’t really see anyone but Donnie and his three brothers, oh and splinter, on a very, very rare basis.

“When do you want to make lunch?” you ask, looking back at him, he hums, finger on his chin. “Maybe after a few more lines of code, only a few more minutes” You go back to your coloring book, filling in the mandala in with a nice blue, followed by purples. The soft sounds of his keyboard and chair lulling you back into your daily daze.

The sound of soft strokes of the marker on your paper fill the labs walls along with donnie’s typing and music overflowing headphones. Once again he whistles at you, getting your attention every time. You’ve been here way too long. He looks down at you, donnie’s smile soft and adoring as always. “Ready sweetie?” You nod, having no reason to argue against it.

The two of you walk out of his lab, you slip on some purple slippers he has at his door for you sense the lair floor is cold and to be honest, dirty too. When you both enter the kitchen, music plays at a normal volume. You see Mikey making what you can only assume is for Raph by the size of it, he gives you both a sweet hello before returning to his cooking, humming along to a song.

Donnie walks over to a chest freezer they had recently bought and filled, they went through pretty fast, keeping in mind that they are mutants. Don grabbed a box of frozen orange chicken, one of his favorites.

He got out a sheet pan and some parchment paper. He whistled to you before asking you to set the oven to 350. You obliged, turning the knob to the temperature before turning back to him for more directions, once again acting like a trained dog. Ready for any commands. What a funny thing this has done to you. Donnie is much more lenient and calm with you now, the first few months were the longest and hardest, adjustment taking longer than Donatello hoped, but everything paid off.

This is proof, you don’t question him anymore, you always answered him and never gave him trouble. “How about you lay out the chicken on the sheet tray? Well I warm up the sauce.” You hum in agreement, grabbing the frozen bag of chicken, laying it out and waiting for the oven to beep, signifying it was done heating.

Donnie prepares the sauce, running it under warm water. He makes a sound with his lips, one you would use to call a dog. “Go into my lab and grab the hoodie off my chair please.” he says, never even raising his head to check that you left.

Off back into his lab, quickly grabbing the desired hoodie then starting to head back.

Why? Why were you doing this? Obeying his commands like a fucking pet-

Before you can dwell on it any longer you were already back in the kitchen, holding the hoodie out to him. “Oh, sweetie. It’s for you, I know it’s cold here.” he takes the sweater and puts it on you. There was no fighting it, or protest. You just let him. Like he had always wanted.

He finally has you how he needs you

[sprnklersplashes]

not sure what kind of prompts you were after, but any holiday wesper fluff would be appreciated <3

wesper is always welcome. you could just put 'wesper' in the box and I'd be like "right away!"

hope I did this prompt justice and I'm calling it "I'll be cleaning up bottles with you on new years' day"

In all honesty, Wylan wasn't sure about hosting the new years' party this year. He can still remember the last time the Van Ecks hosted it; he was thirteen, and knew to keep himself out of sight after greeting guests and reappear before dinner, and only to speak if he is spoken to. The tradition was passed around the other merchant families afterwards, with Wylan's father making excuses for his absence each time.

Now, Wylan is nineteen, the Van Ecks are due to host yet again, and his father is languishing in Hellgate while Wylan waves the last of their guests goodbye.

How times change.

He finally closes the door after saying goodnight to the Rosenthals, who insist they must come to their place for lunch in the new year. Wylan knows enough now to understand that it's more about business than a nice meal, but he agrees nonetheless. Then they are gone, and after hours of chatter and music and laughter and more chatter, the house is silent. Wylan presses his back into the door, closes his eyes, inhales deeply. Quiet. Silent.

Well, he thinks with a small smile. Almost quiet.

With the party adrenaline slowly leaving his body, Wylan shuffles down the hall, guided by the Kaelish shanties softly sung from the next room. Empty bottles line the hall, discarded papers and tissues and one pair of glasses, but he actively resists the temptation to leave it to the maids. This was his party and if he and Jesper spend all day tomorrow on their hands and knees cleaning, so be it.

When he enters the living room, he finds Jesper had the same idea. Glasses are lined up along the table, plates piled beside them. Jesper sits on the floor, his tie discarded and his shirt untucked and half-undone. Heat rushes to Wylan's cheeks, especially so when Jesper looks up and grins.

(It's been years, yet his smile can still stop Wylan's heart)

"Good evening, beautiful," Jesper says as Wylan pads acorss the carpet. "Or is it morning now?"

"Pretty sure it is." Wylan sighs and lowers himself down, legs folded beneath him. He has to laugh when he sees the state of their carpet; dozens upon dozens of tiny, twinkling pieces are strewn across it, tangled in the fibres and buried in the gaps. Jesper pulls a face at it, and here Wylan again sees the subtle dusting along his cheeks.

"Maybe we'll skip the glitter-based decorations next year."

"Maybe not," Wylan shrugs. His fingers sparkle when he lifts them and a soft giggle escapes him. Jesper grins too, low candlelight shining in his dark eyes. He slides his fingers into Wylan's and then, in one quick motion, pulls Wylan into him.

They land on their backs on the carpet, a clash of limbs and clothes and giddy laughter. Wylan's head is reeling and it's not entirely from the amount of wine he's drunk.

(He has never been this happy, ever. He never thought he could be this happy, ever)

He laughs into Jesper's shoulder, taking the opportunity to press some kisses to his neck. Jesper hums contentedly and threads his fingers in Wylan's hair. The movement is gentle, careful, and his body is warm, and Wylan can feel his eyes getting heavy.

"What do you want to happen this year?" Jesper asks quietly.

"I want..." He hesitates. Every year, his resolution was to learn how to read. Then it was to survive. Then he started losing track of years. "I want to spend more time with you. Council is driving me insane. I also want to repaint the bedroom and play the tin whistle again."

"All good things, merchling," Jesper replies. His chest expands as he takes a long breath, his eyes flicking up to the ceiling. Something is brewing in him, Wylan can feel it like a storm in the air. He traces patterns on his chest, looks up and whispers silently that it's okay.

"I'd like to visit Da more," he says. "I don't have to hide from him anymore and now..." He breathes out, long, slow, steady. "Yeah. I want to see him more."

"You will," Wylan nods. Jesper huffs, something between a laugh and a sigh, and he curls his hand around Wylan's. His skin is rough and calloused, his touch gentle and perfect. Wylan has never known anything softer than Jesper's touch.

(Saints, he really can't hold his drink)

Outside the window, a small fizzing sound catches Wylan's attention. It builds, growing louder and faster and higher until it bursts, tinkering almost musically.

"Fireworks!"

With a newfound energy, he jumps off Jesper and rushes to the sofa. Sure enough, far across the garden and above the canal, bursts of red and green and blue flash across the sky, mixing in with each other. The fireworks are both controlled and chaotic, and they're utterly magnificent. He says as much to Jesper when he sits beside him and when Jesper laughs, Wylan doesn't panic. He draws closer to him, links their fingers together.

"There's no-one like you, Wylan," he whispers. He kisses him, setting off different kinds of fireworks. Wylan grins against his mouth, revelling in the taste of his lips and the unmistakable feel of his smile.

"Happy new year, Wylan."

Wylan sighs and rubs his nose against Jesper's.

"Happy new year, Jes."

I love you, he doesn't need to add.

[02511213942]

I love your art style and the way you draw different body types and your username. Hello. Hi, just a fan. Also, do you have any favorite aftg fics?

🥹 THANK YOU!!! you're very kind!! ! i hope to get better at drawing different body types and i like my username too!!

i do have lots of fic recs, but i've been sitting on and incubating this ask for too long so here are just five that have been on my mind again most recently!

til death do us part by @alcego

We follow Neil's professional exy career, including the ups and downs, from beginning to end.

IF IT FEELS LIKE THIS FIC WAS MADE IN A LAB FOR ME IT'S BECAUSE IT WAS!! COMMISSIONED FROM THE BRILLIANT AJ :)) if you loved reading the games in the books u will looove this... sports-heavy outsider pov and media snippets, neil gets a concussion, andreil being odd and cute, kevin day is there. all is well in the world.

Signs of Life by moonix @annawrites

In which Kevin works the graveyard shift, Andrew is the witching hour cryptid, and Neil guards the ice-cream freezer.

if i were andrew i'd make out with neil in aisle ten too... kevin thinking about his breakfast sandwich and andrew needing to touch of the roots of his box blonde hair I LOVE YOUu....

burning with you by @seasy33

The crowd whistles and cheers. People on the dance floor start to pair together, pressing close and swaying. As the song really begins, Neil realizes he knows it and starts humming along, playing idly with the ring on Andrew's finger. Andrew's hand twitches. "You know this song." Neil nods against his shoulder, still humming. "You don't know who Aerosmith is, but you know Shania Twain." Neil shrugs. - Neil and Andrew go to a bar and end up sort-of serenading each other --with country songs. That's it, that's the fic

feral stick figure on all fours dot jpeg. whenever you're still the one or johnny and june come up on my spotify shuffle i think of this fic and my aura acquires a gentle pink glow. i love country music :)

Every Sinner Has A Future by OfficialStarsandGutters

Canon divergent Neil x Aaron. - Neil Josten. A shock of red hair and ocean blue eyes. Pretty faced, but nothing special. Except he makes a throwaway comment about Andrew being off his meds and it’s like everyone in the room forgets to breathe. Even Aaron, his body still and tense with surprise that he can tell them apart. Without even having met Aaron, he knew Andrew wasn’t him. That shouldn’t mean anything. Aaron rubs his sweaty palms on his skinny jeans and tells himself it doesn’t, it doesn’t, it doesn’t.

my fav rare pair and the fic ever for them 🥹 aaron minyard i've really come around to you and i'll even let you take my son out if you have him home by 10.

sunset, like survival by animediac @jaywalkers

The first time Neil dies is devastating. The second time is just as bad. The third time has them wondering if there’s a way out of this loop that doesn’t end with Neil dead. - Night, after night, after night. Baltimore isn't something that just happens once.

kandreil neil death time loop fic you are SO famous to me. on my mind again recently because róisín is very good at being a paramedic and knowing what really happens to the body when you are critically horribly injured, and i asked them what would happen if neil got hypothetically specifically tortured, and they did not let me down.

[w2soneshots]

Do I? -W2S

words: 0.9k+

warnings: light angst, alcohol consumption.

summary: you realise your feelings for your best friend, are much stronger than you thought.

Liked by wrotoshaw and 908,340 others

y/username: my outfit, my girls and bog @faithlouisak @wrotoshaw

-comments-

faithlouisak: I love you❤️

-> y/username: 😘😘

behzingagram: 🫶

user893468081: harry is so fit

-> y/username: Ikr

-> y/nfanpage21: @y/username omgg! I ship them

Me and Harry have been best friends since high school. We moved to London together, I helped him through his first break up and we may have made out a few times when we were really drunk but we were drunk... right? Anyway today I'm going to Harry's apartment to help him set up for his birthday party, that he definitely didn't want to have, but I convinced him and plus it's only his closest friends.

"Heyy!" I called out as I walked into the apartment. He popped out from his bedroom and walked towards me. "Do we really have to do all this." he said gesturing to the big box of party decorations in my arms. "It's your birthday bog, you deserve all the bells and whistles." I said placing the box on the kitchen counter. "now, let's get started."

I arrived at his apartment at 2pm and we finished decorating around 4, then I left to go and get ready. When I got back to my apartment I took a quick shower, dried and straightened my hair, put on some makeup and picked out my outfit. By the time I was done it was time to leave since I promised Harry that I'd be there before anyone else.

I opened Harry's apartment door for the 2nd time today and found him sat on the couch. I placed my bag down and he turned around. His eyes widened "you look beautiful." he said slightly breathlessly. I smiled "thank you." I said walking over to the sofa and sitting next him.

With drinks sat on the counter and the music blaring, people started to arrive. Soon everyone was in the apartment and we slowly started acting more and more drunk. I stood with Talia and Faith dancing when I looked over and caught Harry's eyes, a small smile spread across my lips and he returned it. "You too are made for each other." Faith said pulling me out of my trance. "What? Me and Harry." I said over the music. "y/n come on!" Talia said as if it was obvious. I furrowed my brows, confused. Faith scoffed "you're always with each other in your own little conversation and you look at each other like you're in love." I was slightly taken aback "we do?". They both nodded ferociously. "Oh."

After that conversation I was practically rethinking everything, do I like him... no it's bog... but, no y/n shut up. He probably doesn't feel the same way anyway. I was consumed by my thoughts when Harry came over. "Oh hi, having fun?" I said not looking at him properly. "Ye... are you okay?" He asked. "Mhm" I hummed before getting up and speed walking to the bathroom.

I placed my hands on the counter and took a deep breath. "What the fuck is happening? Why do I feel like this about the boy I've been friends with since we were kids, now?" I thought. A knock on the door broke me out of my thoughts. I quickly fixed myself up and opened the door. Harry... "are you sure you're okay?" he asked. I felt awful that he was worrying about me when he's supposed to be having fun. "I told you I'm fine." I said but it came out a little harsh. He seemed a little taken aback but nodded and left me alone.

I drank a lot that night and tried my best to avoid Harry. I woke up in my bed with the worst hangover of my life, I took some paracetamol and opened instagram.

y/username posted a story 11 hours ago!

I don't remember posting that. Today is Harry's actual birthday so I pulled together a nice message for instagram, along with some photos from the party.

y/username

Liked by behzingagram and 1,467,010 others

y/username: happy birthday @wrotoshaw thank you for being the best friend ever and for putting up with my shit🫶🖕

-comments-

faithlouisak: lets take a moment for the dress🔥

-> y/username: 💅🏻

user394752919: this is so cute🥹

wrotoshaw: thank you for everything y/n

-> y/nfanpage21: omfg what? this is so random but adorable

-> user85019234: w2s commenting on insta what😨

I was confused by what Harry wrote under my post. First of all he never comments on instagram, second "thank you for everything" like what? So I decided to text him. "Hey can I come over?" I sent and a few minutes later I got a reply "be here in 10"

I walked into his apartment in some sweatpants and a hoodie just over 10 minutes later. "Bog?" I called out as I slipped my trainers off. "Bedroom!" he shouted. "Hey." I said once I opened the door. He patted on the bed gesturing for me to sit. I plonked myself on the bed and he pulled me towards he and into a strong hug. I was slightly surprised at first but quickly hugged him back. We stayed like that for a good few minutes but eventually pulled away.

"What was that for?" I asked. He looked into my eyes "I love you." he said and my lips parted slightly. I didn't say anything, "it's okay if you don't feel the same but-" I cut him off by pushing myself forward so our lips collided. When we pulled away we kept our foreheads pressed together. "I love you too."

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Mise en Place 1

Warnings: noncon, coercion, manipulation. Proceed with caution.

Note: thanks all for reading and I hope you’re excited for this one. All feedback is more than welcome and loved and appreciated. Reblogs are most helpful.

Part of The Club AU

You place the final sparkling glass on the cart and give a tiny smile at the accomplishment. Your work isn't particularly complicated or glamorous. As eager singles and lively coeds wait outside to invade the downtown club, you work tirelessly to ready the place; clean the dishes, sweep and mop the floors, vacuum the coatroom…

The work is draining but simple. You don't mind it so much. You mostly hide in the shadows and get it done, take your check, and retreat to your singulsr existence. Your co-workers more than make up for your invisibility.

You can hear the booming voice of the bartender as he chats with the other. His voice tends to carry over most other noises, even the music when its thrumming from the subwoofers. You always hear him coming whereas you are ever unnoticed by others.

Sonny, the cook, chops at the cutting board, the air vibrant with the the aromas of his simmering pans. The private rooms are ready for their guests, most of the plates will be sent there. Everything has its place in the club; the burly blond behind the bar, Sonny at the stove, and you wherever a mess arises.

"Glasses," the door swings inward, startling you as you carry the used utensils and bowls from Sonny's station to the sink, "ah, perfect."

Thor, the bartender, strides over, his immense size making the space feel even smaller. Yourself too.

He nears and grabs the handle on the cart. You barely have time to react as he lurches it too sharply. One of the highball glasses slides off and shatters on the floor as he stops. You barely keep several others from following suit.

"Oh, apologies," he grins guiltily at the glass shards.

"Thor, if you're not in here stealing apps, you're trashing the place," Sonny guffaws.

"I didn't mean to," the bartender says defensively, "I'll clean it–"

"I got it," you're quicker than him as you grabs the broom from where you left it, "no worries."

A hum catches in his throat as you return to the cart and slowly roll it towards him. He backs up with your careful advance. He grips the handle and slowly pulls it with him, this time making a show of doing so cautiously.

"No worries," he echoes you, "thank you."

