#look at this angel in his slim rimmed glasses
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👓Sam in cute 'lil spectacles👓
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diolanza · 5 months ago
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@medicus-mortem liked for a starter!
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ––––––––
Music reverberated through the bar, weaving its way through the audience, enrapturing them and compelling them to look towards the stage. To the side, a fishman with pink hair and colorful scales glimmering in the stage lighting. They lounged on the edge of the stage, microphone in hand as they sang. A stand in the stage's center held a rope in the center, leading to an acrobatics hoop that housed the central figure that intoxicated a number of the bar's patrons.
Cupid moved about the hoop with ease, bending, spinning, and throwing back their torso when the music commanded. Their outfit was skintight, pink and covered in red hearts with feathers around the collar and with an open back so the audience could easily see their sculpted shoulders. As their routine went on, people hurried to the jar next to the singing Pizi, who'd smile and reach out to gently stroke the chin of a few lucky people. In that moment, it seemed that the song was for the few pirates in the bar graced with their touch, only leading to them pouring more of their life savings into the jar.
On the last verse of the song, Cupid pulled themselves into a sitting position on the hoop, their back facing the bar. Two sets of angelic wings sprouted from their back, leading to cheers among the audience and sung praises of their unique Devil Fruit. Cupid gently stepped down from the hoop, and took Pizi's hand in their own, their fishman companion having stepped onto the stage at the end of their dual performance. With Cupid's wings spread, the two bowed to the applause of the captured audience.
The two stepped of the stage and were immediately flanked by their two 'bodyguards' for the night. Eros's usually meek personality was replaced with on fiercely protective of his elder sibling, who was already being approached by an intoxicated man begging for their attention. On Pizi's side, Evanidus, whose glare was enough to keep a group of young women from swarming the two. The group sat themselves in the seats to the side of the stage that were reserved for performers only. Cupid was sat for mere moments before a particular bar patron caught their attention. He was away from the crowd around the stage, perhaps trying to be inconspicuous, but Cupid had seen his face in the newspaper that had come out after Doflamingo's defeat.
❝ Look who's here, ❞ Cupid said, annoyingly putting all of their weight into their brother's side. They nodded towards the man, grinning, ❝ Think I have a chance? ❞
❝ With Trafalgar Law? ❞ Eros squeaked, eyes hurriedly flickering between the two, ❝ Cupid, no, please. I really don't think talking to someone who hates- ❞
Cupid was already up, drink in hand, making their way to where Law was seated. Whispers followed them, no doubt because of the former Warlord's reputation combined with the fact that he'd gotten the 'angel's' attention. Cupid would have loved to see what Law had to offer and they'd readily accept whatever it was, but they knew the chances of ending up in his bed were slim. Instead, they felt they had a better chance of finding out more about his current state. If the Heart Pirates were up to anything, they were curious to learn what it was. If he didn't want to open up, well, at least they'd get to look at him.
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They settled across from him and took a small sip from their drink. Regarding law with a smile, they began to circle the rim of their glass with a finger, ❝ Didja enjoy the show? ❞
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feelings-fortilly · 2 years ago
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About:  Tilly Beaumont
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PERSONAL:
Full Name:  Natalie Faith Davenport Beaumont Nickname:  Tilly Do they like their nickname?:  Yes - she chose it, and if you call her Natalie you will get a perfect manicure poked into your eyes. Birthday:  June 10, 1997 Birthplace:  Los Angeles, CA Hometown:  Hollywood Hills, CA Species:  Human, Empath Ethnicity:  English, Spanish, Scottish, Argentinian Religion:  None Pets:  She would love a fluffy white cat to decorate in bows and scarves - but alas. Major:  Dance and Fashion Design Minor:  Method Acting Current Occupation:  Salesperson at Island Pleasures (she’ll say she doesn’t need the money, she mostly wants the employee discount) Sexuality:  Straight Relationship Status:  Single Do they drive?  What kind of car do they own?:  Back home she has a champagne BMW.
PHYSICAL APPEARANCE:
Height:  5′6 Body Type:  Slim and a little rawboned Hair Color:  Naturally dirty blonde, dyes it platinum or sometimes a copper red, depending on the season or her mood.  Has been a brunette - it truly depends. Hair Type:  Straight Hair Style:  She typically just keeps it naturally straight, but sometimes she’ll blow it out or style it in intricate updos.  She doesn’t like curling her hair. Eye Color:  Dark brown Glasses/Contacts?:  She has contacts.  Tilly does have rose gold rimmed glasses that she never ever wears - emergencies only. Prominent Features:  Tilly likes to say her entire being is a prominent feature. Scars:  Under her chin from a swing set chain when she was eight. Tattoos:  A tiny crescent moon on her left ankle - it was a stick and poke at a party. Piercings:  Three on each ear Health Problems or Conditions:  She does a bit of an alcohol/drug problem, which leads to other problems. Style:  Expensive.  Floral and babydoll dresses, sometimes she’ll just wear satin nightgowns/slips as outfits.  Almost always heels - she doesn’t own many flat shoes.  Rarely  Notable Jewelry:  She has a gold star necklace that she does wear a lot. Grooming:  Tilly never shows up looking anything less than perfectly put together.  She’s very clean, taking her beauty standards and skincare routines very seriously.  Lots of lotions and hair and face masks, her nails and toes are always done.
PAST:
Mother’s Name:  Lucille Mother’s Maiden Name:  Davenport Status:  Alive Relationship:  Tilly and her mom are fairly close.  Lucille was a model when she was Tilly’s age, who starred in a couple of movies here and there - it’s how she meant her father.  That gave them a nice bond.  Lucille cares a lot about her looks, her beauty, and fashion, which she shared with Tilly, her first daughter.   Father’s Name:  Harry Beaumont Status:  Alive Relationship:  Harry dotes on her, as she’s his only daughter.  She’s definitely a daddy’s girl - he spoils her rotten, even when it’s against her own good.  She has a lot of respect for him, looks up to him a lot.  They have a great relationship, as best as they can when the both of them are always on the move.   Siblings:  Samuel (+3), Darlie (-8, half sister), and Jack (-9, half brother) What was their childhood like?:  The Beaumonts had literally everything they ever wanted.  Extravagant birthday parties, summer and winter homes, every pet they could ask for.  Samuel was always busy training as a baseball pitcher (he currently plays in the MLB for the Diamondbacks), and Tilly had her acting and theater.  Lots of time split between parents after they divorced, but that meant double the gifts for affection.  Lots of her childhood was spent on TV sets, and as she grew into her teenage years, she got more into parties and slacking off and “trying to make as many memories as possible”. Earliest Memory:  Christmas dinner when she was 2 and her parents got them each a puppy. Happiest Memory:  Her first day on set of Found Family, the TV show she was on that ran for five seasons. Saddest Memory:  Her first day of the first stint in rehab. Education:  Tilly was essentially homeschooled on sets, but because of the rigorousness some of these teachers were, she always says she got some of the finest education with private tutors. Past Jobs:  She was a child actor on Barney, the Found Family, then a few short lived, one season shows, TV movies, some theatrical releases, and a pilot for Disney Channel that ended up not getting picked up.  She has a lot of LA theater on her resume as well, and some sparse indie film as she got older.  She’s also been a spokesperson for a few makeup and beauty brands, advertising on her Instagram. Police Record:  Some drug charges that got dropped, and some speeding tickets. Major Past Trauma/Illness - Are they still affected?:  Being in the spotlight with the demands from producers and directors to child actors always have some negative effects.  Tilly’s always had an inflated sense of self anyway, which meant that any question of that, or really any adversity, was harder for her.  She’s obsessed with her looks and keeping herself thin, which has led to unhealthy habits.  It was easier for her to cope with what she considered “failure” with the ways other teen stars did - alcohol and drugs.  The psychological effects of that didn’t help her any either, heightening her emotions and making her anxious and depressed.  She still isn’t totally over her addictions either.
SEX & ROMANCE:
First crush:  She had a crush on one of the recurring actors in Found Family. First sexual experience - Was it a good or bad one?:  Tilly was shooting a teen drama when she was 15, and one of the boys in the cast was 16 and they both had been flirting with each other the whole time.  They were filming on his 17th birthday, so Tilly’s present to him was for some alone time in his trailer.  It was a lot of fun. Sexual Type:  Switch, but she teeters more into submissive for the show of it. Turn Ons:   Role Play, Giving/Receiving Oral, Bondage, Sensory Play, Spanking, Lingerie, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Multiple Partners, Orgasm Control, Foreplay, Rough Sex, Hair Pulling, Praise/Compliments, Public Sex, Dub-Con, Consensual Non-Con Turn Offs:  Bathroom Play, Non-con, Infantilism, Feet Love Type:  Tilly likes being spoiled, and does care a lot about looks - if they look good together, that’s even better.  It’s hard for her to let other people know the real her.  She’d want to be adored and loved, but she’s also the biggest hype-woman on earth.  To friends or romances, she loves inflating their egos and making them know how important they are - they have to get onto her level, of course. Significant Past Relationships:  None that lasted longer than a couple of months.  She’s never had anything significant past short-lived boyfriends and the semi-frequent hookup while she was single - which wasn’t often.