He wheels backward through the door as you turn to sweep up the scattered glass. Sonny grunts as a pan hisses. He tuts as he sprinkles spice into one.

"Bozo, that one is," he chuckles, "makes a mean cocktail despite having the grace of a newborn elephant."

You nod and say nothing. You don't know Thor well, you see him around, like most of the other employees. Bottle girls, servers, bouncers. You only ever see Sonny or the other chef, Enid, often. Neither really seems to mind you and talk more to fill the dearth than make friends.

"Lucky his brother runs the place or he'd be paying for all the nachos. Never knew a man who could eat so much. Good guy but… insatiable."

You listen without response. The crotchety chef is used to that. You almost think he prefers it. He doesn't argue with you like he does the bottle girls or posture as he does around the bouncers. Especially the big one, August.

You scoop up the glass in the dustpan and dumb it in a box formerly used for the ready to serve cans. You set it with the recycle and go back to the task of scouring the dishes. Sonny whistles along to the softly buzzing radio, soon to be replaced with the coursing of modern pop music.

Employees drift in and out; servers bitching, bottle girls grabbing tall bottles, and a shuffle you can't keep order of.

The DJ puts on the first track and signals opening. You put your ear plugs in then, it's a bit too loud for your brain to focus. You linger in the kitchen, you'll sneak out to collect empty glasses once the place is a bit fuller.

Sonny sends his first apps and slips the pack of smokes from his front pocket. He signals that's he's going for his usual break and you nod as you go to peek through the window. Servers take the trays and crumple tickets as you look past them.

The flashing of colored lights reflect off sparkling outfits and add definition to attractive faces. You were never the club type. Never had much of a chance. No school, no parties, just work.

"Goddamn," Thor blusters in, the door bouncing off the metsl corner of the counter, "Loki… always…"

He stops his grumbling as the door shuts and reveals you just on the other side. He gives a sheepish grin and you stand dumbly watching him. You probably should try to look busy.

"Tequila," he declares, "I missed it in inventory."

You quick push away from the counter and beat him to the storage room. You're not sure what kind he needs but you recall an empty one with the gold cap. You grab that and come back to the doorway as he nears. He almost jumps back, as if he didn't expect you.

"Oh, fawn, you scared me," he smiles, his blue eyes gleaming, "ah, you are exactly what I need."

He takes the tequila from you and raises it to read the label.

"Clever," he muses, "perhaps you might do me another favour."

You stare at him. Well, you won't have much to do for a while. You nod.

"It'll only be me tonight," he declares, "so, I need some help. You would only need to be my assistant. Hand me bottles and glasses…"

"Oh, I don't… know if I–"

"You will not get any trouble for it, hm? I will speak to my brother should he try to give any. Besides, I am rather desperate."

He sticks his lip out, just a little, just enough to tweak your heart. It might not be wise to say no to the brother of the owner.

"Just for a little," you permit, "okay?"

[intrikatie]

♡ Pairing: Minho x Jisung ♤ Genre: Mafia AU, Romeo x Romeo ♢ Chapter Warnings: Graphic descriptions of Violence, foul language throughout ♤ Author Note: introduction of several reoccurring OC's THANK YOU @skzdreamer13 for getting me through this chapter! I hope it doesn't disappoint! ♧ MINORS DNI🔞

♤ ♡ TASTE Synopsis & Chapter List ♢ ♧

<< Chapter 4 - The Wolf & His Pack ♤ ♡ ♢ ♧ Chapter 6 - Hoodie Season [WT] >>

Chapter 5: Comflex

♤ ♡ ♢ ♧

The smell hits him first. A mixture of sweat, deodorant and talc. Then the rhythmic sounds of bags being punched, ropes being skipped, weights being lifted. The air is warm and humid despite the air conditioning humming under the sound of the pulsating electronic dance music. It’s all oddly comforting.

A traditional boxing club in every sense, but with better equipment and a very strict acceptance criteria; knock out, family or referral only.

“There you are!” Nikko says from the ring at the centre of the hall. He's leaning on the ropes, his hands and knuckles wrapped in black gauze. He’s already sweating. The black hair that isn’t pulled into a knot at the back, falling in elegant tendrils over his forehead and accentuating the sharpness of his jawline. He’s wearing a loose white tank top and long black shorts. His golden-brown eyes sparkling as they watch Minho cross the hall towards him and drop his gym bag beside a vacant bench. “You’re late.”

“I’m not that late,” Minho says, pulling his blue hooded sweatshirt over his head and draping it over the bench. He tugs down the hem of his black t-shirt at the back, loosens the ties of his grey joggers.

“Oh-ho-ho! What’s that I see on your neck?”

Automatically, Minho raises his hand to cover the mark just below his left ear. Truly, it isn’t even that bad. Trust Nikko to spot it from several metres away.

It's been two days and twenty-one hours since he'd spent the night with Jisung. Not that he’s counting. He still hasn't heard from him. His own pride prevented him from sending any of the several messages he'd typed out to him. The mark on his neck, a leopard-print shirt in his wardrobe and a slightly morose cat at home, the only reminders that Jisung had been more than a fantasy. Oh, and a television that is still trying to recommend stupid reality dating shows. Algorithm wrecker.

Nikko laughs, slapping the top rope, before announcing, “My boy got some!”

There's a spontaneous round of whistles and applause from the dozen or so members scattered throughout the hall. Minho raises a hand, thanking them for their acknowledgment of his sexual prowess, then flips off Nikko.

Despite dreading what’s about to come, he settles on the bench, unzipping his bag to retrieve his gauze and tape.

Nikko steps through the ropes, hopping down from the ring, punching the air as he bounces over to him on his wrapped feet before he drops on the bench at his side. Minho braces himself for Nikko says next, “So, tell me. Who? When? Where? And how?”

And there it is.

“I’m not telling you a damn thing,” Minho says, tearing tape into two inch strips and sticking the ends to the edge of the bench.

“Oh come on!” Nikko can’t arch just one eyebrow, but Minho can tell this is what he’s trying to do, because he looks a little startled, “You know I live vicariously through your sexual exploits. I wanna hear!”

“No,” Minho says as he starts wrapping his right hand with the white gauze. “And stop doing that with your face. You look like a scared goldfish.”

“Was I even close?”

“No.”

Nikko laughs, “Come on, give me a little something-something.”

“Why are you even interested?” Minho asks, “Last I checked, you have a girlfriend, or whatever witchcraft that is.”

“Three months,” Nikko shakes his head, smiling fondly. “Can you believe that? Three months?”

“Jess deserves a fruit basket.”

“Right?” Nikko sighs. “I don’t know what I did to deserve her. Fuck knows what she sees in me.”

For this, Minho can offer several answers; he’s young, handsome, wealthy but not pretentious, has a great body, a great sense of humour and is loyal to a fault. Instead he says, “Just propose to her already.”

“Man, I’m warning you. It’s on the cards.”

Now Minho arches an eyebrow, “So why the fuck are you asking me about my sex-life when you’ve got one eye on wedding plans?”

“Your experiences are vastly different from mine.”

“That’s because you’re a massive heterosexual,” Minho points out, “Aside from your little experiment with–”

Nikko claps a gauzed hand over Minho’s mouth, “Shush!” he hisses as he looks around, checking that no-one overheard. “I told you that in confidence.” When Nikko drops his hand, Minho smiles his cat-like smile at him, because he knows Nikko finds it annoying. “You’re such a chore!” Nikko chuckles. Thumbing his nose he leans forward, elbows on his knees looking back at him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You like this one.”

Minho scoffs, “I wouldn’t have slept with him if I didn’t like him.” I have some standards.

“No, that’s not what I mean,” Nikko says. “Usually you have no problem giving me the explicit details of your encounters. I’m still in awe of what happened between you and that Brazilian three years ago.”

Minho can’t help smiling. That was fun. Mostly, because neither of them could understand each other, through words, at least. Though Minho couldn't forget how they said maravilhoso it wasn’t the same as his experience with Jisung. No previous experiences quite match up to that, which is odd, because he doesn’t feel like he’d done anything different. And yet, Minho can’t help recalling the way Jisung threw that punch. The way he smiled. The pink hue of his cheeks when he got shy. The sparkle in his eyes. The way his waist fit perfectly in Minho’s arms. The way he arched up to meet him. The way he called out 'My Irino'.

“Your ears are getting red,” Nikko reaches up and gently touches Minho’s ear with cool fingers. Minho tugs his head away and Nikko chuckles, “I think you really like this one, that’s why you want to keep him private.”

“It’s not that, it’s just…it’s…” he says, weaving the gauze between his fingers, thinking hard. “It was just… different.”

“Different? How?”

Earth shattering, time bending, mind altering and… familiar…

“I don’t know,” Minho frowns down at his gauze. He’s gone wrong somewhere, thoughts of Jisung clouding his mind. Minho unravels a layer and rewraps it. He peels a length of tape from the bench, securing the gauze. Flexes his fingers to ensure it’s sturdy. “Just different.”

Nikko pushes his eyebrow up with his finger.

“Piss off!” Minho laughs at him, jostling him heavily with his shoulder. He starts to wrap his left hand.

“Fine!” Nikko pushes himself off the bench, “Hurry up and warm up.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Minho says.

♤ ♡ ♢ ♧

Minho takes the mitts.

Nikko is quick, sharp and fucking lethal. Despite the mitts, Minho can feel every jab.

“Wanna kick?” Minho asks him.

Nikko nods, and Minho readjusts his stance, after a few more high-low combo punches, he raises a mitt level with his head. Nikko spins, hits it perfectly, the shockwave travelling down Minho's arms, torso and through the soles of his feet.

“OI!” The shout booms across the hall. Several trainees pause mid-lift or mid-punch to see exactly who the shout is aimed at. Clowder ‘The Titan’ Jae, club owner, jogs down the metal staircase from his office, his heavy boots clanging against the steps. He’s a tall man, six foot something with shoulders that look like they could support a globe. He’s wearing a black t-shirt, branded with a poisonous-green COMFLEX across his broad chest. His hair, once jet black has more silver in it these days. But it doesn’t subtract from his air of authority. Jae is a scary looking man. Many of the trainees here are petrified of him. As they should be. Minho fucking loves him. “What have I told you two fuckwits? Wear your headgear!”

“I’m not about to kick him in the head,” Nikko calls back, his hands on his hips, panting.

Jae keeps advancing on them, ignoring the bows of the trainees. From up here, it looks like a ripple effect. It’s pretty cool. “No headgear. No kicks. That’s the rule.”

“Since when?”

“Since thirty fucking seconds ago when I saw his dirty great big foot careening for your numbskull.”

Nikko chuckles, “He’s not a numbskull.”

“And his foot isn’t that big,” Minho laughs.

“But it’s dirty?” Nikko questions, offended.

“I can smell them from up here,” Minho says.

“Pack it in the pair of you,” Jae threads himself through the ropes before the furious façade disappears and he grins. He hugs Nikko, slapping him roughly on the back. Then ruffles his hair. “Get a fucking haircut.”

“I can’t, my girl says I look like a prince with long hair, and what my queen wants, she gets.”

Jae rolls his eyes, then turns to Minho, “How are you, Min?”

Minho holds a mitt under his arm, tugging it off so he can shake Jae’s gigantic hand. “Good, sir. And you?”

Jae ruffles Minho’s hair, “Happy that you haven’t gone back to blonde.”

“I don’t know,” Nikko says, “I liked his golden cat alter-ego.”

“It’s getting long,” Jae comments, ignoring Nikko entirely. “I thought you preferred it short.”

“I did, when I was in service. Now I’m just enjoying being allowed to have it longer.”

“How are the kids? Good?”

“Yeah, all good.”

“And your shadow? Mini-Min?”

“I was including him and you know I hate that you call him that,” Minho says.

“I would like to see him here more often.”

“He’s picking me up after I’m done here. He’s been looking into some accounts for me.”

“Hmm, that’s not what I meant. He’s a string bean. It won’t do.”

“He’s never been the fighting type,” Minho says, which isn’t inaccurate. Seungmin can fight, but he’s very selective about the battles he chooses. Further proof that he’s the smart one of the family.

“And my brother is okay with that, is he?”

“Yeah,” Minho lies. “Besides, I’m responsible for the youngers.

Seungmin is brilliant in other areas, and I’m happy to utilise those skills. I have this big lug,” he claps Nikko on the shoulder, “Felix and Hyunjin skilled up enough for any fighting requirements,” he knows he sounds defensive, because, well, when it comes to Seungmin, he is. Seungmin is the best of them. He doesn’t understand why Jae or his father can’t understand this simple fact. “Seungmin benefits us all by having actual brains.”

Jae still looks unconvinced. “Well, I suppose he’s not stupid enough to let someone spin kick at their unprotected head, eh?” he arches an eyebrow, and Nikko frowns enviously at him. “You two warmed up?”

They nod.

“What the fuck are you pissing about for then? Headgear on and get to it!”

♤ ♡ ♢ ♧

The fight goes as it often does when Minho is in the ring with Nikko. Exhaustingly.

They stopped doing rounds even before Minho had gone into service.

They made their own rules: ‘first blood’ or ‘tap out’. The longest they had gone before Minho cut Nikko was eighteen minutes. It was the only time a bout ended on first blood.

Their synchronisation is flawless. Their ‘fight’ looks more like a violently choreographed dance, not unlike Capoeira. It’s not by design. They just know each other too well. They’ve trained with each other since they were six years old. They know each other's moves and can effortlessly predict what the other is about to do. Minho knows Nikko’s left foot always slides half-an-inch forward before he’s about to throw a right hook. Nikko knows Minho is about to kick, even before Minho has his foot off the floor.

Despite submitting to Jae’s request to wear padded headgear, they forgo wearing chest guards or shin pads. They know, in the real world, getting hit hurts. You have to know how to utilise the pain and hit back. But the headgear is annoying, interrupting Minho’s field of vision. Nikko catches him with a teeth jarring jab to his shoulder. Minho, in response, axes Nikko’s thigh with his heel.

It’s not long before they draw a crowd as other trainees forgo their own training regimes to watch the Clowder’s battle in the ring. Soon, they are choosing sides, betting between each other on whether the Cat or the Lynx will take the win.

A boxing ring is smaller than an MMA octagon, but Minho prefers it. He likes the forced proximity. Nikko might have a longer reach but Minho is quicker. He spends most of his time ducking and diving, rolling and dodging. The canvas beneath them becoming increasingly slippery from their combined sweat. Minho has to be patient.

“Getting tired?” Minho asks a little breathlessly. He’s fucking exhausted. Every muscle and sinew in his arms and legs feeling as though they are on fire.

“Fuck you,” Nikko says, blinking sweat from his eyes.

Minho smiles round his black mouth guard. Nikko is grouchy, which means he is tired. Minho only has to keep going a little longer.

Nikko’s spin kicks are becoming sloppier. His punches, a little less centred. Then Nikko does what Minho has been waiting for. He bares his blue mouth guard. He’s trying to get air into his lungs. He’s feeling it now.

Minho launches on the opportunity, the shift from defence to offence taking Nikko and the spectators by surprise, their cheers and shouts loud above the rush of blood in Minho’s ears. Minho catches him on the right side of his protected head three times before Nikko can raise his forearm to block him and Minho instantly switches to lower body blows. Backed into the corner, Nikko spins to his right, his left foot sliding that telltale half-an-inch forward, and Minho spins to his side, the right hook missing his face by millimetres. Minho snatches hold of Nikko’s extended forearm, his feet leaving the floor, his legs encircling Nikko’s waist in a koala hug. The momentum of Nikko’s punch combined with Minho’s full weight wrapped around him, alters his centre of gravity and tips him off balance.

They go down together. Nikko spins as they do, landing full on top of Minho, knocking the air from Minho’s lungs in a spray of saliva. But Minho doesn’t relax his grip. In here, it would mean his defeat, but out there, in the real world, letting go would mean death. In here, he’s only required to hold on, he doesn’t have to break a neck.

The spectators are screaming at them now. Slapping the canvas, urging Nikko to get up and Minho to hold on. Jae stands at the ropes, arms folded over his chest, towel around his neck, watching on, looking bored. Nikko might have an advantage when it comes to height and reach, but he doesn’t have Minho’s core strength. On the ground, Minho is better. He only has to hold on.

Grunting, Nikko wriggles and writhes, trying to grip Minho’s wrists, forearms, ankles, anything to get Minho to release him. His blunt fingernails claw at Minho’s sweaty skin, seeking purchase, seeking an escape. He reaches towards Minho’s head, fingers reaching towards Minho’s eyes as his elbow jabs Minho’s ribs and legs. Minho only has to hold on.

Then Nikko goes still, “Arsehole,” he says, as he taps Minho’s thigh three times.

Minho instantly let’s go. Nikko, still lying on top of him, starts laughing and Minho is laughing too. Hands reach down, helping them up off the canvas, cool water hits the back of Minho’s neck, sending a refreshing chill down his spine. He spits out his mouthguard as someone unclasps his headgear and he’s supported to a stool in the blue corner.

“You could have had him five minutes earlier,” Jae says, never satisfied, his massive arms folded across that broad chest of his. “He lost his balance after the fourth spin kick. You could’ve taken him down then with a leg swipe.”

“I would’ve broken his ankle if I did that,” Minho says, nodding a silent ‘thank you’ to a trainee who hands him a towel. Minho scrubs sweat from his face. In the real world, breaking ankles is a good way of winning. Minho had done it. In here though, it’s war games. Minho and Nikko don’t pull punches. They hit to hurt, but they would never try to actually maim the other.

Jae leans over the ropes to speak into Minho’s ear, “I would’ve called that a teachable moment,” he says, before hopping down to the floor. “Everyone! Back to work!”

Minho watches him cross the hall, back towards his office.

“Nineteen minutes!” Nikko calls from the red corner laughing heartily.

Minho grins, “And no blood!”

♤ ♡ ♢ ♧

In the changing room, Minho towels his hair, pulls on clean sweats and a long sleeve shirt. Rotating his shoulder, he sits on a bench and starts to roll a sock. Nikko, towel around his waist, his wet hair brushing the top of his shoulders, sits beside him and hands him a mobile phone.

“They’ve called a meet.”

Instinctively, Minho glances up to check they’re alone before glancing at the message.

♧ Lil’ Wolf: Business. Usual spot. 1400 Weds.

Minho hands the phone back, resumes pulling his sock on, “He’s still a man of few words.”

“‘Spose there’s no point being poetical about it,” Nikko reaches into his gym bag and fishes out a change of clothes. “You want to take this one?”

“Nah,” Minho says automatically. “It’ll be the usual bullshit. Some affiliate ruffling feathers on the wrong side of the river. I can’t be arsed.” It’s partially true.

Nikko sighs.

Minho looks at him, “Do you want me to take it?”

There’s only a two week age difference between them, but Nikko’s legitimacy as Clowder outweighs Minho’s age. Though Nikko has never once used his legitimacy to undermine Minho’s decisions, Minho is always conscious that he could.

They’d first met when they were four. Minho still remembers how nervous he’d been, brought up to the big house and introduced to his new brothers who were older, tough and scary. Nikko was the only one his age, a skinny, brattish thing. All teeth and snot and the only one who made Minho feel accepted. They’d bonded over toy soldiers and jam sandwiches. Had supported each other through bad break-ups, and fights. To the outside world, they are brothers in all but blood. But blood is thicker than the water of the womb.

Despite that, they had agreed when they were fourteen, that they weren’t actually brothers. But best mates. So when Minho is asked how many brothers he has, he only counts Hyunjin, Felix and Seungmin. He doesn’t count the three in prison, the three who died or the one who disappeared. And he doesn’t count Nikko. His best friend.

Nikko shakes his head, “No. I’ll do it. But I was meant to meet with Jess for lunch on Wednesday. She’s going to be pissed.”

“Take her out in the evening, make a proper night of it. Make a reservation at a posh restaurant, book a hotel and order pancakes for breakfast. That’ll make up for any lunch plans.”

Nikko half smiles, “You old romantic you.”

Minho pulls on his other sock.

“I kind of like Chan you know,” Nikko says, drawing a look of warning from Minho. “What? Come on! He’s not a bad bloke. I always wondered what you got from all your covert meetings with him, but I think I get it now.”

“There’s nothing to get,” Minho tells him, an outright lie.

“How many folks are in our position? You and I have each other, and that’s great and all, but sometimes, I like to hear his side of things. It makes what we do feel less…I dunno…less…”

“Isolated.”

“Yes!” Nikko jostles Minho’s shoulder, making Minho wince. “I knew you’d understand what I meant.”

Annoyingly, Minho understands full well. Before Minho had gone into service, it had crossed his mind that if he and Chan had met outside of their ‘family business’ meetings, they might actually be mates. He’d be someone you could share a beer with. They’d seen some shit in their time. Had probably perpetrated a lot of it. Doesn’t matter that they are on opposite sides. They’d both been in the trenches.

Which is precisely why Minho hadn’t been keen to take back the role of intermediary when he got out of service. He couldn’t afford to think of the enemy like that. Besides, Nikko had been doing a great job keeping the peace without him. Nikko’s personality, likeability is far better suited to the role. Far better suited to Chan. Though Minho occasionally feels guilty about how his last meeting with Chan had gone.

“Never let my dad hear you talk like that,” Minho says with sincerity. “I mean it. It’s okay with me, but you know what he’s like.”

“I know,” Nikko leans back against the tiles, palms a growing bruise on his ribs. “Anything I should know before I meet him?”

“Nah, it’s all quiet this end,” Minho stands, lifts his bag off the floor and zips it up. “Give me a call and let me know how it goes.”

“Sure thing.”

They bump fists.

“And order extra syrup,” Minho says, before clarifying, “For the pancakes. Jess has a sweet tooth.”

Nikko laughs, “Right, yeah. I’ll see you at home on Friday?”

“Yeah, see you then.”

♤ ♡ ♢ ♧

Minho steps out of COMFLEX and into a horrible day. The rain seemingly coming at him sideways when his phone starts ringing.

“Sam? Everything okay?”

“Uh, yes, sir. Sorry for bothering you–”

“What’s wrong?” Minho ducks under an awning of a neighbouring café.

“Uh, well,” Sam lowers his voice, forcing Minho to increase the volume on his phone. “There’s a young lady here and she’s very keen to see you.”

“A lady? What lady?” Minho’s not sure he knows of any women who know about his connection to the DLC excluding those that already work there.

“Her name is Jin-Ae,” Sam says like this should clarify matters.

It does not. “I don’t know anyone called Jin-Ae.”

“She’s returning your coat?”

“My coat? What’s she doing with…” Minho’s brain whirs and clicks, his hand clenching around his phone as he silently curses at the universe.

“Do you want me to send her away?”

“No, no. Don’t do that. Has she been there long?”

“No sir, not long. Ten minutes or so.”

“It’s going to take me twenty minutes to get there,” Minho sees the BMW Series-7 pull up and jogs over to it, throwing his bag into the back seat and sliding in the front. “Can you keep her there–willingly, I mean.”

“I’m sure she’ll wait sir, she’s pretty keen to see you.”

“Right, Sam, I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he nods to Seungmin.

Seungmin is already driving, swinging the car into the flow of traffic south westerly, towards the club.

“See you soon, sir,” Sam says, disconnecting the call.

“Trouble?” Seungmin asks.

“No,” Minho says, but he’s not entirely sure. He’s trying to understand how Jin-Ae found him.

“I see you won your little fight,” Seungmin says. “Nikko tap out?”

“How do you always know?” Minho chuckles, adjusting the seat warmer.

Seungmin shrugs, “How’s ahjussi?”

“The same,” Minho says carefully.

Not carefully enough, “He’s still pissed at me missing sessions then.”

“You know what he’s like,” Minho says, like it’s a valid excuse.

“Uh-huh,” Seungmin chews his bottom lip. “So why are we heading to the club? Have you seen sense and decided to sell up?”

“No,” Minho says. “We discussed this on Sunday.”

By ‘discussed', he means that he had spent forty minutes listening to Seungmin berate him and remind him just what a balls-up he’d made. According to Seungmin’s calculations, someone would soon be coming to collect the equivalent of two years worth of profits. That was the protection fee, plus their extortionate late payment fee, which had been growing even before Minho had signed the papers. Minho was, and still is, of the attitude ‘let them try’ much to Seungmin and Hyunjin’s annoyance.

Hyunjin, in response to Minho’s request for a security review and risk assessment, and upon learning that it wasn’t protected under the family name, had done a complete overhaul. He replaced about seventy percent of the original security with guys he knew and trusted. He’d installed new CCTV, upgraded the alarm systems, replaced the access doors and installed keypad security systems. He’d even upgraded the apartment doors with fireproof ones, and transformed the club office into a panic room with an auto-lock system. He’d achieved all that in the space of forty-eight hours. Whilst impressed that Hyunjin could pull all that off in a ridiculously short space of time, Minho is dreading the invoices.

“You haven’t grassed me up to dad yet?”

“‘Yet’, being the operative word,” Seungmin sighs. “You asked me not to, so I won’t. But I still think you’re taking a hell of a risk. And Hyunjin agrees with me on this and that should be an indicator of how messed up this is. The DLC is an albatross. You’re safer without it.”

“You know sailors consider it bad luck to kill albatrosses,” Minho says in his defence.

“You’re not a fucking sailor, Min!”

“No, but I am a Clowder, and I’m not letting the Parks run me out of the place.”

“You paid in cash under your own name, for a club south of the river, which is outside our territory,” Seungmin points out. “They don’t know it’s Clowder owned yet.”

“‘Yet’, being the operative word,” Minho chuckles.

“I don’t understand you,” Seungmin shakes his head. “You could be done with it if you publicise it as Clowder. It’s not even your debt for fuck’s sake.”

“Precisely,” Minho says. “Let them fuck around and find out.”

“You’re forgetting you won’t be there when they do fuck around,” Seungmin says. “Sam and the staff will be. The longer you drag this out, the more risk you’re putting them under.”

Now Minho sighs. Seungmin, the smartest of them all.

“You know what, you’re right,” Minho says. “I’ll speak to dad on Friday and get the deeds changed to Clowder.”

“Thank fuck,” Seungmin says. “Maybe Nikko managed to knock some sense into you after all.”

♤ ♡ ♢ ♧

Minho rings the buzzer. Waits. Kicks the metallic door three times, hard.

He and Seungmin are in the alley at the side of the club. Seungmin with his suit jacket pulled up over his head, and Minho getting weighed down by his soaked sweatshirt.

It’s just under a minute before the door clangs open outward. The sudden movement causes Seungmin to take a step back, and into a puddle, “For fuck’s–” he hisses, shaking his foot.

“Hello, sirs–”

“Yeah, welcome, pleasantries, all that,” Minho says, “How about just letting us in before we get any wetter?”

Sam steps aside and they enter the back stairwell that leads to the private apartments. Seungmin swears under his breath as they drip on the concrete floor.

Sam looks at them, presses his lips together.

“Don’t you dare fucking laugh,” Minho says, but he starts chuckling himself. “It’s fucking torrential out there.”

“Ah, but it’s good for the flowers,” Sam says, fully smiling now. “Can I get you towels? A change of clothes?”

“You think anything you have would fit either of us?” Minho asks mockingly. Sam is not a small guy. Even standing in front of them in a t-shirt, basketball shorts and foam sandals, he’s an intimidating figure. Before you throw in his tat-sleeved arms and calves.

“Maybe Seungmin,” Sam allows, “But I’m sure one of the girls might have something that could fit you.”

Seungmin barks out a laugh, which in turn makes Minho smile. Seungmin has a great laugh. Minho doesn’t hear it often.

“Can I fire him?”

“No, he’s indispensable now.”

Minho shakes Sam’s hand before he peels off his soaked hoodie and drops it over a radiator. Seungmin rids himself of his suit jacket. His shirt is near translucent from the rain and a mark on his shoulder blade visible through the fabric catches Minho’s attention. It’s black, circular, divided into four sections and contains intricate swirls that interlace each segment. Minho grabs him roughly, “Did you get a fucking tattoo?”

“Yes,” Seungmin sighs.

“When?”

“The day after you went into service.”

“You’ve had a tattoo all this time?”

“Yes,” Seungmin shrugs Minho off, turns to face him. “Problem?”

Minho blinks, “No. No problem, I’m just surprised that’s all. I didn’t think you’d be the type to…” his voice trails off as Seungmin’s eyebrows raise slowly, and Sam surreptitiously shakes his head. “What the fuck do I know? It looks cool.” Minho says, before asking, “What is it?”

Sam, standing slightly behind Seungmin, has his head tilted as he inspects it himself.

“If you must know, it’s the elements.”

“Ah, I see it now,” Sam says, “That’s cool. I’m not familiar with the artist.”

“My brother designed it, taking my suggestions,” Seungmin says, looking back at Minho. “I knew what I wanted and Jin made it better.”

Minho makes a note to have a conversation with Hyunjin about this later.

“Why the elements though?” Minho asks. This is a whole side of his brother he didn’t know about. He’s not entirely comfortable with the feeling that there are things about his little brother he doesn’t know. Things that he’s missed.

“It doesn’t matter,” Seungmin says, striding towards the club proper.

Minho jogs to catch up. Seungmin has freakishly long legs that move him great distances in only a few strides. “Go on, tell me.”

“You wouldn’t get it,” Seungmin says.

“Tattoos are kind of personal,” Sam says quietly.

“Listen, jackass!” Minho snaps, “Just because I’m dressed like a fucking civvy today, don’t forget who you’re talking to.” Sam immediately raises his hands level with his shoulders, mocking surrender, biting down a grin. Minho lowers his voice, “I’m allowed to ask though right? Like, there isn’t a rule that I can’t ask?”

“You can ask, but he doesn’t have to tell you.”

Minho chews this over for a solid two seconds, “Seungmo, why the elements?”

“Fuck off Min,” Seungmin says, his knuckles whitening on his balled up suit jacket.

Minho sighs, turns to Sam, “Why did you get your tattoos?”

“A combination of inebriation, poor impulse control, vanity and enjoyment of pain, sir.”

Minho doesn’t think he’s joking.

They enter the main body of the club through an upgraded security door. In the daylight, with the main lights on, it looks like a warehouse with a raised bar. The walls and windows are painted black. There are black and red couches lining some of the walls and some tables and chairs strategically placed around the raised bar area and the podiums. The dance floor is a wide open space, polished to a shine from hundreds of dancing feet. There is rigging criss-crossing high above them holding lights and mirror balls. It’s all pretty ugly in the day, but it is all his.

Minho grins to himself as he crosses the dance floor and jogs up the steps to the bar area. Jin-Ae is perched on a stool. She’s wearing a fluffy pink jumper, pale blue chinos and pink pumps and carrying a black handbag gazing at the optics behind the bar. Her long black hair reaches down as far as her waist.

“Hello,” Minho says softly, pausing a good couple of metres from her.

Jin-Ae turns to face him, smiles, then immediately starts to cry.

“Oh!” Minho says, looking to Seungmin and then to Sam who look at each other in response.

Jin-Ae hops down from the stool and bows low, her long hair almost sweeping the floor. “Thank you for coming to meet me, sir. I know you must be busy and I am very grateful to have the opportunity to thank you in person. Thank you, a thousand times, thank you.”

“Oh, well, that’s, um, okay,” Minho says, to the back of her head. “It’s Jin-Ae, isn’t it?”

She looks up, sniffs. Nods. Sniffs once more. Her long black hair is styled to cover the worst of the bruising to the left side of her face. The white of her left still-swollen eye is blood-red. She looks even tinier than she had on Friday night and a hell of a lot younger. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

“You really don’t have to–”

“But I do! If your friend hadn’t found me I–” she bites her lip, pulling her hands into the sleeves of her jumper. “I don’t know how to repay both of you for what you did.”

Minho catches a glimpse of Seungmin and Sam’s questioning looks. He gestures to a table in the corner. “Shall we grab a seat?”

Jin-Ae nods and follows Minho. Seungmin props himself on a stool at the bar, whilst Sam walks round behind it.

“Would you like a drink or…?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

“Minho.”

“No, thank you, Minho,” Jin-Ae smiles shyly.

They sit and look at each other for a couple of beats, before Minho says, “How did you find me?”

Jin-Ae reaches inside her handbag and pulls out neatly folded papers and holds them out to him. She’s wearing a thumb splint on her right hand.

Minho takes them, unfolds the top sheet and exhales. It’s his solicitors papers confirming the purchase of the DLC. Important documents of the kind you don’t want to lose, or leave in a coat pocket before giving it to a stranger.

“They were in the inside pocket,” Jin-Ae points at a suit bag hanging from the back of the bar stool next to Seungmin. “I bled on it a little so I took it to be cleaned. They were very good and they got it all out. It’s as good as new.”

Minho can’t help smiling. She’s a sweet thing, “You shouldn’t have worried about that. And thank you for bringing these back to me.”

“It’s the least I could do…after…”

Minho sets the papers on the table. “Are you okay?”

She smiles widely, but the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Still a little sore. But it would’ve been worse if your friend–”

“Jisung.”