MENTAL WELLNESS:
Psychological Issues/Mental Illnesses:  Addiction Outlook on Life:  Life is too short not to have the most fun possible. Myers-Briggs Personality Type:  ENFP Temperament:  Sanguine Sun Sign:  Gemini Moon Sign:  Leo Rising Sign:  Capricorn Venus Sign:  Cancer Alignment:  Neutral Evil Hogwarts House:  Slytherin What/Who do they value most?:  Her clothes, her jewelry, her hair. What/Who are they willing to die for?:  Not many.  Some of her close friends, her family.  Most of the time. Personal Philosophy:  You can never be overdressed or overeducated.  But especially not overdressed. Biggest Fear:  Failure, or being considered irrelevant.  Being forgotten. Are they superstitious?:  Yes - she believes in zodiacs, in witches, and her being an empath has always had her thinking she was in tune to things other people weren’t, or that there were other powerful forces in the universe.  She was ecstatic to be proven right when she got to the Institute. Greatest Strength:  Her confidence. Greatest Weakness:  Her pride.  She can’t back down or admit when she’s on any kind of losing side.  She has a very hard time being wrong. Good Characteristics:  Tilly is very fashionable, and actually quite charitable.  She likes making people feel good about themselves, to the best of her ability.  She isn’t the type of girl that will ever tear others down, even she has a sort of stuck-up look.  She is a good friend with the few she has, she likes to spoil them and make sure they feel special on birthdays, or bad days.  Bad Characteristics:  She’s not humble, by any means.  She’s very much the kind to brag about her accomplishments, then remind the other that “it’s no competition.”  And Tilly is incredibly selfish, because at the end of the day, the most important person to Tilly, is Tilly. Favorite thing about themself?  Why?:  Her looks.  Second, her talent. Least favorite?  Why?:  Her voice.  Someone told her once it doesn’t match her face, and it’s bothered her since.  It’s one thing she can’t really change. Biggest regret:  She has none.  Truly, she isn’t someone who regrets - everything happens for a reason, and everything makes a good story. Proudest moment:  Going to her first awards show - Found Family was nominated for a Golden Globe in its first season. Quirks:  She only takes her coffee with cinnamon in it.  When she’s thinking hard, she bites her lip and screws her eyes shut to concentrate.  She has to have a clean face before she goes to sleep. How are they in crisis?  Tilly is very good in crisis.  She’s had to deal with lots of crisis in party situations, after-parties, vacations, club settings - she’s seen a lot.  And somebody always has to stay calm and not freak out.  She’s an actress, she’s good at it.   What do they wish to change most about themself?:  She doesn’t want to be an addict anymore.  She thinks it’s fun, and she needs it for having good times and getting through the day, but she hates the dependence.  
SPEECH & COMMUNICATION:
Pace:  Even and sure of herself. Voice Tone:  Often inflected, but her voice is more melodic than she gives it credit for.   Accent/Dialect:  She slips into the Valley Girl accent a bit, especially when she’s been drinking.  She will deny it, though. Speech Patterns:  It’s not something she does on purpose, but the ends of her sentences always seem to be like questions, even when they aren’t. Favorite Words/Phrases:  Not so much anything verbal, but she is known to roll her eyes and scoff a lot.   Mannerisms/Demeanor:  Confidence.  She speaks every word with conviction.   Posture:  She stands straight, all the time.  Walks through life unflinching. Gestures:  Tilly uses her hands, a lot.  She’s not over-the-top about it or anything, but she’s a very touchy feely girl, even in casual conversation, not just flirting. How good are they at lying?:  Very good.  Tilly justifies it because she’s an actress.
BEHAVIOR:
Finances:  Tilly is not good with money, it’s typically wasted on booze and clothes and makeup... but is that really a waste, when you think about it? Alcohol Use:  Often.  The fruitier, the better.  The hangover is worth the taste. Drug Use:  Also often, but the “glamorous” drugs - cocaine, LSD, acid, mushrooms, weed.   Morning/Night Person?:  Night person.  If it were up to her, the day wouldn’t have to start until noon. Morning Routine:  Wake up, wash her face.  She doesn’t often drink coffee, only when she’s hungover.  Otherwise, it’s an iced matcha latte in the morning for breakfast, sometimes a bagel.  But that’s rare.  It takes her some time to do her hair and makeup and pick out an outfit, so that tends to bleed into the day routine - none of her classes are before 11am, if she can help it. Day Routine:  She’ll go to the dance studio and choreograph something for herself.  She’ll take videos of it, sometimes.  She’ll go to the gym right after, or do some other kind of workout.  She’ll take a shower, then take a half hour cat nap.  If she doesn’t have any workouts, she’ll go shopping, or window shopping if there’s nothing she likes.  Grab lunch with a girl friend, or someone she met the night before for a little date. Evening Routine:  Typically, she goes out in the evening.  It’s not far off from her morning routine, picking out an outfit and getting herself dolled up for a night on the town.  She spends it dancing in clubs, or drinking, or finding her way into someone’s nice, hopefully four-poster bed - anything not in the cells. Night Routine:  Unless she sleeps over someone’s house, she has her whole evening skincare routine.  It helps wind her down.  Then she’ll read a book until it makes her fall asleep.  If she’s not in the cells, she will still find time to wash her face - she’s very meticulous about it. Sleep Habits:  She’s a heavy sleeper, so she’ll sleep right through the night.  Snores when he’s really tired, but never talk about it. Special Skills:  Dancing, singing.  She’s good at sewing.  She loves fashion - at work she’ll dress up mannequins every day, so the storefront looks different and has variety, showing off her skills and the merchandise.  She loves listening to showtunes, it’s her first love. Unskilled at:  Academics.  Most sports.  Sharing.  Video games.  And driving - she’s not a careless driver on purpose, but she likes to go fast and is pretty addicted to her phone.  She’s not a good reader, but she’ll still read - it just takes her longer. Hobbies:  Makeup, fashion.  She reads fashion magazines like the bible, but does like the occasional thriller or romance.  If she had her own kitchen, she’d be baking, but only small portions.  She does really like the beach, laying out in the sun - except it’s mostly shade, because she isn’t risking wrinkles to her pale skin for that extra bit of warmth.  Watching soap operas and other daytime television.
FAVORITES (AND OTHER MISCELLANIA):
Book:  The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid Movie:  Legally Blonde TV Show:  The Young and the Restless Album:  Katy Perry’s Teenage Dream Artist:  Taylor Swift Song:  Like a Prayer by Madonna Sport/Sport Team:  The Westminster dog shows Color:  Pink.  Or red.  Sometimes gold.  And silver, too. Meal:  Cheesecake Drink:  Grey Goose Cosmo Snack:  Heart-Shaped Lollipops Outfit:  A pink slip used as a dress with ankle high, white go-go boots, along with a leather jacket and sparkly clutch purse. Quote:  “She’s like a dream girl.  And I think a dream girl should live in a dream world. Prized Possession:  She has a lot of vintage perfumes she hoards and protects.
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burning-fcols · 9 months ago
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"I thought you'd be an angel, y' know." Said into the quiet bubble of calm that was the hotel lobby late one night, drink and the hour making reminiscing easier to stomach, even if only by a little. "After all the shit you went through, figured if there was any fuckin' god out there, he'd make it up to you in Heaven. I guess even in death, life isn't fuckin' fair." - ✧ ˖ ˙ 「 @ʜᴇʟʟꜱ-ꜰᴠʀʏ 」 ˙ ˖ ✧
「 ☆ 」 Nursing the same glass since he'd arrived, Angel's mind is slow-moving even without the aid of alcohol. Honestly, he figured he'd be through a bottle by now with the day he's had. Numbed by the building exhaustion of elusive sleep, the late hour and chill of the lobby air further lulls his body into that strange place between being aware of its surroundings and sinking into the calm of it. Gaze fixated on his drink, slim fingers swirl the amber liquid around. Mismatched hues watching as it dances along the rim before slipping back into the glass's embrace.
Angel is taken aback when Husk— ... Bo decides to break the quiet, but he doesn't show it. Aside from the stilling of his hand, eyes blinking as a coherent light finds its way back into their dazed depths. Setting the glass down with a soft clink against the wooden counter, a fond if... bittersweetly-amused smile pulls at his lips. One would think the revelation that the bartender not only knew him in life but was THE long-lost love Angel had scrubbed from his drugged-out mind ( once he'd masterminded the murder of those responsible for his death ) would be the most surprising thing that could happen between the two.
But no. It's that admission... by a long shot.
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❝ Babe... I know you got rose-cola'ed glasses on when it comes ta me, but that's takin' it a bit far. Don' ya think? ❞ He doesn't mean to diminish what Husk said, the lightly-nervous lilt to his ❛ playful ❜ response betraying his own... mixed-feelings toward what slipped out. But it's difficult to wrap his mind around such an opinion. To even BEGIN to understand how Bo— someone who knew him better than anyone else ever did —could think he was anything close to worthy of Heaven.