“Jisung,” she smiles with fondness. Then it falls away completely. “He saved my life,” she says quietly, “I tried to fight them off…but…” she rubs the back of her tiny hand. Her knuckles are scabbed. The bruises yellow with a hint of green. Her thumb is clearly swollen beneath the splint. “If he didn’t appear when he did… if he didn’t intervene…” she sniffs, a single tear trickling down her cheek and dripping off her chin, staining the knee of her chinos. “He was the only one who stopped to help me.” She wipes her nose with the sleeve of her jumper. “My dad blames me.”

Minho feels a heat burning in his chest, “You know it wasn’t your fault, right?”

“If I hadn’t separated from my friends, if I was wearing something sensible–”

“That is utter bullshit,” Minho says, unable to maintain his temper. Out of his peripheral vision he sees Seungmin and Sam look in his direction and fights to maintain his cool, “it shouldn’t matter what you wear, or what time of day it is, or whether or not you are alone or with friends. They were the ones in the wrong.”

“But if–”

“No,” Minho says with finality, “They were the ones in the wrong. And if your dad has an issue with anything that I just said, you send him to me.”

Jin-Ae smiles a little at that. “You wouldn’t hurt him, would you?”

“Not if you didn’t want me to,” Minho says and Jin-Ae giggles. It’s a nice sound. A shy titter, that she covers with her hand. “You know, I could show you how to punch, if you’d like to do it yourself.”

She full-on laughs at that.

“Look, what happened to you, shouldn’t happen to anyone, and I am sorry that it did, but I am so happy that Jisung was there to prevent it from going further.”

Jin-Ae nods, “I’d like to see him. Jisung. To thank him in person.”

“Well, uh,” Minho clears his throat. “It’s not really…I mean… we’re not really… we actually only met that night.”

“Oh, I thought…you seemed close?” Jin-Ae says. “But you know how to contact him?”

“Well, I guess…”

Jin-Ae is reaching into her handbag again. She pulls out two square envelopes. One is pink and the other is green and immediately they remind Minho of Jisung’s hideous socks. She holds them out to Minho. “One for you and one for Jisung.”

“I can’t accept–”

“Please? I am really grateful for what you both did,” Jin-Ae says, “It’s not much. It’s nothing really. I made them myself.”

Reluctantly, Minho takes the envelopes.

“You’ll pass one to Jisung?”

“Yes,” Minho says.

“You promise?”

Minho inhales, “Yes. I promise.”

Jin-Ae’s smile finally reaches her eyes and Minho knows he can’t break this oath. “You know,” he says, “I was being serious about showing you how to punch? Did you break your thumb or–”

“Dislocated.”

Minho nods, “Show me how you make a fist.”

Tentatively, Jin-Ae raises her tiny left hand, her fingers wrapped around her thumb.

“See,” Minho nods and points, “That’s how you dislocated your thumb. You want your thumb to rest beneath your middle knuckles,” he demonstrates and she adjusts. Minho nods, “Now really clench those fingers together, that’s it,” he holds up his palm, “Now hit it.”

She blinks at him.

“It’s okay, go on.”

She does. Smacking straight into his palm.

“How did that feel?”

“Well, it didn’t hurt this time.”

Minho beams at her, “If you’d be interested in learning some defence moves, I’d be happy to recommend a place.”

Jin-Ae grins, and now, for the first time Minho can see the real Jin-Ae. The Jin-Ae from before. The Jin-Ae that fought. “I’d really like that.”

Half an hour passes. Minho has never been good at small talk, but he finds Jin-Ae easy to listen to. Now, she animatedly tells Minho about her college degree in computer engineering. Apparently, her father (who Minho dislikes immensely) would prefer her to become a doctor or a pharmacist, “…I prefer computers, they don’t have emotions.”

As if on queue, Seungmin comes over to their table with a couple of lemonades.

“Oh! Thank you,” Jin-Ae says, drinking deeply.

“Jin-Ae, this is my brother, Seungmin.”

“Hi,” Jin-Ae smiles up at him.

“Uh–huh-hi, I mean, hello,” Seungmin says, his cheeks going a similar shade to Jin-Ae’s jumper. He clears his throat, “Hi.”

“You said that,” Minho can’t help himself.

“Sorry for all this,” she gestures to the air around her, “I’m sure you’re both really busy and I’m taking up way too much of your time.”

“No, not at all,” Minho says, partly out of politeness, partly because she’s a sweet girl and partly because Seungmin looks a little warm.

“I should actually probably be going, I don’t want to miss the bus,” she stands, and Minho rises to his feet with her. She fumbles with her handbag, and Seungmin gently takes hold of it, holding it out for her.

"Thank you.”

Seungmin blinks.

“Do you live far?” Minho asks.

“Gangnam.”

“The weather is awful today, Seungmin can give you a lift, if you’d like?”

“Oh I couldn’t ask him to do that,” Jin-Ae says.

“Uh–” Seungmin looks at Minho a little helplessly.

“You wouldn’t mind, would you?” Minho says, nodding at Seungmin that he’s not actually requesting his honesty here.

Seungmin nods back, “Yeah, I mean no, I… yes. Not a problem. Sure.”

Minho squints at him. Jin-Ae smiles warmly at him. Seungmin blinks a few times before he spins on his heel and heads back to the bar for his suit jacket. His shirt has dried considerably, the tattoo barely visible through the fabric now.

Jin-Ae tucks a length of hair behind her ear, watching Seungmin walk away. Minho catches Sam’s knowing smile across the bar. Jin-Ae turns to Minho, “Thank you again.”

“You don’t have to keep thanking me,” Minho tells her. “Remember, if you go to the club and I’m not there, ask for Jae or Nikko and tell them I sent you.”

“Jae or Nikko. Got it. Thanks,” Jin-Ae inhales, then hugs Minho around his waist. “Thank you so much.”

Hesitantly, Minho pats her on the back. “Please stop thanking me.”

Jin-Ae lets him go, “I don’t think I’ll be able to do that,” she tells him, pointing at the envelopes on the table beside Minho’s untouched lemonade. “You will give that to Jisung?”

Minho nods.

“You promised,” Jin-Ae’s smile is a little teasing.

“I’ll make sure he gets it,” Minho says as Seungmin returns.

“And you’ll text me when you do?”

“You like to cross the t’s and dot i’s, don’t you?”

Jin-Ae smiles in response.

“I’ll text you.”

“Ready?” Seungmin says to Jin-Ae. She nods, smiles. Seungmin blinks. He looks at Minho, “See you in a bit?”

Minho nods and watches as Seungmin strides towards the foyer and the main exit. He holds the door open for Jin-Ae, who pauses on the threshold and waves a final goodbye before she disappears, Seungmin a couple of steps behind.

Sighing, Minho lifts the envelopes and the papers off the table and walks over to the bar, where Sam is leaning.

“Well that was interesting,” Sam says as Minho slides onto a stool. “I don’t think I’ve heard him speak that ineloquently before.”

“You and me both,” Minho chuckles, inspecting the small envelopes.

“She seems like a nice girl.”

“She is.”

Sam nods at the coloured envelopes, “You going to open them?”

“Only one is for me. The other is for–” Minho shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Pink is definitely your colour,” Sam grins.

Rolling his eyes, Minho sets the green envelope on the bar and peels open the pink envelope. Inside, wrapped in matching tissue paper, is a piece of red cord, threaded to resemble a four leaf clover with a tassel and attached to a small brass ring.

“That’s nice. A Korean knot,” Sam says, “They’re not easy to make. My grandmother used to make them to sell at flea markets to tourists and people with superstitions. I think this one represents protection or luck? I know red is used for protection and to ward off evil spirits… Sir? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Minho smiles, admiring the small token resting in the palm of his hand. It’s beautiful. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“It might not look like much–”

“No,” Minho interrupts. “It’s a lot.”

Sam nods. “So… who’s the other one for?”

“What did I say about talking to me like I’m a regular?”

“Force of habit when I'm on this side of the bar, sir,” Sam says, drumming his fingers, but he’s smiling. He’d sussed out Minho’s sense of humour a lot quicker than some of Minho’s closest friends had. Minho doesn’t have many friends outside of his family unit. Very few in fact. It’s kind of nice, just chatting.

Minho tucks his knot into his pocket, looks at Sam. Perhaps it’s because Sam knows him, that he says, “It's for Jisung.”

“Oh,” Sam’s eyebrows rise swiftly and he grins, “Oh I see.”

Quickly, Minho explains the circumstances surrounding Jin-Ae, the six men that attacked her and Jisung coming to her rescue.

“I heard about that. Happened a couple of blocks from here? Jisung did all that? Six of them? Apparently four of them are still in hospital.” Sam looks at a spot above Minho’s head, nods, “Guess I underestimated him.”

Something in Minho’s chest swells. It’s pride. He’s proud of Jisung.

“She is lucky Jisung was there,” Sam continues, “She’s a tiny thing.”

“So lucky.”

“And, he was lucky you were there for him.”

“I guess,” Minho sighs, though he’s sure Jisung would've been fine without him. Minho hadn’t seen dirty street fighting quite like that. It was filthy. Kind of hot. “She wants me to pass this on to him. She made me promise.”

Sam shrugs, “So do it.”

Minho hesitates. “He said he’d call and he hasn’t.”

“Ah,” Sam sighs, scratches his forehead, leans on his elbows. “You know, he comes here every Friday night. You’re bound to bump into him now that you own the place.”

“Great,” Minho pushes his fingers through his still damp hair.

“Do you want him to call you?”

“Yeah, but–”

“I think you need to take the lead on this one, sir,” he stands to his full height, arms folded across his chest.

“I could leave it here and you or one of the others could pass it to him.”

“Or you could just text him…” he shrugs. “But if I were you, I’d try and keep your promise to that girl.”

Minho stares at Sam for a long moment. “Fine,” he says, reaching into his pocket for his phone.

LM: Hi. It’s Minho–

“You really think he needs to be reminded of your name?”

“Excuse me,” Minho laughs, pulling his phone out of Sam’s eyeline. “Privacy, please.”

LM: Hi. It's me. Any chance we can meet up? Just to talk.

“Done,” Minho says, setting the phone on the bar. It vibrates within thirty seconds signalling a new message.

Sam grins. Minho wants to slap him.

ACE: 2222555555633

Minho frowns, “What the fuck?” he shows Sam, who chuckles in response. Minho narrows his eyes at him. “You know what that is?”

“Maybe,” Sam says, he’s still smiling. “I guess you weren’t in the navy?”

“Army. I can’t swim,” he stares at the numbers on his screen.

“Neither can I,” Sam says, turning to grab his bottle of water. “Still spent eighteen months there.”

“You can’t swim and you chose the navy? Do you have a death wish or something?”

Sam drinks, shrugs, “Well, my naïve mind at the time figured that I’d rather serve on a boat with people that would be very keen to keep it afloat, than be in the army and receive no water training and wind up on a boat anyway. And they do provide life jackets.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Like I said, ‘naïve mind’. I spent six weeks in a life jacket. Slept in the damn thing too. I was glad when they stuck me back on land and behind a desk,” Sam grins, “Where I was taught how to use touch-pad phones for some transmissions.”

Minho stares at the numbers again. “Okay smartass. So what does it say?”

“C-A-L-L-M-E.”

♢ ♧ If you made it this far, thank you for your support! ♤ ♡ please consider leaving a comment, like or reblog ♤ ♡ ©2024Intrikatie ♢ Ao3 ♧ Quotev ♤ Wattpad ♡

dividers by the talented @firefly-graphics

TASTE M.List & Sypnosis

Chapter 1 - Parley

Chapter 2 - The DLC

Chapter 3 - Broken Compass

Chapter 4 - The Wolf & His Pack

Chapter 6 - Hoodie Season [wt]

[g0kotta]

What’s your favourite scary movie?

Ghostface!Geto x f!reader

Your ex was always a bit weird, but you still loved him. After breaking up you went to your first halloween party with your friends. What could go wrong?

Warnings: death, blood, horror?, crazy Geto, swearwords, maybe a tiny bit suggestive? Geto is an asshole.

Around 1.6k words

English is not my first language and I did not re-read this. Spelling mistakes?

You stand in front of the bedroom mirror looking at yourself. The costume fit you well, hugging all the right spots. You’ve never looked hotter. Shoko, your friend which somehow managed to drag you into this mess, whistled behind you.

“You look good.” she smirked as she took out the last cigarette from her beat down box that looked like it was run over by that stupid bus that takes you to university. “You should put on those white thigh high socks and then I’ll spray you with some blood.”

“Hopefully it’s fake.” you roll your eyes and smirk at the med student. “I don’t want any of your study rat’s blood on me.”

“You’ll find out afterwards.” Shoko says sarcastically and leaves the room while the smell of cigarettes stays right there with you and travels all the way to her room.

You let out a sigh as you fix your cheerleader uniform and then walk up to a drawer, starting to look for those white thigh high socks. You hum a tune as you finally take them out, putting them on and then on top of them you put on your worn out converses that you don’t mind spraying with fake blood. Shoko steps back in the room and before you can even react you feel something cold, wet and sticky splash onto your body.

“What the fuck, Shoko?!” You squeal as you turn to look at your friend. She was already standing there with the biggest grin and then you feel more of the substance hitting your body. “Bitch!?”

She just laughs.

“Finally you look perfect.” She says and takes the last hit of her cigarette before putting it out in an ashtray you left for her in your room. You bought it when you went to Paris with your ex. You grimace at the memory and shake your head.

“Gojo is coming with us.” She says as she looks at her phone. Funnily enough, she was a bloody nurse for halloween. Said it was an easy costume as she already had all of the clothes she’ll never use again from previous years.

“Will he be there?” You ask with a slight tone to your voice.

“Don’t know. Gojo didn’t say and I didn’t ask.” She shook her shoulders and took you by your hand. “C’mon let’s go. Gojo’s waiting outside.”

“Already?” You raise an eyebrow as you follow her out.

-

The same second you stepped into the party, Gojo was already gone. He was dressed up as Jack Frost and you only rolled your eyes as he ran after the first hot girl he saw. Shoko on the other hand stayed with you for a while but then left to look for someone who had cigarettes and wanted to share. So you were left all alone standing in the stupid party you didn’t even want to come to.

You saw a few familiar faces here and there, no one you were too close with. Though it was quite okay. At least you weren’t stuck in your room, depressing over your ex-boyfriend.

You fix your skirt as you take a step towards the kitchen. Your throat was dry and you wanted another beer. As you walk into the kitchen the music dims down behind you. Whoever was throwing this party was rich. Everything was neat and expensive. Even the fridge was way bigger than necessary. You smirk as you notice the note on the fridge informing you that instead of ice, there was wine in there. You take a glass and pour yourself some. But before you can take a sip something stops you. A sound. A scream.

Someone was screaming out of pain. Your eyebrows furrow as you slowly get closer to the door. Was that just a part of this party? After all it was halloween. But before you can check it out, someone touches your shoulder and you drop the wine. You let out a scream and turn around to see Gojo towering over you with the biggest smirk.

“You asshole!” You point a finger at his chest while he just laughs.

“You should’ve seen your face! It was so funny.” He wipes off tears from his eyes. “I should’ve taken a-“ suddenly he goes quiet and his eyes widen.

“Satoru?” You ask softly before looking down at his stomach. It was bloody. And the blood spot was getting bigger while something sharp was sticking out. Suddenly it was removed and Gojo opens his mouth for a second. But all that could be heard was a gurgling sound. Blood spills out of his mouth and his body goes limp, falling onto the floor. Once where was his body, stood a tall masked and hooded figure.

Without a word you start running as fast as you could. As you leave the room you see more dead bodies laying around as people try to leave the house, boarding the doors and pushing each other. You start running towards the stairs to the second floor. Maybe you could jump out the window. It wasn’t the safest plan but there was no other option. You heard your shoes hit the floor as you run up the stairs, opening doors of random rooms. You see a big window in one and you smile in victory as you run to it. You start opening it and then look down. It was quite a fall but you’d survive. Maybe strain something or break a bone in the worst case scenario. Or in the best one, after all you don’t want death.

One of your legs go through the window, but before you could jump someone grabs onto your hair and pulls you back. You let out a terrifying scream out of fear and pain and feel something sharp next to your throat. You try not to squirm too much as the sharp tip of the blade was touching your neck.

“Hey.” A deep voice that sounded robotic says. “What’s your favourite scary movie?”

“I don’t watch scary movies.” You answer in a whisper, too scared to move.

“You have a boyfriend, beautiful?”

“Why is this how you want to ask me out on a date?” You spit the words out this time in a panic, thinking about Shoko. Was she dead? Did she manage to get out? Suddenly Gojo’s dead body lingers in your mind and tears well up in your eyes.

“Maybe. Do you have a boyfriend?” He asks again getting closer to your ear.

“No.”