❝ Sure, life was a piece'a shit... but it's not like I didn' make plenty of bad decisions myself. ❞ Hooking a finger over the rim of his drink, he tilts it back and forth. Watching the glass lightly tap the counter, he continues in a quieter voice, ❝ I ain't no Saint, Bo... You outta know that betta' than anyone. ❞ Even if he hadn't indulged in whatever vices he could to dull the pain, hadn't killed because he was told to— or because the anger became too much to keep in check at times —hadn't lived his life with the firm belief that he wasn't going to be rewarded in the next by PRINCIPLE of who ( and what ) he was... if all of that was meaningless in the end, he'd still deserve everything Hell saw fit to throw at him.
If only because he had been selfish enough to love Bo... Dooming the other man to a life that couldn't be allowed to have a future.
Looking away from his drink, he lets go of the glass, air filled with its soft rattle while he refocuses upon Husk instead. Slightly quirking a brow, expression is calm as his voice as he confesses, ❝ Always figa'ed you'd be an angel though. Yer talkin' about th' shit I went through? What about all th' shit YOU had ta deal wit'? If that don' earn ya a place past th' pearly gates, I don' know what th' fuck will. ❞ Shouldering his own burdens while also keeping Angel afloat? Talk about a martyr... 「 ☆ 」
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ksakiswh0re-xo · 9 months ago
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𖤛GET THIS WET F' ME ~》 - rin.haitani
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syn: oh nothing, just you sucking on rindou's fingers with his rings on while he fucks you missionary.
cw: no prns/afab reader. finger-sucking, rings, spit, choking, degradation, missionary-style sex (you're in his lap kinda? idk), marking. sweet talk at the end.
dividers: @/benkeibear, @/cafekitsune. banner @rinsprttyg.
wc: 902
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“You’re just an eager little slut, aren’t you?”
The purple and teal-haired male stares down at you over the rim of his glasses. He hates wearing them, but you think that they make him look even more handsome.
You’re both covered in a white Egyptian cotton sheet, which has fallen over Rindou’s smooth, pale back to pool around his naked hips. Hips that are propelling his body forward as he bucks into you repeatedly.
Tears are streaming from your eyes at the incredible pleasure that you feel in your core from him fucking you so slowly, so deeply. Grinding into your body at a speed so incredible that you can barely focus on his next words.
“Open your mouth.”
It takes you a couple of times to register what he’s said, but then, like the obedient little toy that you are, you’re opening your lips to accommodate his long, slim fingers.
“Fuck yeah, you look so fucking hot like this, baby…sucking me so well.”
The cold feelings and metallic tastes of his silver rings infiltrate your senses and make the back of your teeth tingle as he rubs them all over your tongue, covering them in your saliva.
“You’re fucking drooling all over me, babe. Above and below.” Rindou chuckled as he continued to massage your tongue with his fingers.
He took the thick, fleshy muscle between his index and middle fingers before tilting your chin up towards his mouth.
“Keep your eyes on me.” 
And you did.
His hair fell across his forehead in a pretty curtain as he leaned over you, angling your head up a bit further, just enough to let a thick stream of his saliva drip into your mouth.
An involuntary moan escaped your lips before Rindou pressed his smooth cold ones to your mouth in a forceful kiss.
When he pulled back, the thick chain of spit stretched between both your mouths before breaking and plopping against your chest. 
The man above you gave you a quick once-over, light amethyst eyes hooded and full of lust before he returned his fingers to their rightful place.
This time, he angled them diagonally, the metal rings gliding past your tongue as he thrust his fingers to the back of your throat, making you gag.
“What? You can choke on my cock all day long but can't handle just my fingers?” He tsked and retracted them enough so you could regain your breath. Spluttering stupidly, you began pleading,
“N-no…I can! I can, Rin, promise I can…”
A smirk worked its way across his stunning features; you gulped, hoping that you hadn’t made him upset.
His thrusts had slowed down even more to just a lazy roll of his hips; you could still feel the thick length of his dick dragging along your walls with every motion, though.
“Good, because I wasn't planning on stopping. Open.”
Your mouth moved of its own accord as you once again took his fingers in, this time closing your lips around them and sucking on each of the digits individually, flicking your tongue over the knuckles to get to the circular bands that rested just below them.
“There you go. Just like that, angel. Get me nice and wet.” 
Rindou gripped your neck with his free hand and hoisted you up before dropping you back down and using his toned thighs to bounce your body on him hurriedly.
His glasses slid further down, now resting just underneath his nose - you honestly didn’t know how they had remained on his face this long just from how forceful his thrusts were. 
You could see his neck straining slightly, the Bonten tattoo on his throat flexing and stretching as he squinted those beautiful eyes shut and let out a deep grunt from within his chest.
“Gunna cum from you sucking me, angel. S-shit!”
The sheet fell from his person completely, crumpling into a heap on the bed as the sound of the headboard hitting the wall and your choked gasps overtook the silence in the room.
With one final, hard thrust, Rindou spilled his seed deep inside of you, coating your insides with his thick, warm cum.
He released your neck and slid his glasses back up over his eyes just in time to catch the gush of his nut seeping out of your stretched hole.
“Heh, filled you to the brim, didn’t I? There’s just something about that little airheaded look you give me that makes me lose control every time. You alright, angel?”
Still a little high and woozy from the constriction, you took a few moments to regain yourself before you answered.
“I’m fine, Rin…you were amazing.”
“Amazing, huh?”
Rindou’s gaze dropped to your neck where the imprints of his fingers could be seen; your flesh was now slightly discolored due to how tight his grip on you was.
The impressions of his initials that were engraved into the rings were now embedded in the sides of your neck. The purple-haired man’s eyebrows rose comically as he looked at you.
“Are you mine?”
He couldn’t stop himself from questioning even though he already knew the answer. He had heard it hundreds, maybe thousands of times already.
“Mhm, all yours, Rin..”
Yeah, there was no question of who you belonged to.
----
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©ksakiswh0re 2024. do NOT steal, copy, repost, rewrite, or re-upload my works onto other sites. comments and reblogs always welcome.
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unknownjpegs · 9 months ago
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tea
The club, expectedly, is loud. Obnoxious. Strobes of neon and technicolor flash and pulse, make his headache worse and worse with every cycle. Too many bodies too close together, too loud, the scent of alcohol and sweat and sick hitting him all at once. Reminding him why he doesn’t do this, reminding him why, exactly, he thinks people are mad for enjoying it. 
When Naima parts the crowd like a scowling angel of mercy, eyes locked to his and making a can you fucking believe the audacity face, Benji perks up immediately. 
Fucking hell, he shakes his head, silent communication passing between them as she’s (accidentally) shoved aside by a jumping dancer. 
She says something to them as she approaches the edge of the crowd, plum-painted lips moving wordless and glossy under the dance floor’s lights. The stranger turns to her, sweaty face a mask of barely-stifled rage. It looks, for a moment, as if she’s about to start something then and there — but then the dancer sees who she’s moving towards, their shoulders turn in. They slink away.
Benji watches them go over the rim of his glass. With his chin tilted, eyes scary and dark, he knows exactly how don’t fuck with me he looks. Not, he knows, exactly the energy he’s meant to be giving off. His companion must agree. She’s giving him one of her patented eldest sibling glares as she approaches.
“I am not,” Naima shouts over the music, smacking her fist into her palm for emphasis, “Gonna be cutting it up with you if you’re on some sad, gay ass shit all night. You hear me?” She bends forward and smacks him in the bicep. “Well?”
Benji rolls his eyes and tilts his chin towards the bar. The willowy redhead has disappeared, and judging from her lack of presence beside Naima — 
“Not with her either, though, huh?” 
She glares at him, pursing her lips in a mullish, annoyed pout. “Sullivan’s stick is up her bony ass, which means I only get thirteen hours free from work. Not gonna spend a single one of those on a girl who says, ‘eh, on and off’ when I ask her if she got somebody.”
Her voice goes funny and high, losing its twang of a drawl, when she imitates the potential hook up’s cadence. It sounds ridiculous on her, so Benji snorts. 
“Maybe you oughta spend it sleepin’ instead of striking out?”
“Wouldn’t be,” she lifts her slim brown fingers in air quotes, “‘striking out’ if I didn’t have a fucking storm cloud following me around.” 
Now, Benji gets his excuse to glare. “M’not following you around, one. Told you we’d have more luck at someplace like —“
Naima dances to the side to avoid a pair of bodies spinning drunkenly together. They cackle as they disappear back into the crowd. “I already told you I’m not going to some goth club that plays beatless 80s shit.” She taps a finger to her temple. “It fucks your brain, man. Makes you buy gift cards to Hot Topic.”
“It’s not a goth club, it’s —“
She throws her hands in the air, finally giving up and sliding into the stool opposite Benji when she realizes he won’t be moving any time soon. “Post punk industrial hardcore grunge metal neothrash! What the fuck ever. It’s white people shit, is what it is.”