He throws you onto the bed and laughs. His gloved hand grabs onto the end of the mask and pulls it up. And suddenly you’re met with the brown eyes your so familiar with. They’re wide with lust and adrenaline as he looks at you with a big creepy smile. If none of this was happening - you would think he looks quite hot. But now you’ve never been more scared of your ex.

“Awe. You never looked for anyone else. So cute. Such a good girl.” He smirks as he steps closer to you.

“Y-you.. You killed Gojo?” You couldn’t believe it. Why would Geto kill his own best friend?

“He was getting too close to you for my liking.” Suddenly he pressed the blade into your thigh, slashing it a bit and staining your white thigh highs with more blood. This time though, it wasn’t fake. You let out a whine out of pain and he shuts you up with a kiss. “You belong to me. Don’t you ever forget that.” He whispers into your lips and brings the knife to your throat.

“Please.. Please don’t kill me.” You ask while tears fall down your face and he just chuckles wiping them off. His hands were stained with blood and while touching you he was also staining you with the blood of your innocent friends.

“You’re so pretty when you beg.” He grins. The tip of the blade reaches your shirt and he starts cutting it open. “Y’wanna know why I killed them all?” He hums. “Because I fucking hated them. I hated them all. Stupid monkeys.. So filthy and stained by the world. And I hate you too. Oh you have no idea how much I fucking hate you.”

“Suguru..” you let out a chocked sob.

“Shh.. shut up.” He grabs your face, squishing your cheeks making your lips pout. “You’re so pretty, but so fucking dumb. If you-“

Sirens of police were heard outside and Geto smirks as he steps away.

“If you tell anyone. I’ll kill every single person you love. And then.. I’ll kill you.” He puts his mask down and the robotic voice is back again. “By the way.. You look so hot in that costume.”

And then he’s gone again as you lay in the bed all alone and bloody, crying.

Extra:

You were laying on the couch in the living room. It’s been a few weeks after the incident. Shoko was safe. She was the one who called the police as she was outside for quite a while, smoking a cigarette. Now she was in school as you were left at home alone.

The phone rang and you lazily picked it up.

“Hello?” You say softly, as you were laying really comfortable and almost falling asleep.

“(Y/N). What’s your favourite scary movie?”

[multi-fan-dom-madness]

Midnight Masquerade - Echo

Chapter Summary: Echo is the lucky bastard who gets to fuck you—or maybe you're the lucky one.

Chapter Warnings: siren!Echo x gn!reader; kinks: formal wear + voice kink. unprotected penetrative sex (can be read as PiV or PiA), cum as lube, Echo has hair because I say so, this one's a little more tame on the 'monster'fucker front but I hope it ticks some boxes for y'all regardless; if I missed any warnings please lmk!

Word Count: 2.6k

Read the intro here! | Suggested listening

...Echo. 

A round of wolf-whistles rises from the rest of the table (quite literally, in Hunter’s case). Echo jostles you with his elbow, a good-natured grin gracing his features. Quirking an eyebrow at him, you drink in the sight of him sitting next to you. His perfectly tailored suit hugs his body in all the right places, thighs straining against the fine material; the silken red bowtie at his neck draws your eye appreciatively down the strong column of his throat. His hair has grown back in a fuzzy nest of brown curls that he’s slicked back. In short, he looks positively mouth-watering. That’s exactly what happens as you rake your gaze over him.

“Get a room, you two,” Fives jeers, playfully tossing a balled up napkin at you. 

It bounces harmlessly off your face. You flash him a rude gesture before rising to your feet, offering your hand to Echo.

“Shall we?”

He takes your hand. Against your skin, his satin glove is smooth and warm, the strength of his grip belied by the entrapment. You suppress a shiver as you step away from the table, Echo trailing you, fingers laced through yours. 

As you begin to wind your way through the crowd, you shoot a glance over your shoulder to Echo. He smirks at you, one eyebrow raised as if in question. In the strobing, multicolored lights, he looks near ethereal, a vision stepped straight out of one of those high-end Coruscanti model holos. You bite your lip. 

His smirk deepens. Tugging you back against his chest, he wraps his scomp arm around your middle to hold you against his chest. He carefully presses his cheek to the side of your head, mindful of his headpiece, and inhales your scent.

“Care for a dance, cyare?” he asks.

A delightful, full-body tingle shivers through you at the way his voice rumbles against your ear. “You read my mind.” 

He hums, the sound sending another frisson of exhilaration cascading through all your nerves. Not releasing his hold on you, your hands still entwined where he brings them to rest on your hip, he finds the rhythm of the song, a deep, bassy, sexy beat that vibrates your bones. Gently, giving you enough leeway in case you decide you want to pull away, he guides your hips to the music. 

It’s all the encouragement you need. Circling your hips, you grind your ass against his crotch, earning a low, groaning chuckle. Snaking your hand free up and back, you thread your fingers through his curls. Echo turns his head, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the pulse point just below your jaw.

A gasp escapes you, lost in the consuming bass of the music. He laves at that spot, nipping playfully. 

Emboldened by the shifting, partial lighting and his lips on your neck, you grind against him again as you draw his hand up your chest. A moan tumbles from you as the half-hard definition of his cock presses against you through layers of clothing. His fingers dance over your chest, tweaking a nipple through your shirt.

“Feel what you do to me, pretty thing?” he murmurs, voice sliding like honey over your ears. “Drive me kriffin’ crazy.”

You’ve never realized it before, but stars, you could listen to Echo talk all day. He could read a damn dictionary and you’d be enthralled. Turning your head, you peer up into his eyes, mere pinpricks of shine in the green-tinted lights flashing around you. Dropping your gaze to his lips, your eyelashes flutter. 

“What d’you want, cyare, hm? Tell me,” he urges, eyes fixated on your parted lips.

“I want,” you begin, voice tremulous, “I want to kiss you.” 

“You wanna kiss me?” he repeats, a dangerous smirk curling over his face.

Gulping, you nod. You don’t trust your voice now to not reveal the intensity of the fire scorching through your veins. 

With a contented sigh, Echo tips his head forward and captures your lips in a heated kiss. His scomp tugs you tighter against his chest as he practically ruts his hardness against your ass, When he tugs again at your nipple, you whimper into his mouth. Electricity sparks where he touches you. But he doesn’t relent, kissing you until you’re dizzy with want. Arousal pools hot and tight in your belly.

“Kriff,” you gasp as you pull away from his mouth, “kriff, Echo, stars.” 

He chuckles. His gaze sweeps over the crowd around you—but no one seems to be paying you any mind. “What’s the matter, sweetness?”

“Want you,” you say, leaning your head back against his shoulder.

“Want me to what?”

His voice has dropped an octave, positively dripping with sex, and you shudder in his grasp. How can one person’s voice be so alluring, so enticing? 

Rather than using your words, you extricate yourself from his embrace and, crooking one finger with a coy smile, urge him to follow you again. A bemused smile graces his features; he slips his hand into his pocket as he steps after you.

You lead him towards the back hallway you’d caught sight of earlier, down a series of blind turns, and pick a door at random. Within, there’s a simple bed with silk sheets; dozens of candles, strewn on every available surface, cast the room in a cheery, cozy glow. Echo moves past you, surveying the room with a curious expression.

“This works,” you say, shutting the door. 

You take another moment to really, fully appreciate the specimen of a man before you. Echo gives you an indulgent smile. Backlit by the flickering candlelight, he looks divine; the crisp lines of his black suit outline his silhouette in exquisite fashion. Up close, you realize that the fabric isn’t solid black, but rather one shade of black embroidered with another, darker hue. Tracing one of the repeating designs, you reach with tentative fingers to unbutton the matching vest.

Only to gasp in surprise when his hand catches your wrist.

“You never answered my question,” he says. His gaze holds your own, deep and soulful and burning. Have his eyes always been that golden?

“Everything,” you say, the answer falling from your lips without a second thought. “I want you to do everything to me.”

His eyes fall to half-lidded, a sultry twist to his mouth. “Everything, cyare? That’s awfully broad. How am I supposed to pick?” 

Another shiver dances up your spine as goosebumps erupt all over your skin at his voice. Echo’s eyebrows twitch at your physiological response. 

“D’you like the sound of my voice, pretty little thing?” he asks, inflecting the words down, deeper, hotter.

Nodding, a more concrete idea of what you want crystallizes in your mind. “Love your voice, Echo. Can you— can you make me cum just by talking to me?”

He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, his cheeks turning a delightful shade of pink. “Kriff, yeah, baby. Whatever you want. Want to get off from me telling you everything I want to do to your gorgeous body?”

You whine, pleasurable heat pulsing through your core.

“Alright, baby.” He gestures toward the bed. “Get undressed and get comfy.” 

“What about you?” you ask. You’re already shucking your clothes, but pause when he fixes you with an inscrutable look.

“Oh no,” he says, “you asked for my voice. The suit stays on. Fitting, that you’d ask me to whisper filth to you, when I’m dressed as a siren.”

Inhaling a short breath in surprise, you merely blink at him. He chucks you under your chin with a wink, then glances down at your state of half-undress. Swallowing, you hurry to strip out of the rest of the now-too tight garments and clamber up onto the silky smooth sheets. You prop yourself up with a number of plush pillows. 

“Good,” Echo murmurs. He perches on the edge of the bed, one thick thigh crossed under the other, his hand supporting the way he leans. “Such a good listener.” 

The praise coils through your ears and settles in your lower belly, simmering with an intense, acute heat. You can only nod, at a loss for words.

“Sit on your hands for me, baby,” he instructs. “Can’t have you cheating, now can we?” 

Your chest heaves with anticipation as you shift, sliding your hands beneath your butt to trap them there. Echo’s eyes flicker a brighter gold. For a moment, he lets you sit there, core aching, skin flushed and sweat beginning to dew. At the apex of your thighs, your arousal throbs, demanding to be touched.

“Bet you feel so soft,” he says. The way he murmurs the words makes you think it’s more a thought that slipped out than an intentional statement, but the effect is the same: your nipples pebble as if inviting him to touch. He clears his throat and continues. “Nearly lost my mind out there when you pushed your ass against my dick. Nearly took you right there on the dancefloor.” 

“F-Fuck,” you grit out. His voice caresses your skin, a physical presence. “W-Why didn’t you?”

“Didn’t want to put my vod’e to shame.” He chuckles. “Wanted you all to myself. Wanted to feel how you fall apart, just for me. Is that what you want, cyare? Gonna squirm for me?” 

As if by his request, you push your hips in his direction, silently begging. 

“Thought so,” he says. “Mm. So needy. I’m gonna make you cum just like this, and then I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t walk after, how’s that sound, gorgeous?”

“Yes, yes please, just keep talking,” you whine. The aching need in your core grows with each word he speaks, a spell weaving in the air around you, drawing your nerves along for the ride. 

“You felt so good against me out there,” he continues. “Warm and pliant and body fucking begging me to take you. Gonna make you feel so good, cyare. I’m gonna suck my mark into your neck, show everyone who makes you feel this good. Make sure they know whose cock was buried in you. Fuck, I bet you’re tight, bet you need a good fucking to loosen you up. That what you need, baby? Need to be fucked out?” 

You’re writhing at this point, hips jerking as if his words are physically touching you. “Y-Yes, stars, please!”

“Yeah, I know you need that.” 

You have enough awareness to catch movement in his lap—he’s fucking palming himself through his pants, and the sight draws a raw, cracking moan from your chest. His eyes bore into yours for a moment, an intense, glowing gold, and a jolt of pleasure rocks through you. 

“First I’d make you suck me off, get my dick all nice and wet. Your lips will look so good wrapped around me, kark. Don’t worry, I’d put my mouth on you, too. Tease you with my tongue until you’re begging for me to fuck you. 

“And then I’d slip into your tight hole—ngh, kriff—” He shudders, palm stilling over his crotch for a moment. “Make you scream for me, make you moan until your voice gives out. Then I’d make you cum again, all over my cock. Fuck, you’ll look so pretty when I fuck you like that, takin’ everything I give you.” 

Pleasure mounts in your body with every new word. The rough, raw edge to his voice only serves to rake tingling ecstasy over your entire body. In your belly, the knot of desire pulls tighter, tighter, tighter—you’re teetering on the precipice, ready to shatter at any moment. 

A sob wracks through your form. “Echo, please, need to cum!”

“I know, baby, I know you do,” he coos. “You wanna cum? Cum for me, pretty thing. Cum and then I’ll fuck you just like you need me to.” 

“Oh fuck—” Your moan chokes off into a strangled gasp as his command washes over you. All at once, the knotted core of need in your center snaps and unravels. Your back arches off the bed, hands scrabbling at the silk sheets for purchase as you cum, shouting incoherent praise to the room. Wave after wave breaks over you, each one drowning you in fresh pleasure.

Through it all, Echo murmurs sweet praise in your ear, his fingers finding purchase at your heated core. “That’s it, baby. Just like that, you’re doing so well. See? Promised you I’d make you cum, and now I’m gonna fuck you, okay, baby?”

Dimly, you register his words. Nodding, you think you beg for it—or maybe you’re just begging for the orgasm to keep going, for your body to keep convulsing and shuddering. Somewhere in the haze that begins to settle over your mind, you feel Echo’s hand grip your hip, holding your lower body still, and then he’s pushing into you, his cock slick with spit and your release.

You groan simultaneously. Walls fluttering around his thick length, you suck in lungfuls of air to steady yourself, the stretch a little painful but nevertheless immaculate. He’s so big; he’s everywhere, stuffed into your tight heat and filling your vision and caressing your flushed skin. 

“Kark,” he bites out. “Not gonna last long, cyare.” 

“S’okay,” you pant. “Please fuck me.” 

You don’t need to tell him twice. Snapping his hips against you, his balls slap your ass with every thrust, the erotic sound echoing in the small room. Gripping one of your thighs to his chest, he squeezes it as he drives his cock into you mercilessly, his jacket discarded and the rest of his clothes disheveled. All you can do is lie there and take it, keening brokenly. His cock grazes against that one spot deep in your heat that makes stars burst across your vision. Whining, you fist the sheets to ground yourself. 

“W-Where—” 

“Paint me,” you gasp. “Want your cum on me.”

He pulls out immediately, his cock throbbing. Ribbons of hot, white cum splatter over your chest and tummy. Eyes locked together, you have to fight to keep your own open to catch the way that his face twists with bliss as he cums. But he makes it difficult, working his hand over your center to draw out your second orgasm.

You spasm under his touch, weakly pushing his hand away in overstimulation. Core locked up with tight pleasure, it takes you several long moments to drift back down. Heart pounding, chest heaving, you glance up at Echo with a tired grin. 

He chuckles. “Holy kriff.” 

“You can say that again,” you say, huffing a laugh.

His cum has begun to dry on your skin; you glance around for a towel. Echo retrieves his jacket where he must have tossed it on the other end of the bed and gently wipes your skin clean.

“Thanks,” you murmur, too blissed out to care that he’s ruining a perfectly good suit. 

He shrugs out of the other garments then collapses on the bed next to you. Tangling your fingers together, you smile lazily at one another. Distantly, the music of the party reaches you, but you’re in no rush. 

“So,” you murmur. 

“So,” he echoes. His voice has returned to its normal gruff timbre—still incredibly sexy, but no longer magically enhanced. 

You study his eyes for a moment, also returned to their normal state. With a teasing hum, you nudge him. “What happened to all the other things you mentioned? Marking me, going down on me?” 

He flushes, rubbing the back of his neck. “I got...impatient.”

You laugh, a genuine, belly laugh that makes him chuckle, too. 

“Maybe...” You trail off, biting your lip. “Maybe we can get dinner sometime, and then we can try those.” 

Humming, he nuzzles your neck. “I’d love that.”

Ragu list: @the-hexfiles @thorsterstrudle @dystopicjumpsuit @clonemedickix @freesia-writes @littlemissmanga @wolffegirlsunite @anxiouspineapple99 @wings-and-beskar @sinfulsalutations @523rdrebel @sunshinesdaydream @moonlightwarriorqueen @sev-on-kamino @starrylothcat @deejadabbles @starqueensthings @mandos-mind-trick @idontgetanysleep @eyeluvmusic21 @wizardofrozz @mythical-illustrator @sleepycreativewriter @dreamie411 @bobaprint @originalcollectionartistry @imarvelatthestars (if you'd like to be added or removed, click here!)

[chaoticallyfragmentary]

New Year's eve with Haikyuu!

Apparently it's been 2 years since this blog and now that I am back, here's a little something for anybody who's been waiting ❤️❤️

New Year’s eve with Suna Rinatrou would be the rock against your bedroom window in the dead of the night, with that silly little grin on his face, hand outstretched with your helmet as he fakes shivering on his bike, streetlights passing by so quickly like white lines against the black sky, stealing food from your takeout box even though he’s got his, the sound of the ocean as you sit back to his chest wrapped up in his jacket, his calloused hand loosely intwined with yours as you watch the fireworks across the night sky. It was feeling his mouth shape around the words Happy new year, and it was searching your face with an unmasked hope that makes you ache because Happy new year meant a promise and an oath, all in one and as you lean back into him hiding your face in his neck, heart jumping to your throat because how could you hide the want and devotion and love in your bones and you mouth the words back to him, happy new year. It was just a moment of peace followed by your angry growls crashing amidst the sound of the sea because RINTAROU!! Delete that fucking picture or you’re dead!

New Year’s eve with Atsumu was the parties with the rest of the Japanese national team, the five star hotels and the dressed to the nines. It was dancing your hearts out, Hinata and Bokuto singing so off key, it was a miracle you guys weren’t kicked out yet. It was his hands wandering your body as you move to the music like you’re made of it, flushing pink, color blooming up your neck and across your cheeks, leaning down to kiss the crown of your head as you casually chat with Iwaizumi. It was the happy humming sound he makes whenever you feed him one of the appetizers that you liked, sneaking away minutes before the countdown because he wanted it to be just the two of you, drunk on champagne bubbles and the feel of your hands intertwined, his smile so beautiful it would make all the dead lovers of the world jealous. It was him kissing you, unhurried and intoxicating, teeth tugging your bottom lip as he leaned more heavily against you, his hands around your waist and yours in his hair, Oikawa whistling and Iwaizumi shutting him up from somewhere because he be like that. It was just your ‘Tsumu looking at you with an earnest sincerity that only he is capable of, a gaze so soft that it made you ache with joy. It was the teasing and the laughter, the warmth of home in the air because you were with Miya Atsumu and he was out there, a little bit drunk as he talks to Bokuto about how you were the peanut butter to his jelly and you had never been happier.

[musamora]

— 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖞 𝖔𝖋 𝖉𝖊𝖛𝖔𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓.

this is a sequel! read the first part here.

pairing: fyodor dostoevsky x fem!reader

content warnings: child abuse, childhood trauma, discussions of class disparity, embezzlement, alcohol, panic attacks, implied/referenced attempted drugging, implied/referenced loss of parents

author's note: i'm back! first, if you want to get updates surrounding this series, follow me here on twitter. and if you want to listen to some music while you read, might i suggest looking at some of my spotify playlists? enjoy!

would you like to see more? fill out the taglist or comment under this post.

It's funny, isn't it — to find similarities in two lives that seem to contrast on the surface, only to find matching melodies written throughout their pages. You know what they say. Don't judge a book by its cover.

An infiltration mission concludes with a realization. They smile at one another, knowing that they were never truly alone.

Unlike the everyday citizens of the bustling city of Yokohama, forced to chip away at their lives in their dismal office jobs, the affluent elite escaped into the idyllic countryside of its borders, seeking refuge from the watchful gazes of their employees and underlings while indulging in their superfluous, leisurely pursuits. Nestled amid the lush, green forests, an opulent estate stood, its pristine white concrete contrasting with the muted vegetation. Majestic frosted glass doors glistened in the warm embrace of the midday sun, beckoning visitors along a sprawling cobblestone pathway that stretched across the well-manicured lawn, where sleek limousines inched their way toward the entrance. Delicate planter boxes adorned with vibrant blooms scatter petals onto guests, adding an enchanting touch of natural elegance to the festive gathering.

Each one of these blue bloods was dressed in their finest brunch clothes — ladies swathed in flowy calf-length dresses that bounced with each step, gentlemen coated in strapping two-piece suits as their waxed loafers clopped behind them. Rumors whistled betwixt the lips of each cluster, tittle-tattling about the latest paltry fling or dalliance of the week. People glided in and out of each room, sipping on fine champagnes and rich wines, giving into debauched pleasures without thought of consequence. They slipped into conversations with ease, not bothering to remember names but feigning knowledge of other's affairs all the same.

A man entered through the threshold, eyes flickering from person to person. No one paid him any mind, unknowingly allowing the serpent with a silver tongue to slip inside, masquerading as a witless bachelor amongst a sea of dozens. The unforeseen mask of death entered the party without a second thought, his intentions concealed behind a manufactured smile. It only shifted when he looked towards his companion, a woman who stared with dazed, wistful eyes as she froze upon stone steps.

"Моя милая."

(Name) barely stirred from her thoughts, a distant hum on her lips as he guided her inside. They floated like specters across the shining floors, becoming the prime subject of whispers as they gave the room a once-over. Fyodor could not help the way his eyes drifted towards the form of his companion, who remained unsuspecting to his gaze while at his side, arm-in-arm, as she tuned into the conversations around them. She had slipped herself into an alluring, satin sable dress that was curled around her calves, swaying with each step, and was sinched to create a silhouette of empyrean grace and charm — a divine treasure escorted by her devout attendant, not that he would allow her to know that.

He paid special concern to the tension lined underneath the textiles of her dress, kneading at the taut muscles as he settled a reassuring hand against the small of her back, watching with keen eyes as she melted with each stir of his fingers — she was both in her element and yet not at the same time. But he had to admit; she was a sight for sore eyes amongst the vibrant, ostentatious heirs and heiresses that continued to babble on and on. It was hard to imagine her comfortable in a setting like this, though he was well aware she attended these types of gatherings when she was raised as a socialite in Moscow. Not that she particularly wanted to.

They locked eyes, and she found herself unable to contain the hitch of her breath at the sight of his tempting, devilish smirk as he teased the curled cherubic ringlets of her styled hair between two fingers. He leaned closer, his warm breath prickling the shell of her ear, a tremor rattling her spine as she remained a stiffened statue, the only indication of life being the heat that radiated off her skin. He reveled in the subtle details of her face as if he were admiring a Renaissance painting — the way her pupils bloomed as she subconsciously toyed with her lips.

"Не забудьте пройти мимо за́ла," he whispered in hushed breaths, pulling away before she leaned too far into him, withdrawing himself.

She whirred out a deafened whistle, imperceivably stretching her limbs as she answered with a silent nod, fleeing from his carnivorous grasp as she willfully threw herself into the throng of equally ravenous guests, who were prepared to gorge on her body as if she were an unsuspecting, innocent lamb — the main course for the event. But she was already equipped with the mental tools to deal with such stifles.

Another mission. They had snuck into the estate of the illustrious Amaterasu family, which maintained a myriad of associates with the officials of both Japan and Yokohama's governments respectfully. To her, it was no shock to uncover that these nouveau riche elites had achieved their financial status through devious and shrewd methods. They were associated with several embezzlement schemes that funneled donations from public works projects into their personal bank accounts, which unashamedly reflected in the luster of their décor. It was almost impressive — they were close to rivaling the Port Mafia with their connections. In the last couple of weeks, the Rats had steadily scrounged up intel about the household, pinpointing the brunch event as a prime opportunity, manufacturing invitations to slip in and string them up with a noose created by their own secrets — and (Name), with her background, was the best choice for the job.

She glided into conversations with a practiced ease, moving across the entry hall with fluid grace, her laughter both enchanting and unattainable as she remained an undetected outsider. (Name) nodded at their queries, careful not to allow her own name to escape her as she dodged their prying questions. No matter the setting, whether in Moscow or Japan, socialites were always the nosiest people in the room. Her twisted smile quivered, finding an air of amusement in their meager attempts to squeeze out the truth. She had plenty of experience avoiding this type of attention as the black sheep of her family, accustomed to much more animosity than prodding from meager-minded gossipmongers. And through each word that left her lips, she only emboldened herself as an entrancing enigma — she hoped it would draw forth the curiosity of one particular member of the party.

Her heels clicked with each stride as she scaled the grand staircase, ghosting past oodles of guests sampling their bubbling beverages, leaning toward one other in a vain attempt to hide their unabashed whispers. The blinding spotlight wasn't new to her, but embracing it was a feeling she would need to get used to. There was such a powerful sentiment in captivating the attention of dozens, and instead of retreating from the brilliant light into the comfort of the shadows, standing proud and tall.

Her eyes drifted to the steps, recalling the marble stairwell she climbed as a girl. Each element of this house was a strange picture of perfection, like it remained completely unlived in. It unnerved her — there were no dents or scratches that could depict the elements of a family home. Even within the suffocation of her childhood manor, the outside stranger knew it was lived in. The walls steamed with stories of generations past, tales of triumph and tragedy. Her own story lingered in the mold that set in those foundations. She frowned. It was so much easier for these families to hide their greed and vanity behind the blank canvas of their homes, but it signified one thing. They were also so much easier to manipulate.

"Excuse me!"

Perfect timing.

The swift footsteps of a tiny, guileless woman approached with a mission in mind. She had crimped charcoal hair that was pinned near the back of her neck and was swaddled in a dress that could trap heat. Her winding, animated grin grabbed the attention of every man she passed — at least to the average eye. (Name) watched each turned head as they eyed her glitzy, loud gown, practically licking their lips at the shameless declaration of wealth. She also caught the imperceptible downturn through the corners of the young woman's overdrawn lipstick, a small smile appearing on her own face as she recognized her.

The infamous sole child and heiress to the Amaterasu fortune — Amaterasu Kana. Even if she had not been debriefed before the mission, (Name) would've had to have been living under a rock not to recognize her. She was frequently featured on the front pages of Yokohama newspapers, photographed shaking the hands of bureaucrats and cutting the ribbons of upstart foundations. Though (Name) knew that most of the money that was donated to those charity events suspiciously disappeared into the pockets of its organizers.

(Name) bowed her head, purposefully concealing her expression. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Amaterasu."

"The pleasure is all mine." Goosebumps crawled across her arms despite the sleeves that worked to warm her body — Kana had the intonation of a shrill songbird, and (Name) had to withhold a wince as if she was the sole audience for a children's recorder concert, except without the endearment of childish passion. And much like a child, the small heiress rang on like an unrelenting church bell, prodding (Name)'s mind with a complete lack of shame as she bombarded her with a breakneck amount of questions. She would make an impressive detective if it weren't for her brazenness. Wealthy socialites always did this, but she was one of the worst (Name) had experienced by far.

Out of the corner of her eyes, (Name) spotted two of the heiress' bodyguards, dressed in black from head to toe, mumbling into their earpieces. If she had to guess, they were most likely searching into her background as their mistress attempted to distract her — not that they would be able to find anything. Fyodor guaranteed that their backgrounds had been wiped across the continent, besides their obvious national origins, erasing and stealing records until nothing remained.

"I must say, dear — you look lovely. Like a sparkling jewel," Kana interjected, tugging at the skirt of (Name)'s dress. "And this fabric is divine. You must recommend me your tailor."

"You are quite lovely as well." (Name) beamed at the woman, a rhapsodic thrill tremoring through her nerves at the envious lilt in Kana's tone. She lifted at the ruffles of her skirt with her gloved hand, a disappointed pout exaggerated by the furrow of her brows. "I'm afraid the dress was a present. I am unaware of its original designer."

It was a half-truth; the dress was a gift. However, the designer was not a famous one who completed commissions across the country. (Name) had been unaware that a familiar casino manager designed clothes until he approached her with a timid smile and an offer — becoming his experimental model in exchange for the products. Sigma already had a tasteful eye for fashion, but she had only then realized that he had created his own outfits himself, hiding his talent behind a wall of mediocrity and humility.

CLING!

A hushed commotion halted their bleak conversation, murmurs rushing through the agitated room as both of the women peered their heads around other partygoers. Another woman had apparently tripped over her own two feet while she descended the stairs, tumbling into a man beside her and accidentally splashing champagne on her white dress, the rest smashed with glass shards as it hit the ground. She blushed, apologizing profusely as the man helped her to her feet, only for him to respond with a judgemental sneer as he turned back to his discussion, leaving the poor woman stuttering as tears welled in her eyes. (Name) frowned as the girl limped away, her foot twisted at an odd angle, practically feeling her pain reflecting from memories many years ago.

"Quite a hideous little thing, now, isn't she?" an insidious, slithering voice whispered into her ear, making her skin crawl.

She couldn't allow a sliver of that internal empathy to appear on her face, lucky that no one caught the shallow breaths she took in as she compelled herself to remain stationary, resisting the urge to walk over and assist the girl. The elites would eat her alive if she showed even a hint of compassion — be as lifeless and perfect as a statue. (Name) hummed at Kana's insulting sneer in mock agreement, eyeing the woman as she was forced to link arms with her.

"Come now." Kana pulled on her arm, squeezing it with a bruise-inducing grip. "I must introduce you to some of my colleagues. There are some fine-looking gentlemen amongst them."

(Name) nodded with a hum but lost her breath and forgot her place as she paused at the border of the second-floor balcony, gazing over the opulent guests until she spotted the familiar face of her companion conversing with a group of well-groomed gentlemen. No one besides her knew that the man had no ancestral experience with affluence and riches, his charm allowing him to blend in with ease, enticing the people that surrounded him with faux allure as he feigned interest in their daily struggles. She wanted to roll her eyes — it took years for her to absorb a facade of stoicism, but he was practically the master of that craft.

However, there was one part of this mission that bothered her.

In many cases, she would've been accompanied by one of her subordinates, acting solely as a precautionary aid — and likely a human shield — in case the mission went awry. However, instead of a member of the countless contenders that she had considered and submitted to Fyodor to review for the task, she was met with the looming silhouette of the Demon himself sitting inside their rented limousine, a deliberate gleam in the narrowed cavern of his eyes. She had paused but didn't bother to ask about the altered plan. He would never tell her, hiding the truth behind a variety of well-thought-out excuses.

At least she wasn't paired up with Ivan again. A shiver ran down her spine. The man was obsessed with Fyodor and in turn, was equally as obsessed with her.

Nevermind that. In truth, she was delighted that Fyodor had chosen to accompany her today. But a part of her couldn't help but notice certain small aspects of his attire, particularly in the way his suit ever-so-slightly opened to expose the pale, blank canvas of his neck, unprotected from prying eyes by the lack of his signature ushanka. Her gaze traveled further down, ogling at the way the clothes were tailored against his lean body, unused to the sight of him outside of his normal button-ups and coat. And without a second beat, he glanced up at her, vibrant irises boring into her soul, a huff of amused air blowing out of his lips before he held her in a somnolent stupor.

That stupid, handsome bastard. She couldn't help but smile.

"Are you interested in that man down there?" Kana broke through the trance, forcing the pair of partners-in-crime to look away.

(Name) merely hummed, not too bothered that she was caught staring. "I apologize. I must've zoned out."

Kana blatantly ignored her questionable explanation, looking through the crowd until she spotted Fyodor. "He is quite appealing to the eye." A smirk curled up on her lips, one that made (Name)'s stomach roll. She eyed the heiress with a dissecting glare, arms tense as her jaw clenched. "Couldn't say I recognize him. Perhaps I should introduce myself once we return."

"Shall we?" Kana batted her eyelashes up at (Name), remaining blissfully unaware of the way the other woman's fists clenched at her sides.

She grinned through gritted teeth, releasing a tense cloud of electrified air. "I'd be delighted."

A modern lounge room stood within the heart of the mansion, exuding a further air of extravagance. It blended styles of both contemporary design and classic luxury, adorned with sleek block-like furniture and plush geometric textiles. Large, panoramic windows stretched from floor to ceiling, providing an unyielding view of the lush outdoor gardens and the vast stagnant pool to each observer.

Guests shuffled in and out of the room, holding their fragile cocktails that were stirred and crafted by an expert mixologist — and (Name) knew immediately that she had made it to the true center of wealth. These weren't only people who flaunted their riches; they held a manner of sophistication and generational duty with each stiffened motion of their bodies. Conversations intentionally touched on in-depth topics, opening the door to global investments and brandishing several philanthropic endeavors. Fortunes were discussed amidst sips of aged wine, and business deals passed between shaken hands and tipsy laughter. Her father would've been delighted to know his daughter was able to achieve a level of finite poise and refinement, much to her chagrin. She had never cared about such things, but old mannerisms seemed to die hard.

One spotless, shining grand piano settled in the corner of the room, attached to a dignified middle-aged pianist who played countless classical compositions, flipping through his repertoire with skilled agility — but she could recognize the lust for money that radiated in every crescendo, his shifting gaze eyeing the fat cats as they came and went. Softened melodies emanated from ivory keys, an ignored background to conversations. (Name) zeroed in on the sound, her hands cramping at a familiar tune, massaging her aching palms as he rendered each stiffened note. She sighed, shaking herself out of her reminiscence as she refocused her attention on her one-sided, lackluster conversation with the Amaterasu heiress that clung to her side.

"Each one of my governesses claims that I'm a reborn genius. From Einstein to Newton, their compliments never cease to make me blush."

(Name) bristled her shoulders, adverting herself away from Kana's boastful grin. "I can certainly understand why. You are absolutely impossible to underestimate."