Benji bristles with a little scowl. “Punk is —“
“Don’t care.”
“But it’s —“
“I.” Naima repeats, pointing two fingers to her own eyes and then at Benji. “Look at me. I do not care. Thirteen hours, Benji. Thirteen. Personally I’m gonna put some effort into making at least two of those pulling — and ideally fucking — some stranger. Little stress relief, you know what I’m saying?” 
She stands from the stool then, wobbling a bit for balance because the scalloped edge of her black crocheted vest snags on the edge. She glares at it, tugs until it rips, then points at Benji. His eyebrows stay furrowed, lids thin with barely sustainable annoyance. She looks cute trying to maintain her own. They both start to smile at the same moment, hands coming up to cover their mouths in a mirror. 
“This your fault too,” she accuses, barely audible from behind her palm and the loud thrum of music. She shakes the edge of her vest at him with a flourish. There’s no way she can see how his mouth opens to talk back, but the timing of her hand in the air between their faces to silence him is perfect. 
“Turn your location on and share it with me.” She demands, flicking her long, bubble braid ponytail over her shoulder. “Share it with me. Set some money aside for an Uber of your own, and then go find somebody to set you straight.”
There’s a beat of silence between them, and then she snorts out a little laugh that makes Benji kick off, too. 
“Or whatever. Shut up, man. Shut up.” 
“You —“
Naima grabs his cheeks and plants a loud, smacking kiss on his forehead. Then she turns and cups around her mouth to shout into the crowd. 
“Y’all, my friend over here needs some company! He lifts like two-something and plays the drums!” 
With that, Naima melts into the throng of bodies with a departing wink. Benji feels his face go warm, then hot, then flaming when multiple pairs of eyes turn in his direction and linger. He looks quickly away, then puts his head in his clammy palm and tries his best to melt out of sight, too. 
*
He ends up outside, as he always does, fighting his lighter, as he always does. He needs a new one. Needs to stop smoking, first off, but needs a new one right now. Although Naima had meant it in a wingman sort of way, the attention her tease had gotten him had been largely unwanted. At one point, Benji had found it necessary to approach the bartender and plead for them to stop making drinks to send over — he wasn’t going to touch them, and felt bad for the labor. 
That had felt sticky and wrong to do. Made him guilty, like he was being egotistical about the attention and pointing it out. And from there the spiral had been slippery and immediate. Worried about presentation, about the way he sat, the line of his shoulders, if he looked unapproachable or too approachable. If the lingering glances and brushes against him were on purpose. If there was anything he could do to stop them; if there was anything he could do to stop himself from kind of enjoying it all. That felt oily. 
And at the bottom of the spiral, his chest had started to feel tight. It wasn’t often he went out, and that was for this particular reason. He’d rather be at home watching some shit movie, tapping at his phone to Saha, headphones on (and volume cranked much too high) to block out the eternally noisy sounds of the city.
Benji settles for the back door. He’s so in his head that he doesn’t think about the force he puts behind his shoulder. The door slams open with an incredible bang, hinges protesting with a whining squeak and then a snap. The bottom bends completely off, leaving the door hanging at an angle — with a massive, shoulder-shaped dent in the center.
Benji swears as his eyes pinch closed, blindly tucking a cigarette between his lips as he stumbles towards the end of the alley towards the sidewalk. 
He gets himself into a semi-comfortable lean against the crumbling brick wall before he realizes there’s another occupant. 
“Fuck!” 
Benji backs up a step as the other man jumps, shoulders tight up to his neck. He raises both hands in an apologetic gesture, but the corner of his mouth lifts a little at the theatrics of the reaction. 
“Sorry, mate. Thought maybe you heard the door.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Wasn’t quiet about it.” 
The other club-escapee, Benji assumes from the anxiety pouring off him and the half-finished cigarette in his adrenaline trembling hand, sighs. 
“No worries. I should have heard it, but like — ” he holds up his phone, which gleams bright blue between them. “I was looking at my bank account, so.”
The phone illuminates his face in a wash of light. The man is already pale, but it doesn’t make him look ghostly or strange. Benji thinks it rather compliments him; the soft curve of his jaw, a nicely shaped mouth, and intelligently gleaming eyes. 
He shouldn’t have had that last anxious pint, probably. He’s feeling a bit too sappy to responsibly handle a handsome stranger. 
Heh, his brain offers in syrupy amusement. Handle.
“Understood,” Benji says after clearing his throat, nodding sympathetically. “Never recommend doing that, personally.”
He grins. “Right. Like, if God want me to have a nickel, I should probably just accept that and not keep reminding myself.”
Benji whistles, brows shooting up in surprised admiration. “A nickel. Two ramen noodles there, pal. You’re kinda livin’ it up.”
Benji watches the stranger pull off his fraying beanie, scrub a hand through auburn hair. His stomach flips and he stomps that feeling down, ignores Naima’s teasing voice in his ear. She’d be too pleased to watch his location travel across the city to some shit overpriced flat in Brooklyn, where this guy no doubt lives. 
I’m not gonna fuck you on principle, Benji thinks as the man tucks the beanie into his back pocket. My friend would be too happy about it. Wait, that sounds fucking weird—
“Oh,” he says, brows raising in delighted shock. Gets that look about him all Americans do, once they realize the accent isn’t put on or anything. As if he’s just noticed it, a smile: “Where’s that from?” 
“Accent?”
He nods. Benji glances away. Trying, for some reason, not to smile and drop his cigarette.
“Texas.” He deadpans a little meanly. When their eyes catch again, the stranger doesn’t look put-upon or annoyed. So Benji offers: “But I’m from Liverpool.”
He has a really nice laugh. Sort of classically charming kind, much like his semi-shy body language and big grin. Benji looks away again, finding it difficult to think of all that and look at it at the same time. 
“Boston.” He says, and straightens up from his lean on the wall. 
Benji’s tongue touches against his molars, bitten down to stop himself from saying anything as he keeps going. Fucking tall, this one. 
“Yeah?” Benji offers a teasing, sneering smile.
“Wanna guess my name?” 
Benji pretends to debate for a moment, tapping his thumb to his chin. The cigarette makes his eyes sting, but he ignores it. “Hm. Mike.”
The stranger’s toothy grin falls somewhat. “Come on.”
“Pete.”
“Dude.”
“Greg. Jeremy. Roger.” 
The stranger tosses his head back and laughs again. It’s loud enough to wake a dog a few stories up, who sets to barking an irritating echo down the street. 
“Oh, man. You’re an asshole. You are an asshole…—“ A deliberate, suggestive pause. Benji shakes his head, unable to stop a huffing laugh of his own from escaping. That grin returns, mega-watt bright. A big, freckled palm raises to press over his chest — Benji wonders, before he can stop the thought, if that’s freckled too. 
“Xavier, Boston.”
He rolls his eyes and flicks the cigarette away, thumbnail over his tongue to brush off spare bits. “Benji.”
“Liverpool,” Xavier finishes cheerfully, and steps close enough to Benji to nudge their shoulders together. 
Benji lets him.
*
“He was well fit.”
Benji sucks in a breath and jerks in shock, stepping forward and away from the voice over his shoulder. Naima stands behind him, staring down her nose with one eyebrow up. Her mouth is similarly crooked.
“Don’t start that mocking shit.” Benji grumbles, giving her a gentle shoulder check as he goes to retriever the lighter that he flung out of his hand. She’s lucky Xavier is far enough in the opposite direction to not hear their exchange, or he’d be much more pissed. “You fuckin’ yeehaw dickhead.”
When he begins to make his way down the street, tilting his face up at the cool, crisp autumn air, Naima’s laugh trails slightly behind him. Her trainers start an arrhythmic pattern on the sidewalk as she avoids cracks and crevices and puddles from the earlier evening’s rain. The concrete steams, smoking the edge of the city. Reminds him of dry ice in a music video. 
“You get his number or what?”
“Aw.” A click of his tongue, fake-sympathy and sarcasm dripping thick like honey. “Didn’t find anybody to fill your thirteen hours?”
“Fill your ass,” Naima shoots back childishly, slinging an arm around his shoulders. They swing-step in tandem until Benji shoves her away. He’s careful not to tear the rip in her vest wider. “I can’t wait to write a Twitlonger about you. Wait until everybody finds out Spider-Man’s fucking canceled for — hm. What should it be? What’s the most work for Dr. S., you think?“
“You are so funny.” Benji crows, chasing after her in a half-jog when she darts away out of his grasp. They get rowdy down the street for the next block, right up until they land, gasping and clutching at each other, in the threshold of the cornerstore. Only place in their neighborhood that’s open this late, and they love the owner for it.
 They’re still shoving at each other and snarking breathlessly as Benji offers a two-finger salute to the man in question behind the counter. He’s reading a month old celebrity gossip magazine. Naima stops to ask after his parents, caught up in a detailed, grateful review of a blanket she’d knit for them last winter while Benji grabs their snacks of choice.