Kana's cheeks reddened with demure delight, hiding part of her face with a wave of her hand as the backhanded meaning of the insult fell on deafened ears. "You are far too kind, dear."

(Name) disregarded the murmurs of the bashful woman as they glided into the center of the crowd. Kana attracted most of the initial attention from partygoers, much to (Name)'s relief and luck — she was a wealth magnet. It opened up the best opportunity for her to analyze each guest, combing through them to capture the perfect moment. She almost felt bad for the man she chose to push as she wormed out of the rabble, constructing a domino effect as he knocked over several others.

She didn't feel too bad, considering he was attempting to slip a familiar substance into the drink of a woman who remained obliviously chatting beside him.

Through a series of unfortunate missteps and collisions that she couldn't have calculated better in any other circumstance — a misplaced foot here, an inadvertent push there — a chain reaction was set off at a moment's notice. Several of the other guests lost place of their footing, glasses of fine champagnes and pungent wines flying in beautiful arches into the air, perilously headed towards the pristine ivory furniture. Shrieks of dismay cried out as many were splashed in the following seconds, soaked in sticky alcohol as they griped and groaned.

And in that unforgiving spotlight, gawked at by all, was Amaterasu Kana herself, bathed in a mixture of red and beige. She shook like an irate pomeranian puppy, snarling at anyone who attempted to console her as she screamed in outrage, stomping her heals against broken glass as attendants swarmed her, trying to ease their mistress through their attempts to rectify the pastel fabrics of her dress, but it was entirely in vain. It was absolutely ruined. (Name) smirked, releasing a mischievous chuckle as she slipped down a lone, umbrageous hallway while a high-pitched shriek wore at the foundations of the house.

She shuffled down the hall, approaching an intimidatingly large door. It wasn't a surprise that it seemed to be locked as she fiddled with the handle, but that wasn't a problem. She reached into her hair, pulling out a slender, metal hairpin from amongst her styled tresses. With a smile on her face, she funneled years of experience in breaking into her stepmother's study, her younger self carefully prying apart the rusting lock to snatch a few rare novellas into her current situation. She summoned a deep breath, bending the pin with one end shaped as a hook, the other remaining to act as a tension wrench. It slipped into the keyhole, and she applied an expert amount of pressure, listening with her ear pressed against the wood as she engaged with the tumblers inside. Her delicate movements felt like it took hours, careful not to allow the stressor of time to affect her judgment, and she let out a huff once she heard a familiar click, the mechanism surrendering as the entrance was left ajar.

The office was quite frigid compared to the warmth of the rest of the manor and seemed to rot like a bleeding heart in the foundations of its furniture. She muffled a cough, the air thick with the scent of aged paper, tall bookshelves lining the walls with volumes that encompassed decades of knowledge. The desk held a myriad of scars from its countless years of use, her hands brushing the dust on its worn top as her eyes scrounged through the scattered documents. And that was when she spotted it — a couple of bank numbers and a list of recent transactions between the family and those so-called charities.

Money may be enticing in itself, but to the rich, blackmail is worth its weight in gold.

She scoured the room, a flickering light catching her eye from its place high in an upper corner — a surveillance camera. But she wasn't the least bit worried. The entire feed was currently being filtered into the headquarters of the Rats, monitored by someone at every hour, and completely disconnected from the major security unit of the estate. She snatched the papers, carefully folding them and slipping them inside a pocket enclosed by a zipper hidden underneath the folds of her dress — bless Sigma and his never-ending ingenuity.

Her cunning hands fiddled with the window latch, cracking it open with tactful consideration. She bundled the skirt of her outfit into her arm as she clamored out onto a dormer, shutting it with a click and a snap behind her. Adrenaline empowered her muscles, an experienced skip in her steps once she removed her heels to race across panels, ducking underneath windows before climbing up to the roof of an outstretched hallway, relieved that the office was positioned away from the prying eyes of outside stragglers — most likely on purpose. She relished in the brush of comforting misty spring air as it caressed her exposed skin and fluttered betwixt the fabric of her dress, a stark contrast to the unforgiving winters of her homeland, using her energy to balance from one point to another carefully. And with a thud, she slipped through a sunroof into a claustrophobic entryway, landing like a cat.

She frowned, scanning the space. Fyodor had only told her where they were supposed to meet, but he never specified exactly what type of room it was. She braced a hand against an ornate wooden door, prying it open with a huff.

Her mouth gaped as she entered upon a verdant landscape, bathed in the mellow midday sun. Its grandeur was unmatched by any other element of the estate, an oasis of life and vibrancy. The glass walls, kissed by the sun's golden rays, glistened with a radiant luster — an invitation to all who adventured it. Its sheer size was awe-inspiring, a lush tapestry of luminance. Sunlight filtered in between cracks in the canopy, creating patterns of blossoming vitality as she gazed at rows of assorted plants, ranging from towering trees to delicate orchids. She was partially saddened to see that no one chose to traverse through its stone pathways, breathing in a deep breath as she closed her eyes, listening to the deafened beauty of nature, even if it was encapsulated in such a finite space.

Her feet pattered against the foliate corridors created through flora, pausing to look upon the radiance of a noble, granite gazebo. It wasn't the structure itself that caught her eye but the object inside. Underneath the dappled shade of its roof was a breathtaking, anachronistic piano, standing as a testament to time. The instrument, with its darkened, polished wood and ornately carved legs, remained as a silent guardian of past melodies. Its keys, weathered with age, held a timeless allure. Its wooden lid, left open ajar, revealed an ancient interior, an intricate trove of resonant strings and felt hammers tuned to perfection.

Her aching hands loosened as her dread transformed into nostalgic longing, eyes sparkling as she found herself mindlessly drifting to perch on the piano bench, arms floating above the keys with euphoric anticipation. The greenhouse went silent with her first keystroke, hearkening attention toward the woman at its heart, who caressed the instrument in the delicate folds of her fingers. With every passing sound, she melded into a statuesque mold, back straightened, and muscles strained as she gritted her teeth, a familiar melody rousing the granite columns. Each crescendo is intentional; each note is intentional. Her face faltered as her hand tumbled with a cramp, the noise coming out sharp.

SMACK!

A metal ruler smacked against her throbbing wrists, which were now smaller and thinner.

"Again," a sharp, cacophonous voice pressured from behind, forcing the tiny girl to straighten like a stick out of dread. A decrepit woman dressed from collar to ankle in billowed clothes as black as midnight — the widowed Akilina Kozakov, her governess — towered over (Name) with a striking gaze, lips pursed tight into a perpetual snarl. The child formerly adored music; faint memories of ancient melodies and creaking lullabies whispered into her ears as a babe as she was held in the arms of her late mother. But that was only until she turned five and was pushed into taking lessons.

She had previously revered the piano with wonder, tuning into the barrage of pianists that entered her home, dollar signs illuminated in their eyes as they sat to play for guests during gatherings. Through the shadows, she would remain hidden behind the wooden banisters as she hummed along to the tune with a shallow smile, tapping the softened skin of her fingers onto the floor. But they only remained bruised and calloused — she would've never imagined something that could sound so freeing could restrain her in her place on the ground.

Play perfectly, not passionately — that was the Yeliseyev motto.

She suppressed the exuberance of mellifluous spirit in her mind, the action becoming easier with each passing lesson — the passion seemed to dissolve from between her fingers whenever her hands floated above the keys. With every scream and slap, she felt the love she had for the euphonious instrument dissipate, muscles locked in a tense position, the only emotion surviving being never-ending dread. Like a grizzled falcon, her governess eyed her subtle motions, repetitively smacking the ruler against her palm to the tempo.

(Name)’s hunger-ridden body trembled as she approached the keys once more, picking up from the previous section that she had messed up, swallowing her saliva as she forced herself to play. She blinked back tears amidst shallow breaths, rocking with nausea as the room spun around her, shivering as illustrations of her ancestors stared at her from above, bounding closer and closer. Her eyes dug into her hands — too light, too heavy, too fast, too slow, too loud, too soft, too—!

SMACK!

Her knuckles pulsated with immense pain, and she choked down a cry. No one would permit her sobs, so she remained still.

"Ms. Yeliseyeva!"

"I'm so sorry, teacher. I—" Ms. Kozakov silenced her with the slap of the ruler against the lid of the piano, running the straightened edge amongst the dozens of scratches in its wooden top. (Name) withered into herself as a daisy shuddered by a blizzard, sniffling into clothes that overwhelmed her body, the hems surpassing her arms and legs as they rolled down more with each motion.

"Be quiet."

The woman crossed her arms with a humph, her sleeves swaying like bat wings. "Your older brothers were brilliant pianists when they were your age, even while multitasking their other studies and the affairs of the estate."

(Name) wobbled in the ginormous piano seat, breathing between gritted teeth as she bit back a sob. The comparisons had been a tiresome charade, paralleling her to brothers she would never relate to. She was nothing like them, who were born with a silver spoon nestled inside their mouths, the handle cradled by tender hands. They were beloved. Each of her brothers received praise and affection for their efforts, while she was expected to be their equal with none of the benefits. It wasn't a challenge to turn them into perfect, charming young heirs — it is easy to be perfect when you are loved beyond reason, but it is so difficult to be perfect when your flaws are pointed out with every struggle and strife.

(Name) did not miss the repulsed sneer on her governess’s face, knowing that it was hardly a fraction of the disgust the woman felt towards her. No one enjoyed acknowledging the aristocratic lineage of (Name)'s paternal line, but it was rarely ignored in conversation — sometimes, she wished it was. (Name) often found herself preoccupied with daydreams, basking in thoughts of daily grandeur — a life spent far from the eyes of the bustling city and into the lush forests of the Russian countryside, cradled in unrelenting adoration as she nuzzled into the warm embrace of her mother. Perhaps they would've planted a garden, the flowers bursting into full bloom with unmatched vibrancy as they occupied their days relishing life's simple pleasures. They didn't need anyone else as long as they had one another. But that was only a fantasy, only to remain in her mind as she tossed and turned at night.

"You are only expected to be perfect." Ms. Kozakov broke from her thoughts with a sharp kick to her shin, her pointed heels breaking the skin. "Perfect is the least you can be, and yet you are not."

(Name) bobbed her head only to feel another familiar smack against her spine. "Sit like a lady, Ms. Yeliseyeva. Not a penniless pauper. Play from that measure again."

So she took a deep breath, preparing herself to leap back into the fray.

Every key she flattened underneath her fingertips unlocked another fragmented mirror of her memories and, with them, the sorrow and anguish she had tried to bury beneath vivacious smiles and whispered assurances. The melody, originally composed to be smooth as a lake's shining surface, gradually grew more intense, reflecting the resurgence of her emotions. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, hands moving with a sense of purpose like a mouse scurrying into its hole, racing away from the shadows of her nostalgia. Perfection — those aristocrats always expected perfection from her. She was primarily too focused on the composition of her measures to relish in an end product. To the members of the Moscow elite, it did not matter if a song itself was beautiful as long as the instrumentalist was a pretty little possession for them to pocket. Pain intertwined with each chord as she tremoured through the bars. The gazebo echoed with rushes of raw despair and fleeting flashes of hope before it silenced in one sweeping motion, as if her past haunted the buzzing air into submission, weakening the plants as they remained stationary at their roots. Exhaustion overwhelmed her; the woman wiping her eyes and removing her gloves, only to find her palms pooled with sweat in every crevice, trembling with each breath.

And it was only in the wake of her calamitous concert that she noticed the pair of blinding tyrian eyes that stared at her from a distance, partially hidden behind a bundle of flourishing greenery.

"You play."

If she did not know any better, she would say his voice had escaped him in almost complete silence, a contrast to his constant assuredness and self-confidence. It wasn't a question. He knew that she played — she had mentioned it in passing conversations many years prior. But he hadn't realized that she truly played. She smiled at him, a melancholic smile that held a world of sorrows.

"I do."

His eyes softened their everlasting, piercing gaze as he stepped underneath the shade of the gazebo, eyeing the stains of tear streaks that sparkled as they cascaded her puffed cheeks, welling into pools of anguish. He withheld the urge to wipe them away, brushing back the ghosts that clouded her flourishing spirit, experiencing a sense of empathy that his words could never manage to capture properly. But he also couldn't help but notice the sputter in her fingers as they morbidly danced across the keys, elegance and grace summed in a single keystroke — imperfectly seraphic. He sighed, an amused quirk on his lips as her finger prodded one of the higher notes.

FLICK.

Small, calloused fingers flipped between bins of dusted and peeling record sleeves, a strangely inscrutable, world-weary expression drawn onto the face of such a young man.

"What're you looking for today, Федя?" a gentle voice broke into the muted atmosphere of his foraging. The adolescent, scrawny form of a teenage Fyodor didn't bother to turn around, regarding (Name) with a pointed look as she stood on her tip-toes, perusing into the bin from above his shoulder. They were currently nestled inside an old record store, which was run by a sweet, older gentleman who doted on both of them without restraint or care, slipping them small candies and allowing them free-range of his collections — they had proven to be remarkably responsible for their ages.

The devilish pair had crept away from their weekly church service while families and their associates indulged in lunch, knowing neither would receive even a crumb. They burrowed into the thin fabric of their coats, traveling arm-in-arm through back alleys and sidewalks as they scaled the Yakimanka district. It had become a frequent rendezvous point for them whenever they had the time to escape, sorting the containers of the store's collection as they hummed to the classics, reveling in a brief absence of thought or toil as they repeated the same task over and over.

"I need to find a Bach piece," he muttered, slipping the aforementioned record out from between the others. (Name) stared at the grime-coated cover, grimacing, but chose not to speak on it any further as they continued to browse. The orphanage had some of their more talented children partake in a youth orchestra directly funded by the church — and Fyodor, with his quick skills and sharp mind, picked up on several stringed instruments throughout his transition period from his childhood home. She had only learned about his melodious gift when they had run into each other at a charity banquet — or rather, she had spotted him there. If she hadn't been too embarrassed to approach the stage and draw attention to herself, one judgemental scowl from her father would've been enough to hold her back. He was formerly dressed in the finest the clergy could afford, which was surprisingly a lot, but somehow still remained so out of place. She had basically gawked at him the entire night and prayed he never noticed.

She was unable to pinpoint the exact reason she watched him for so long, entranced. Perhaps it was because of the way he played — so perfect, yet somehow strained. The entire orchestra seemed to be tuned to prime excellence, at least in the eyes of an outsider or an ordinary socialite, untrained in the art of true music. But the weariness was evident, each member slaving over the notes on the staff, mastered chords blaring between half-wrapped bruised and blistered fingers.

She abandoned those macabre thoughts, her hands exploring a section of more recent records, grand Tchaikovsky compositions, and brilliant Chopin arrangements reflecting the overcast sun on each rivet of their silvery surfaces. One sparkled in the faded beams of midday, the vivid palette of the sleeve clashing with the doleful paint of the store's walls. (Name) tugged the ravenette by the edge of his jacket without a word, guiding him along into the cozy lounge area stationed in the back, which rouged from the light of an ancient, crafted glass lamp — and underneath that was an arenaceous record player. She plopped down onto the floor, striking the boy with a knowing smile as she patted the spot beside her, slipping the disk out of the sleeve and delicately settling it on top of the platter. Fyodor sat carefully beside her, ensuring he didn't stumble due to his weak constitution, watching as (Name) settled the tone arm on top of the record, their expressions completely contrasting as it spun to life.

"It's a 1942 Steinway," a soft-toned adult voice shattered his reminiscence, her face cleared of tears as she caressed the lacquered surface of the piano with maternal care. "I haven't seen one of these since a spring exhibition at the Naoumov's family estate. We didn't even have one."

He smirked, crossing his arms as his eyes trailed across the piano's reflective ebony veneer, having an equal appreciation for the splendorous ivories. "You know your instrument, милая."

She huffed, an amused quirk to her brow. "Of course I do." Wavering fingers tampered with the black keys, creating a dissonant chord. "The piano is such a lovely instrument. So versatile, despite being so stationary."

"My father preferred—" she started before cutting herself off with a frown, chewing on her bottom lip. "Never mind what he preferred. It doesn't matter."

Serenity enveloped the greenhouse, a calm hush settling over both of them. (Name) spun her head with a dazed hum as leather footfalls echoed closer, clasping Fyodor's outstretched hand as he helped her to her feet, ushering her outside through an unlatched window panel, noting her entranced stare at the gazebo as it grew smaller and smaller.