Back on the sidewalk, he watches her crack open the iced tea can with a judgmental grimace. Naima takes a purposefully loud sip, drowning out whatever his lips had parted to say.
“Need I remind you when you talk shit on iced tea, you’re talking shit on the entirety of the south?” She points out primly, tucking her spare hand into the pocket of her baggy green cargo pants. With her thumb poked out, she does a little two-step square dance move that is so strangely graceful Benji can’t help but let loose an appreciative whistle.
“You will never get me drinkin’ that. S’piss, mate. Dunno how you manage it.”
“Dunno how you manage to be so motherfucking grumpy all the time.” Naima mocks back, popping an L of her fingers to her forehead. “Oh, wait. I do. Your shit’s gonna shrivel and die if you don’t exercise it once in awhile, man.”
“Naima, you’re a fuckin’ riot when you’re acting like a human being, you know that? Real fun, yeah. I really prefer this you. The you when you’re too busy to open your mouth? That’s my least favorite Naima. Swear. My least favorite.” 
Benji fights their building’s lock as he speaks, ignoring her prodding fingers to his shoulders and side. She dances in place behind him, a bundle of barely-condensed energy that makes bitter sadness wash through him for a hinting second. He thinks of Maran for the length of it, then shakes the melancholy and imagines it shooting out of his ear like an ugly little clump of sooty tissue. 
He won’t admit it, but she’s right. He needs to relax. He needs to have some fun. But he hasn’t entirely convinced that her suggested method will do the trick. His luck with hook-ups tends to be a drag out casual thing that leaves him more bruised than anything else. But he also can’t pencil in free time to give someone deserved focus.
Naima isn’t the only busy one.
*
“I want you to know that I see how pathetic you are.” Bunny says a week later. She slides a particular file across her shiny glass desk towards him. One black-painted nail taps the manila folder. “I see this. I see all, Palanivel.” 
Benji glares at her, although the fierceness of it is largely lost in the slight shift of the mask’s LED display. He’s got a particular setting for her, the program picking up when it’s Bunny in front of him, when it’s Bunny being a cunt — means the display is usually stuck in that middle-finger emoji as long as they’re around each other. Because if a second passes where she’s not being one, it’s a second Bunny counts a failure. 
Still, she huffs a laugh every time the emoji flashes. 
“Fuck off,” he says sweetly, dumping most of the contents of the file onto her desk. The important sheet, the first page, he carefully folds with a crisp swipe of his thumb to tuck into the inner pocket of his jacket. 
“And die?”
He points at his nose, then at her. “You got it, boss.” 
She waits until he’s half out of her office door to open her mouth again, clearly eager to have the last word. Benji lets her, because otherwise he’d bet she chases him out into the lobby with those quick, intimidating strides to needle at him some more.
“Thought you only took the itty bitty neighborhood gigs, kid? Big bounty on that one.” A quick glance over his shoulder shows her face twisted with impish, evil delight. “But that’s not the reason, is it, you little —“
Her office doors slide shut. They’ve been insulated against escaping sound well, and he won’t spare a thought as to why, just be grateful it cuts off the rest of her jeer.
*
He waits until he’s in the elevator.
 Each of its four sides are intricately faceted mirrors, planes of him reflected in fragmented perpetuity. He looks at himself, and then another, and then another. The lighting is tasteful, classy and low gold that makes the orange accents of his suit pop. The thick purple stripe up each side from ankle to bicep looks navy. But its coloring is where the suit’s bragging rights end. Otherwise, it’s simple. Protective, but low-tech aside the helmet. Simple, for simple tasks.
For neighborhood gigs. Benji keeps it that way for a reason. Handle things in his community first, stay out of the whiny ego-driven big leagues. You get that high and it’s all about the press, anyway. 
So Bunny’s right, whatever: it’s strange he’s accepting this bounty. He’s always been a low key client. Keeps Bunny’s managing expenses equally low. She likes that about him, even if she pretends not to like the rest. It doesn’t make sense for him.
Benji retrieves the folded paper, gloved fingers delicately opening it. He isn’t sure why he does it that carefully, and to prove how much he doesn’t care, purposefully rips the corner as it unfolds completely. 
“Would usually look the other way,” Benji says to the paper, his head tilted slightly as he studies the blurry, zoomed-in printed images. A dark figure on a roof, the same figured silhouetted in the window of a investment firm’s high-rise office, stills from a video taken by a wealthy Manhattan denizen as the figure raids their posh closet for sparkling valuables. 
Call him mad, but Benji swears there is a distinctly mischievous element to the set line of the burglar’s shoulders. Dangerous, but not cruel. More having fun than cause harm. And maybe that’s why Benji took this big-league gig in particular after denying all the others. 
He has a strange, chest-deep feeling of excitement that tells him he’ll get to have a bit of fun too.
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heli0s-writes · 3 years ago
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Sharks in the Water*
Summary: He’s some kind of expert, all right. Marksman, combatant, tactician. Liar, lover, loaded gun.
A/n: Billy Russo/Reader 2.1k words of comparing Billy to dangerous animals lol. Explicit smut, suspense(?), questionable morals. Dirty talk. Soft!dark. Virginity kink? But no real virgins were involved in the making of this filth. 18+ only please.
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With Russo, there’s no room for slip ups.
He’s a viper in a jewelry box and if you’re distracted for even a second, he’ll drop you where you stand.
He’s your mission.
Fury doesn’t trust Anvil. Doesn’t trust their methods, doesn’t trust the abrupt crop of their success, doesn’t trust Russo as far as he can throw him.
When you thumb through the file, studying the lines of his boyish face beset with the eyes of a man who’s seen too much war, a small warning light flickers awake. Just a quick brush to the edge of your better judgement.
Combat vets own one of two expressions: a vacant, haunted stare, or a steely, hardened one. Like death touched them and couldn’t take them. Like nothing short of their own gun could.
Russo’s eyes are black. And bright. And the warning light in the back of your brain stays on.
-
It’s a full-blown evac alarm soon enough.
Maybe it’s how killers recognize each other. Preternaturally sensing your own kind before any proper introduction.
He steps behind you in line for coffee and the air around him shifts. He buys your cup, speaking over your head to the young boy at the counter, and suddenly the lure you’re casting out feels like it could come back with your own meat on the hook.
“You didn’t have to do that.” You duck your head, playing timid. Roll over. Belly up.
“I didn’t have to,” he smiles before leaning in, his slender frame bowing your way, your drink just slightly out of reach. “But if I see you tomorrow, I might do it again.”
It’s a come-on like a threat, and you realize with Russo, anything could be a threat.
-
He gets his hands on you by the second date.
He touches up your thigh, preening when you shiver. He’s got these outrageously long fingers. Slim and painterly, yet powerful. Every part apex predator with the disturbingly serene face of a stained-glass angel.
He’s a showoff, too. Knows exactly what he looks like at your side with a smirk, daring the bartender to check you out. Knows what you look like when he sits by a table full of women one tequila shot away from throwing themselves at him.
He’d feed your ego all night if it meant that by the time you’d fall into his bed, you’d be full of confidence—maybe indebted to him for getting you there.
He’s gorgeous, after all. You’d be so lucky.
You think he’s less interested in the chase before sex than the one that follows it. Russo’s the kind of unbalanced that toys with emotions and psyches. Finds all the ways he could break a person to small pieces. He wants to make someone addled by him, dependent on him, addicted to him.
Either way, the chase is full tilt now.
-
The fourth date happens and he’s cutting a piece of bleeding, rare steak when he says, “So, you’re a virgin.”
You spit up your drink a little and if it weren’t just you and him at the table, you’d believe he was addressing someone else. He’s unaffected as anything, forking the meat and placing it carefully into his mouth.
“I’m not,” you protest.
A quiet laugh passes between his teeth, “You’re a bad liar, but it’s okay.” He looks up at you with big, compassionate eyes. “Everyone’s different. And hey, now that we’ve got it out of the way.” He shrugs, dismissive. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
You stab your salad, “It’s just— it just hasn’t happened yet—I was a late bloomer, alright?”
Russo dabs at his chin thoughtfully. “Mmm,” he hums, “I wish I had that problem.”
He returns to his plate and tucks into it, washing down the meal with red wine, an empty second glass dusting his pale cheeks with color. He’s smiling at you past the rim, watching how you squirm in your seat.
Wet lips quirk. “Asking for a friend, if it were to happen...”
“I’m not waiting for marriage or anything.”
“Then,” each word is slow and methodical, “what are you waiting for?”
You meet his challenge with a defiant glare, and his left brow jumps in surprise and excitement.
“Just for dinner to be over.”
There’s blood on his steak knife when he puts it down, raising a finger toward the waiter, and calls for the check.
-
It’s outrageous how handsome he is. How he’s learned to work the skin of his face into hiding all those serrated teeth.
He backs you into the wall, crowding you until you’re craning your neck up at him. His hands are at your sides, thumbing circles over your hipbones. One knee makes a suggestion between your legs, and you gradually open up, breath hitching, taking in the scent of his expensive cologne, his silky pomade, his increasing arousal.