(Name) strutted through the expansive, narrow halls of the underground facility, a skip in her step as she practically danced in her swath of comfortable pajamas — the rest of the Rats had fled from the base to return to their civilian lives and homes, letting her release the precipice of her jubilation and energies. The mission had been a smashing success, with the Amaterasu family begging on their hands and knees for the evidence of the transactions to be erased. Fyodor drained their accounts as they bumbled sob stories on the other line, watching with amusement as all of their "hard-earned money" filtered down the drain and into the Rats' den. It was their fault, anyway.

But never mind that. Even through the exhaustion they both had faced in the events of the day, Fyodor had invited (Name) away from their routine twilight tea, emploring her to meet him in a spare room in the base's lower levels. She rubbed her arms with a shiver as the air became colder with each step, eyes sparkling as a door, identical to every other one, beckoned her with silent promises of mystery and allure.

With the tap of her signature knock, she twisted the knob, opening the door wide after a moment of silence. Her eyes squinted, adjusting the blurred shapes that stood stagnant in the dismal candlelight, filling her body with the smoky scent of jasmine. But once she could finally make everything out, a gasp involuntarily tumbled from her lips.

In the dead center of the room, surrounded by mirrors that enclosed the space as it reflected over and over, was a proud and tall but incredibly familiar grand piano. She remained standing in the doorway, lips pulled into indescribable awe, before being broken from her trance as wooden legs scraped against the tiled floors. Her gaze adverted to the other corner, where Fyodor was sitting on his chair, resting his signature cello between his feet as his eyes traveled across her face, reading her like a book.

That stupid, handsome bastard.

She shut the door behind her with a click, swiftly inspecting the instrument as she lifted the lid in disbelief. Every key and every string was identical to the piano from the gazebo. WIth her foot, she tapped at the pedals underneath it, raising her eyes from the floor to the man in front of her, one question remaining on her mind.

"...why?"

She knew from experience that there was no point in inquiring about the how or what of the piano's alarmingly sudden presence. He would never answer, and she was honestly too mindblown with the idea of such a large object being carefully snuck inside — without her knowledge, to add — to consider the process. She hoped that, at the very least, he would reply to that one question, even if it was in his own roundabout sort of way.

"It's about time we have our duet, don't you think, любимая?"

He chuckled at the obvious excitement in her eyes as she ignored his loose-ended answer, her body practically beaming as she plopped onto the piano bench with a sweet giggle. Her fingers experimentally thrummed to the end of the keys, masterfully creating a simple scale without looking down. He followed in her stead, gliding his bow across the cello strings, already aware that they had been perfectly tuned. And then he looked up.

"Rachmaninoff's Sonata in G Minor."

The same record from the little shop in Moscow. She smiled. He had remembered all this time.

"Andante."

Her hands raised, as did his bow.

"Ты некомпетентное дерьмо—!"

His adolescent body couldn't even muster a flinch as one of the orchestra attendants struck down onto the neck of a woodwind player with a thin metal rod — the comedic shriek of a piccolo almost sounded humourous, if not for the pained groan that followed from the instrumentalist's lips, wincing as a bruise bloomed on their skin. The tension was thick enough to slice through with a knife. For weeks, they had been the subject of the relentless regime marshaled by their conductor, a man who reigned a reputation for being, as the elite delicately referred to it, "strict." Their sugarcoating was a laughable understatement. He was a tall, imposing man whose brow was eternally furrowed, wielding his authority over the children like a dictator. His baton raised once more, prepared to unleash a storm of fury upon the trembling orchestra. There was no room for error, no grace for a missed note or a falter in tempo.

They had to be perfect.

The opening bars of Bach's St. Matthew's Passion flooded the room in a cacophony; the once expressive piece transformed into a living nightmare. The conductor's harsh movements pushed the orchestra to the brink, racing across the measures without care to the straining children, their fingers cramped as they attempted in vain to keep up. His eyes filled with a venomous mixture of disdain and rage, singling out individuals and humiliating them with a single glance.

"Громче, Достоевский!"

The nape of his neck bruised shades of violet and vermillion, mistakes met with a torrent of spinning insults, some of the more sensitive members sobbing silently in their seats. That despotic conductor would wave his baton, signaling for an attendant to strike at the offending musician with their metal rods, partially stained crimson from broken skin. It dragged on for hours, the music background to the relentless assault on their spirits. Most were only struggling to make money to take home to their families, not having a choice if they wanted to eat the next day — child-labor laws didn't extend to musical groups associated with the church. The children knew they were being taken advantage of, but they didn't have a choice.

Fyodor hid the prologue to his insidious thoughts through a carefully crafted glare, willing the conductor to drop dead from his eyes alone — he could easily kill him with a single touch, but not yet. It wasn't the right moment, people would see. But the man would pay in due time for his sins, corrupting such youthful passion, funneling it into a lifeless musical machine.

The conductor lifted his baton once more, the orchestra members tensing as they straightened their backs to play. Perfect. That was all they needed to be. Absolutely perfect. The beaconing image of the results of the elites' generosity, who watched each child with eyes of feigned sympathy. Only one gaze ever stood out amongst the rest.

"Федя?"

The timid whisper of that childhood nickname cut into his memories, lifting his eyes from staring at his trembling hands towards his effervescent sweetheart, forcing him away from the pain with a small, empathetic smile — that same benevolent smile. Their wounds were identical in multiple ways, and she'd never let him forget that. He wasn't alone anymore; neither of them were — they would play together, unburdened by the narrow judgment of people who no longer mattered. She tapped her foot to an unheard rhythm, brow perked up with child-like wonderment.

"Ready?"

In their years together, they had found harmony in a profound and transcendent symphony, the intertwining melodies of two hearts creating a masterpiece of shared experiences — from clinging to one another on a weak window dormer, one a daughter beatified with the warmth of life and the other a son burdened with the frost of death, only loved by parents that had long departed from the surface of the living world, to cross the continent, hand-in-hand as they faced each new day with no fear, knowing they could surpass every challenge if they remained side-by-side. They had become a complex but wonderfully synchronized composition. And in this refrain, as they entered the next section, there was no need for a conductor at the reigns, easily harmonizing with empathy only shared between the two, seeking to comprehend their hopes, dreams, and fears through the other's lens. Melodies of lifelong laughter rang clear and true, circling a lightness into their lives that could be found nowhere else.

In their grand composition, harmony did not mean an absence of discord — that is not the way life is, but instead a divine interplay of differences and similarities. Like contrasting, dissonant notes, they retroactively complemented one another, enhancing their strengths while compensating for their weaknesses. It was no static composition but a work of living, breathing art, evolving and blossoming with each passing day. Notes were fed by the warmth and care that filled each rest and the tenderness that arose as they allowed each other to shine in the solos.

In their duet, they had found the transformative power that allowed two kindred souls to intertwine, and whenever they played in truly perfect accord, appearance no longer mattered, instead producing a deeply fulfilling lifelong bond that neither of them could've possibly imagined.

The Demon smiled at his divine treasure, forever devoted as she awaited his que. "For you, моя милая. Always."

(моя) милая = (my) dear не забудьте пройти мимо за́ла. = don't forget to pass by the reception room. федя = fedya любимая = darling ты некомпетентное дерьмо—! = you incompetent shit—! громче, достоевский! = louder, dostoevsky!

TAGLIST: @hypocritic-trash-baby @imhandicapableofmath @seisitive @hauntedsol @ruru-kiss @ishqani @kotysluny @zyilas @lovesick-fairy @fedyascoffin @aqigglewigglewoo

© MUSAMORA 2023 — do not repost or modify my works for any reason. do not steal graphics w/o explicit permission. reblogs are appreciated.

[ignitefever]

🗲 — beat of the city. (app)

Click. Click. Click.

Her heels tap rhythmically as she walks through cobblestone streets, tram cars grinding along the rails, the roaring engines of passing cars, shopkeepers ringing their bells to attract customers…

It was the heartbeat of the city. A performance all its own.

“ ♪ …Duh-duh-duh, duh-duh… ♪ ”

Serval takes in each sound, each sensation, using the noise of the city and tapping of her heels to form the foundation of a beat. Mechanical Fever had been doing well enough with their shows, but the fans would get tired of the same ol’ eventually, and what rock band would they be if they didn’t flip the script every now and then?

Her walk has become a jaunty little sway as she approaches the door to her shop, humming as she takes out the key and slots it into the door. A lot of places around Belobog had begun to turn to more advanced security systems, but as seen with her taste in ‘prehistoric’ music styles, Serval had an appreciation for the classics.

A slot, twist, and a click, and she’s inside.

She picks up the mail she’d grabbed this morning, left on the counter just before she went out to do errands. Whistling, she flips through envelopes and vehicle catalogues, subscriptions to engineering and fashion magazines, only to stop when she spots a certain name.

Landau.

…Probably from Mom.

She sets the letter down, deciding she didn’t have the energy to think about family right now. Well. Former family, if her dad had anything to say about it. Serval—eldest daughter of the Landaus. Smartest in the Silvermane Guards. A once-in-a-generation genius.

Cast out like yesterday’s trash, by both friend and family. 

As if she hadn’t spent the better part of her life working to please a father with high standards, supporting her best friend as she faced the crushing pressure of becoming Belobog’s guardian, or studying the Stellaron, so that they might understand a piece of the world beyond the endless blizzards and tundras…

That they might learn where the monsters and the Fragmentum came from, or a way to end the Freeze; save Belobog and the whole damned world, even—

"Take responsibility for your choices and the people of Belobog..."

And that’s what she had done, wasn’t it? Ticked off all the boxes. Excelled in her schooling, researched the topics that made her heart sing; working her butt off and piling up accolades and credentials, serving the city and continuing the Landau’s longstanding tradition of dignity and esteem.

Yet it got her nothing but an abrupt discharge from the army, an unrecognizable best friend that wanted nothing to do with her anymore, and a father so ashamed of her he didn’t even want her to claim her own family name.

So! She wouldn’t claim it.

She takes a seat at the front counter. She’d given Molly the day off from the workshop, Lynxy was out on an expedition, and both Pela and Geppie were busy with Silvermane Guard business, which gave her the perfect window to work on a few personal projects.

Like… restoring this old relic of a stopwatch she found.

She sets the machine out on her desk, and before opening it, catches her own reflection on the surface. Huh. She looked pretty good today. Makeup hid the bags under her eyes, though her hair was left a little tousled from the wind gusts outside…

“Agh.” The maid groans, “Lady Serval, your hair is COVERED in soot and snow! Were you playing around outside again? You know how the lord and madam hate it when you muss up your hair…”

Pure locks of gold. Perfect and pristine. A lauded Landau trait… until it wasn’t. Humming, Serval brushes her hair behind her ear and opens the watch to a series of gears. The thing about being ousted from an esteemed family was that you didn’t have to follow little things like tradition anymore. 

Streaks of blue through the gold, brightly dyed tips… she’d always wanted to color her hair, just like the rock n’ rollers of old. Plus, there was a new glowing dip dye she was experimenting with…

Click. Click. Click.

Heels click with strong, purposeful strides. The halls of Qlipoth Fort were always noisy when Serval was around. 

In her school days, it was all the commotion from her band performances with Dunn, and the growing hordes of fans amongst their classmates. Now, it was the respect she amassed as a researcher in the Architects, soldiers and scientists all buzzing about with rumors—a new lead researcher was about to be elected for a big project, and Miss Serval Landau was a shoe-in for the position.

Because of course she was. What Landau wasn’t made for excellence?

Yet Cocolia still shut down her lab, accused her of insanity, and threw her away. For nothing. Their friendship, her achievements. Her dreams, aspirations, her life… and dad? The family elders? Pheeeew, they were having none of that. No disgraces allowed!

And fine, great. Less pressure for her. 

…Except they put it all on poor Geppie instead.

Click. Cli—

“Agh, darn. Looks like this gear’s jammed. Let’s see…”

But she made it through. Landaus were all about resilience and endurance, after all. Stubbornness, too. Even if those first few years after losing her job and leaving the family had been hell. 

The family had taken her money and support, so she clung to what she had: technology. Machines. Her brain. Things malfunctioned and broke everyday, and people needed someone to fix them.

Cocolia had completely trashed her reputation and career prospects, so she channeled her rage the best way she knew how—rock music.

It was how she vented back in the academy, taking out the frustrations of studies and her family with a good, cathartic jam session. 

And even now, her band attracted new and younger fans, lost kids seeking to find an outlet for the awkward and difficult feelings they were growing up with. Drama with love, peers, and family. The growing threat of the Fragmentum, and the bleak future that waited outside of Belobog’s walls.

The music helped them, like it helped her. The machines she tinkered with may not have been new, state-of-the-art technologies, but it felt good to see the smile on someone’s face when their heater got patched up, or the excitement in someone’s eyes when they got a new mod on their car installed.

Sure, she may not have been the Serval Landau. Not the Architect or prodigal daughter. But Serval Landau, the rock musician? The mechanic? She was making a difference, and that was just as good. Better, even.

There was still a place for her in the world. Helping little Bronya, forcing Geppie to chill out, making sure Lynxy and Pela didn’t get into too much trouble. Repairing machines, studying new intergalactic technologies, and coming up with ways to make life easier in both the Overworld and Underworld. 

There was a time when everything felt dark. When she wanted to run from her anger and grief, from a life that felt empty. 

But now, it’s different. Brighter, a little more hopeful. Not so bad.

A little more tinkering, and the gear unjams, Serval hums to herself as it begins to turn again, filling the silence with a steady, rhythmic—

Click. Click. Click.

Hm. She had the time. Maybe she’d read Mom’s letter, after all. Start writing that new song for Mechanical Fever’s next show, too.

[astra-galaxie]

🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️🧸👽🦾💔 🔪😭😶 for the one and only lars douglas please :D

It's probably a good thing there’s only one Lars Douglas; I don't think the world could survive two!😉

That being said, here are his headcanons!

🏳️‍🌈 A sexuality headcanon

Lars is bisexual. He’s attracted to men and women equally, though when he was younger, sometimes he was attracted to one gender more than the other.

🏳️‍⚧️ A gender headcanon

Lars is genderqueer and uses he/him pronouns. Even though he identifies as a man, he’s not afraid to be feminine. He is always open to playing dress-up with his daughters and letting them put makeup on him or do his hair. Even before the triplets were born, Lars had many female friends he would hang out with even if the activities were not considered “masculine,” like spa days, clothes shopping, or getting manicures.

🧸 A headcanon about their childhood

Lars’s love of explosions started when he was young. As a child, he loved watching fireworks explode in the sky and light it up with dazzling colours and shapes. He used to ask so many questions about how fireworks worked, and when he was old enough, he was allowed to help set them off. While his parents didn’t keep fireworks in the house due to his father’s dislike of the sounds they made, Lars’s neighbours would shoot them for special occasions and let him help fire them. With his parents’ permission, of course!

👽 A headcanon about a weird quirk of there

Lars is always composing new songs. You can almost always find him humming, whistling, or singing his latest piece as he works to perfect it. He also always carries a little notebook to write down things when inspiration hits. Even if it can be annoying, Angela loves watching his face light up as an idea hits him before he begins furiously scribbling in his book.

🦾 A disability headcanon

He has hearing loss because of his music and lab explosions. It's not as bad as Oberon's, but often, Lars will not hear you, ask you to repeat something, or speak louder and slower.

💔 An angsty headcanon

Lars never got rid of his wedding ring. The thought of getting rid of it crossed his mind many times, and he considered countless ways to do it. But whenever he tried, he couldn’t go through with it. A part of his heart would always love Angela, and it was connected to that ring. Lars now keeps the ring in a special box tucked away for safekeeping, and sometimes, when he needs to, he’ll take the ring out and remember the good times he spent with his ex-wife.

🔪 A headcanon relating to fighting/violence

Lars has always been more of a lover than a fighter, but that doesn't mean he’s harmless. As a Bureau agent, he is still trained in self-defence and firearms, even though he’s only a lab expert. Because he travels with the team and does get out into the field, he went through training like the rest of his teammates just not as intense as the field agents.

😭 A headcanon about the worst thing that happened to them

When Lars caught the plague in India, he was convinced he was going to die. He was quarantined to protect others and was mostly alone except when Angela visited to check on him. While isolated from his team, Lars only had his phone to help distract him from his pain. But despite the pain, he found the strength to record videos for his family and friends. If he was going to die, he wanted to say goodbye and leave them something to remember him by, as horrible as he looked when he was infected. After being cured, Lars didn’t delete the videos but never told anyone about them either. If the time comes later on that they are needed, they will be safely stored away for his loved ones to access.

😶 A random headcanon

He used to dress up as a mall Santa Claus; it's where he got such a nice suit from! He started in college to earn some extra money, and while he was very young for the job, a little makeup and a good fake beard did the trick! The children loved him, and Lars had tons of fun listening to them ramble their Christmas lists to him and taking pictures.

And done! How’d I do? Did I make you laugh and cry?

Thanks for the request, Issy!