“I’ll make it good,” he promises. “I know what it’s like when it’s not good. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
He dotes at the side of your neck, your shoulder, gentle like pressing careful kisses to a newborn baby. You feel the urge to say something, maybe profess what you’ve done before with others. The term virgin is fast and loose these days, but it’s not like Russo really gives a shit. He’s just working it, working you, taking what you say and making it fit best for him.
When he undresses, you’re not surprised to find that he’s pretty everywhere.
A whole host of old scars run through the sleek ripple of his pale muscles but he wears them proudly like embellishments. You drag your fingers up his forearm, then stomach, then chest. You touch a barely-there web high on his shoulder.
You joke, “Got a few of these myself. Fell off my bike a lot as a kid.”
His eyes go dark, lids dropping to half-mast. The corner of his mouth jerks into a vicious expression that pries his face apart. It’s chilling and almost grotesque. He ricochets from Renaissance cherub to absurdist nightmare— then, just like that, it’s gone.
“Yeah,” he grins, good as new. “Me too.”
Then, the lies blur a little, your world spinning on its head in lazy pleasure.
He’s some kind of expert, all right. Marksman, combatant, tactician. Liar, lover, loaded gun.
Even how he rolls on a condom is a masterful performance. Long fingers dance gracefully along his erection, stretching rubber over the swollen tip of his cockhead, straining around his throbbing shaft.
He tugs off your clothes, lays you down in bed, licking into your mouth soft and sweet and agonizing.
He’s attentive and generous, coaxing shudders out of every single nerve you own, lighting you up like a bonfire celebration. He leaves spit-shiny marks across your chest and thighs, kneads your arms and legs and loosens you up until you beg.
“Billy.” You scrabble pathetically at his back. “Billy, please don’t tease me.”
“Well, since you asked so nicely.” He watches you with hungry, wet lips, with his tongue flicking out and tasting the air. You’re exposed and vulnerable, he looks ready to strike.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t try to soothe or comfort or even lie. He simply presses a finger inside of you, feels you drip down to his knuckles, and then presses in another. His forehead touches yours for a second, the tip of his cock flirtatious on your slit, and then he’s driving his way in, swallowing up the wounded noises you make.
“There,” is all he says as you tremble and tremble. “I’ve got you.”
His hips roll on, dragging the hard line of his cock at a new angle, the pressure inside you growing wild with each thrust. You reply with awkward effort, rhythmless, hysterical motions, unsure what to do with your hands, embarrassed at how slick it is between your thighs.
Russo doesn’t seem to mind, finding it charming, even, as he kisses along your collarbones and jaw and cheek. He purrs, “You like that? Waited forever for it and now look at how wet you are.”
Then, he moves, puts you on your knees, your face into the pillow because it’s always about control and you can’t forget that.
He commands, “Stay.”
One hand slips around your neck, holding your throat like a manacle, not squeezing, just resting. Just enough weight to make its presence known and you feel him staring a hole into the back of your head.
This is it—sell it or sink. It’s easy enough because Russo fits inside you like he’s always belonged there, like he could be there forever. You’re fluttering around him, squeezing his cock, your body asking for more and more and more.
“Oh, hell yes,” he groans, “Yes, that’s it baby, fuck, you want it bad. Need it real fucking bad.”
You bite your lip, tense up each limb, release, and cry out.
His pace increasingly approaches erratic, his endlessly calm breathing punched out. His elbows touch down, folding himself over you, pulling you into his chest in a closing snare.
“Could have been doing this the whole time if you just said so. All you needed was someone to teach you how to take it. And now look at you…” His teeth scrape your ear, breath hot and menacing. He bites at your shoulders and the tops of your arms. “You’re fucking high on it, taking cock exactly how you were made to.”
You hide your face, “That’s not…”
“Can’t lie to me, baby. Can’t lie to me when you’re slobbering like that. Not when you’re dripping down my fucking cock. Shit, after this, I’ll make you want it all the goddamn time.”
His thrusts are getting meaner and meaner, bottoming out, his balls slapping against you with every hit. Everything is numb and far away, slipping out of your reach. The only thing left is his weight all around you, the blood in your ears ringing like an alarm going off.
This is it—you fist the sheets until you hear them scream— sobbing his name.
He murmurs again, husky and low and close to heartfelt. “I’ve got you.”
And you think— coming apart at the seams, sharp white peeling back the edges of your vision, clawing down his shoulders and arms and leaving your marks on him in retaliation— no, Billy, I’ve got you.
-
“Wow,” you gasp at the ceiling.
“Was it a passable first time? Don’t know what I’d do if I ruined sex for you.” He’s grinning from ear to ear, smug in every fine crease of his face still vibrant with afterglow.
You sigh, pulling the sheet up, burrowing into the mattress and taking stock of your aching body.
“It was… wow. Passable is… really selling yourself short. I’ve heard some weird first-time shit. Really awkward stuff. Something involving olive oil and a sandwich bag?”
He scoffs out a disgusted noise, moving closer to taste the sweat on your neck, nipping at your swollen lips until you moan again. The room turns dusky when he rises up off his elbows, blocking out the warm lamplight until it’s cold blue all around.
“You mean it?” He’s almost petulant now, tugging more hungry, childlike cruelties over your new bruises.
But it all depends, Billy, on which part is the lie. It was a good first time—with him. He made you want him, made you need him, made you come so hard you almost forgot for a second that you’re just as fucked up as he is.
That there’s something wrong with you the same way there’s something wrong with him because that’s how killers are.
They’re either made by nature or by shitty circumstance. Something fucked the human out of you same way something fucked the human out of him. Turned you into a living war zone long before you set foot on any concrete battlefield—and now here you both are: predators and soldiers to your core on one mission or another. Just two dead-eyed sharks circling, waiting for the other to breach.
If you break before he does, even Fury might have trouble angling you out.
Russo’s trigger finger on your waist is loose and relaxed. Entire body easy, but he noses along the slope of your jaw, inhaling, lips brushing dangerously over the rhythm of your pulse like scenting a trail of fresh blood.
“You wouldn’t lie to me about something like that, would you?”
He’ll have to keep chasing; you won’t let him catch up.
You laugh, reaching for him, letting your heart rate even out. You nuzzle into his hand, into his knuckles, into all the horror they’ve inflicted on some other prey.
“Billy,” you say, taking his trigger finger into your mouth, letting it point toward the base of your skull in a show of surrender. Roll over. Belly up. Don’t slip. “You know I’m a bad liar.”
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historyhermann · 2 years ago
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"Shh!": Examining the skeleton librarian Eztli in "Victor and Valentino"
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Eztli shushes Victor with her extended skeleton arm
This post is a scary and spooky one for sure! I wrote this post specifically to appear right before Halloween on October 31st, and the beginning of the Mexican holiday, Day of the Dead (Dia de Los Muertos), which is celebrated between November 1st and 2nd. Today's post examines Eztli, the skeleton librarian in the Victor and Valentino episode "An Evening with Mic and Hun", and is likely voiced by accomplished actress of Cuban descent, Jenny Lorenzo.
This post is reprinted from Pop Culture Library Review and Wayback Machine.
Let's start with what she is wearing: she has a black dress with a white collar, a medallion around her neck, and horn-rimmed glasses. This seriously invokes the spinster librarian stereotype, as she has her hair tied up in a bun, even though that seems somewhat unnecessary. Her first contact with Victor and Valentino, the two protagonists, is to shush them with her extended skeleton arm. Val, often the rule follower, accepts this, saying "she's a librarian, she wants us to be quiet." Victor rejects this and she then scares them away by doing something that is the equivalent to yelling.
After they run away, she starts putting books on a cart with the extra skeleton arm, and is sitting at the information desk, with a stack of card catalogs behind her. I loved the part when she stamped on the book "Past Due Fee: One Soul." That made me laugh a little. Val comes up with a plan, distracting the librarian by ringing a bell, annoying her. That is until a huge orb, looking a planet, falls down on the librarian and scatters her bones. Val is annoyed at Vic, as that wasn't the plan, as he was supposed to swing down and grab the arm. Funny enough, Vic shushes Vic with the arm, they subdue one of the other people trying to get the arm of Hun, and flee the library.
While the scene in the library is only a little more than a minute long, there is a lot going on here. More than anything, the library and librarian can be portrayed with vintage looks because there is "something nostalgic about reading books" and possibly even gives the implication that the librarian career is outdated. [1] The latter seems to be somewhat true in this episode, as there are card catalogs behind Eztli at the information desk and a bell to ring sitting on the same desk. What Eztli is wearing seems more sinister, evil, and mysterious than classy, distinguished, slimming, elegant, sexy, or chic like the outfits that Amity Blight in The Owl House or Kaisa in Hilda, which are either partly or fully black in their color. I'll focus on that topic in my post next month, "Beauty, dress codes, and fashion: Examining twenty fictional White female librarians," so look forward to that!
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Eztli behind the information desk with a wall of card catalogs behind her, while Val comes up to the desk
Eztli is not the only skeleton librarian out there. Mumm-Ra in the Fudêncio e Seus Amigos episode "Biblioteca Maldita" is a librarian/priest and an evil figure. He considered the librarian his own private domain, claiming that time means nothing to him. But, he can be tricked, as the  characters fool him into thinking that he has the real eye of Thundera after they destroy the actual one. Then there's the librarian in an issue of the 1992 Detective Comics who is the enemy of Batman as he has a library of souls or the soul records in the webcomic 180 Angel. Beyond this, in the webcomic, Guillotine Public Library, a librarian named Skeezix a.k.a. Jonathan von Abendroth finds out that a patron, Lavii, is a skeleton/reaper, causing him to freak out. It turns out that this librarian is Lavii's mentor, causing her some shock, and he tells her that if she tells anyone about him then she will lose her powers! They later catch-up and he gets her a library card. [2]
In Mexican culture, skulls represent death and rebirth, as a skull represents life and afterlife, while skeletons, in Mesoamerican cultures were considered a symbol of fertility, good luck, and the "dicotomy of life." On top of this, there are decorative skulls known as calaveras which are often created with cane sugar put on altars (known as ofrendas) for Día de Muertos, with José Guadalupe Posada creating skeleton imagery like La Catrina beginning in 1910, with its influence still felt today. Skulls and skeletons in Mexican folk art also reflect a dualism of balancing forces, like life and death, and without that duality in all parts of life, then 'the universe loses its equilibrium." At the same time, Indigenous Mexican art is said to celebrate the skeleton, using it as a "regular motif," with the festival of the Day of the Dead along with its iconography of skeletons and skulls becoming part of works by those like Diego Rivera and becoming a "celebration of uniquely Mexican identity." Such art of skeletons and skulls is also meant mock death in a powerful way. This is relevant to Eztli as Victor and Valentino puts a spotlight on mythologies and folklore from Mesoamerican cultures like the Maya, Olmec, Aztec, and other indigenous peoples. [3]
In Victor and Valentino more broadly, some of the episodes completely or partially are from the underworld (also called The Realm of the Dead or The Land of the Dead), as a Latin American folk-themed show, and various characters like Mic, Hun, El Toro, Elefante, Moreno, and Alfonso all live there. There's even a sarcastic dog named Achi who occasionally joins or pushes Victor and Valentino in their adventures on the surface or in the underworld. The show itself premiered two days before a local Day of the Dead ceremony. Victor is voiced by the show's creator, Diego Molano, a former writer for The Powerpuff Girls and background designer for OK K.O.!: Let's Be Heroes, among many other series, while he hoped that the show would be a "good lesson for kids," making Victor a bit of a self-insert. The show itself was even described as a "richly designed homage to the folk art and traditional storytelling of Mesoamerica" and said to creating "digestible content" which is rated for kids. [4]
Keeping this in mind, Molono, through Vic, is saying he won't be stopped or silenced on his path forward. Eztli may represent those forces which are trying to hold people back and need to be resisted. Perhaps this is reading too much into it, but it would not be too far-fetched considering that Molono voices Vic. The episode writer David Teas, storyboarder Kayla Carlisle, and story writer, Julie Whitesell, may be able to shed more light on the themes in this episode. Teas previously has worked on shows like The Casagrandes and The Loud House, while Carlisle previously storyboarded for The Adventures of Puss in Boots and Whitesell for many comedy and drama sketch shows since 2010, almost exclusively live-action.
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Eztli puts a book that Vic dropped on the ground onto the book with the help of the extra skeleton arm
There's another aspect which I noticed when re-watching this episode for the purpose of this post: the religious imagery and intellectualism exuded by this library. You can't say that Eztli is a priest, but the library itself, which is hidden away in the underworld house of Mic and Hun, is a bit of a sacred space. Librarian Fobazi Ettarh has argued that the physical spaces of libraries have often been seen as sacred spaces, treated as sanctuaries by keeping people and sacred things, serving as a refuge or shelter. This idea, she argues, is based in the fact that original libraries were monasteries, with buildings meant to "inspire awe or grandeur." This still holds true today as libraries continue to "operate as sanctuaries in the extended definition as a place of safety," centering themselves as "safe spaces." [5] This isn't the case for this library, however, as it isn't really a place safe for anyone, but more of somewhere that is hidden away, almost the private domain of Eztli which needs to be quiet (and orderly) no matter what.
This is in contrast to libraries that are safe spaces, like the public library shown in the independent film by Emilio Estevez, The Public. It is one of the first films I reviewed on this blog back in 2020, and which I am thinking of revisiting sometime in the future, even though that library does not inspire "awe or grandeur."At the same time, libraries in shown in the series Ascendance of a Bookworm, What If...?, and She-Ra and the Princesses of Power, are all sacred in their own ways. Specifically, the library in the latter animated series is a refuge (and home) for the two dads of one of the show's protagonists. This is also the case for the magical secret library known as Stanza in Welcome to the Wayne and the huge library at the center of Yamibou, which allows people to access worlds. I have further explained on this blog how libraries are shown as a "place of refuge" in the animated series RWBY, with one character hiding in the library to escape her controlling father.
Many libraries which I have mentioned on this blog in the past are grand, like those in Classroom of the Elite, Macross Frontier, Adventure Time, Revolutionary Girl Utena, RWBY, El-Hazard, Steven Universe, Equestria Girls, Sofia the First, Elena of Avalor, and Simoun, to name a few. One series which somewhat counters this is Hilda, which has a relatively ordinary library on the outside but has a grand inner chamber called "Witches Tower" which is under the library itself. This means that most ordinary patrons would never be in "awe" of the library.
Getting back to Ettarh, she says that if libraries are sacred spaces, then the workers would be priests, noting that the earliest librarians were priests, noting that the service orientation of the profession motivates many to become librarians. This means that librarians are seen as "nobly impoverished," working selflessly for the community and "God’s sake," having a calling, with "spiritual absolution through doing good works for communities and society." She continues the librarians-as-priests comparison to argue that the primary job duty of librarians is then to "to educate and to save," with the idea of creating an "educated, enlightened populace, which in turn brings about a better society," meaning that librarians who do this "good work" are the ones who "provide culture and enlightenment to their communities." This carries with it the expectation that "fulfillment of job duties requires sacrifice...and only through such dramatic sacrifice can librarians accomplish something 'bigger than themselves.'" [6]
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Eztli happily stamps a book with an overdue stamp, using the skeleton arm, saying that the person who gave her the book (Vic in a sense, as he dropped the book) has to hand over his soul!
In the case of Eztli, she is less of a priest than characters like Iku Kasahara, Asako Shibasaki, and many others on the Library Protection Force in Library War. They are a manifestation of librarians as those who sacrifice, fighting those who try and censor books, although this is always with the idea that the library is neutral and that the books will enlighten society. The same can be said about Aruto, Iina, and Kokoro in Kokoro Toshokan a.k.a. Kokoro Library who live in a rural library and get very few visitors, or Isomura in Let's Make a Mug Too episode ("The Garden of Sky and Wind"), to give two examples. Perhaps the same could be said about Hisami Hishishii in R.O.D. the TV, Himeko Agari in Komi Can't Communicate, Fumio Murakumi in Girl Friend Beta, and many other librarians out there in fiction. [7]
The library that Eztli presides over may have a tenor of sacredness, but she is no priest. She is more akin to the spinster librarians of other series, in that she shushes the two protagonists and wants the library to remain quiet. This library is no temple either. It may be dated in what it has, but perhaps this isn't a surprise as I don't even think that the series itself is set in the present-day, although I can't be totally sure about that. She has to deal with disruptive, problem patrons, who don't follow the library's rules, and crush her body into many pieces. How is she supposed to do her library work if her information desk is smashed and her body is in pieces? We never get the answer to that, because Victor and Valentino go to the next room, leaving as quickly as they came in, on their quest to find the rest of Hun's body before is too late, and beat any of the other skeletons trying to get the body first.
Although I could be hoping too much, I think it would be interesting if she returns in a later episode, maybe even as a ghost who haunts them. Who knows. There's a lot of interesting storylines with her that could be done. In any case, she is unlike any librarian I have seen since, and I hope to see more skeleton librarians, whether her or someone else, in animated series in the future. Criticisms and commentary on this post are welcome in the comments below this post, which I vet to make sure that I can make sure comments from spammers aren't published and to publish those comments which are genuine instead.
© 2022 Burkely Hermann. All rights reserved.
Notes
[1] Brytani, "A Study of Librarian Fashion," The Intrepid Nerd, Oct. 6, 2011.
[2] See episodes 1, 2, and 3, named "Skeleton in the Library", "Chance Reunion", and "Catching up"  respectfully. There's also skeletons in the world of Hilda as an elderly patron, Matilda "Tildy" Pilqvist, checks out a book entitled "The Skeleton Whisperer"
[3] "what do skeletons represent in mexican culture," lisbdnet, Dec. 20, 2021; Tom Swanson & Marianne Menditto, "So What's With the Skeletons in Mexican Folk Art?," PVAngels, Apr. 15, 2013; Gayle Trim, "Day of the Dead Sweets and Treats," History.com, Nov. 2, 2012; "What’s Up with All of Skeletons in Mexican Art?," Galeria de Ida Victoria, Oct. 26, 2017; "Why Are There So Many Skulls In Mexico ?," Inspired Nomad Adventures, Oct. 8, 2017; Mary Jane Gagnier Mendoza, "Dia de los Muertos: the dead come to life in Mexican folk art," MexConnect, 2003; "“La Catrina:” Mexican representation of Death," The Yucatan Times, Dec. 8, 2017; Jonathan Jones, "Skull art is not a new idea," The Guardian, May 2, 2008; David Agren, "Mexico's Day of the Dead festival rises from the graveyard and into pop culture," The Guardian, Oct. 27, 2019; Tracy Novinger, ""Catrinas" and Skeletons: Mocking Death in Mexican Culture," Patzcuareando: Peripatetic in Patzcuaro, Oct. 28, 2007; Tracy Brown, "Spooky new cartoon ‘Victor and Valentino’ channels Mesoamerican folklore," Los Angeles Times, Mar. 30, 2019; "Animated People: Diego Molano, Creator of Cartoon Network’s ‘Victor and Valentino’," Animation Magazine, Apr. 25, 2019.
[4] Carolina del Busto, "Jenny Lorenzo, AKA Abuela, Lends Her Voice to Latino Series Victor & Valentino," Miami New Times, Mar. 29, 2019; "Cómica y sobrenatural: habla el director de la nueva serie de Cartoon Network" [translated title: Comic and supernatural: the director of the new Cartoon Network series speaks], Culto, Apr. 20, 2019; Dylan Hysen, "“Victor and Valentino” is off to a Fun, Adventurous Start,"  Overly Animated, Oct. 29, 2016; Brown, "Spooky new cartoon ‘Victor and Valentino’ channels Mesoamerican folklore," Mar. 30, 2019; Michael Betancourt, "Diego Molano Aims to Teach Mesoamerican Mythology to Latino Kids With Animated Adventure Series ‘Victor and Valentino’," Remezcla, Mar. 30, 2019; Carlos Aguilar, "‘Victor & Valentino’ Art Directors On Designing Cartoon Network’s Mesoamerica-Set Show," Cartoon Brew, Apr. 25, 2019; "Animated People," Apr. 25, 2019.
[5] Fobazi Ettarh, "Vocational Awe and Librarianship: The Lies We Tell Ourselves," In the Library with the Lead Pipe, Jan. 20, 2018.
[6] She also says that considering the conjoined history of librarianship and faith, it is "not surprising that a lot of the discourse surrounding librarians and their job duties carries a lot of religious undertones. Through the language of vocational awe, libraries have been placed as a higher authority and the work in service of libraries as a sacred duty. Vocational awe has developed along with librarianship from Saint Lawrence to Chera Kowalski," and says this idea has become so "saturated within librarianship" that Nancy Kalikow Maxwell can write Sacred Stacks: The Higher Purpose of Libraries and Librarianship which details the connections between faith and librarianship while advising libraries to nurture the "religious image conferred upon them."
[7] This includes Hamyuts Meseta, Mirepoc Finedel, Noloty Malche, and Ireia Kitty in Tatakau Shisho: The Book of Bantorra, along with unnamed librarians in Cardcaptor Sakura episode ("Sakura and Her Summer Holiday Homework"), librarian in Little Witch Academia episode ("Night Fall"), Yamada in B Gata H Kei, Azusa Aoi in Whispered Words, Fumi Manjōme in Aoi Hana / Sweet Blue Flowers, Chiyo Tsukudate in Strawberry Panic!, Anne in Manaria Friends, Grea in Manaria Friends, Hasegawa Sumika in Bernard-jou Iwaku a.k.a. Miss Bernard said, Sophie Twilight in Ms. Vampire who lives in my neighborhood.
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imaginesbymk · 4 years ago
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“Find Me Under The Giant Rabbit.”
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Reservoir Dogs/Pulp Fiction One Shot
SUMMARY: I read a Reddit fan theory that Mr. Pink survived, escaped the cops, got arrested and was then put on parole - leaving behind his old life and lying low as a waiter at Jack Rabbit Slims. What happens when you show up to the restaurant one night?
PAIRING: Mr. Pink/Buddy Holly waiter x Reader
TAGS: swearing, smoking + mentions of basically everything that happened in reservoir dogs which is the heist, violence, etc
NON REQUESTED
WORD COUNT: 2,870 (it’s long i’m sorry)
AUTHOR’S NOTE: this is probably the cheesiest thing i’ve ever written, and it’s nothing tarantino would ever put in his films, also there’s no way PF and RS can legitimately tie in together 100% even though there are some factors to support otherwise, but i wanted to write this and see something lol :( leave a like/reblog + feedback!!!
[gif credit]
YOU put your car in park, shutting off the engine, and observed it from afar. It was one hell of a big restaurant, almost a bit too cartoon-like. There was a giant anthropomorphic rabbit on top, and the lights claiming the name were glowing a bright red and yellow. Mind you, this was in Los Angeles, so who wouldn’t blame you if you took one look at Jack Rabbit Slim’s, and mistake it for a restaurant at Six Flags? 
Dozens of bikers came in with their motorcycles, yet their engines couldn’t even overpower the chatter coming from newcomers left and right. You ignored a heavy tattooed biker dressed in all leather and denim catcalling you from afar, and you reached the front desk. 
A man dressed in uniform, most definitely in character, tipped his hat at you and led you to a table with only two chairs. You weren’t expecting anyone to join you in the other seat across. So what if you went for dinner by yourself? You didn’t bother asking anyone to join you for that matter. Not anyone you could think of at the top of your head would be any less boring.
You began tracing your fingers around the rim of the ketchup bottle when not even five seconds after sitting down, a lady approached your table with ruby red lips. 
Of course, you thought. Servers were dressed up as icons from the 50s era.
“Marilyn,” you say in awe.
“Close enough,” Instead of being seated in the Marilyn Monroe section being served by a Marilyn Monroe-looking Marilyn Monroe, you were greeted with a tall Mamie Van Doren, who is just as breathtaking as Marilyn refilling everyone’s coffee mugs from the other side of the restaurant. “How about I get you started with drinks?”
Ricky Nelson’s performance on stage came to an end when Mamie arrived with your food. You looked around the place while eating. People weren’t eating by themselves. Families, friends, dates, all of them occupied their seats. Now that you’ve noticed, you sort of wished you brought someone with you, otherwise the seat across from you is used as a footrest. 
So there, you propped your feet on top, and relaxed… then you sat upright. Your eyes fixated on the waiter in his section, which were the cars back in the 50s used as booths. You watch him walk towards one of them. The couple was a young woman in a blunt bob cut with bangs, and a man wearing a black suit with long black hair tied back.
You squint your eyes. It couldn’t be...
“Hi, I’m Buddy. What can I get ya?”
You blinked, dropping the half bitten French fry from your mouth. Holy fucking shit.
It was all coming back to you. The news broke out about the heist going wrong at the wholesale, all dead except for one, a cop who laid dead on the ramp inside the rendezvous was identified as Mr. Orange. Since he wasn’t supposed to know where you were from, Mr. Pink never turned up to your door as an emergency hideout, or to drag you with him on his getaway because he never had one. You never heard of him ever since. 
Here he was, Mr. Pink, alive and well, wearing glasses. What the hell happened? How long has he been working here? Is he supposed to be Buddy Holly?
“How do you want that cooked? Burnt to a crisp or bloody as hell?” you hear him ask the man in the suit who ordered a steak.
“Bloody as hell, and oh, yeah, look at this- vanilla coke.”
You noticed the irony. He left you in a black suit - and he comes back in white. Like he’d ever want to be caught dead in white, or pink.
“What about you, Peggy Sue?” he asks the woman, jotting in his notepad. You recognized the pun.
“I’ll have the Durwood Kirby burger, bloody. And… the five dollar shake.”
Were you about to laugh? Call out his name? That was enough for you to get antsy in your seat, but you didn’t want to draw attention. You saw him again while finishing up half of your meal, giving the couple their drinks and disappearing back into the kitchen. He was doing his job, but it wasn’t like he was giving his one hundred percent. For someone who preached to the Gods about professionalism, Mr. Pink sure lacked work ethic. Every employee was on point with their character impersonations as if you had travelled back in time. Meanwhile, he acted like himself and seemed bored while wearing an emotionless face, as if he hated his job and epitome of his existence. It was never a dull moment for him whenever he was with you, though.
You got up to use the restroom.
“We’re lucky we got anything at all. I don’t think Buddy Holly’s much of a waiter,” you heard the man at the booth tell the woman as you walk past them, spotting their food from the corner of your eye. It’s no surprise hearing that. Mr. Pink never looked like the type to work at a job like this.
You sat back down and soon, Mr. Pink reappeared, standing over to the side and watched the announcement of the twisting contest, smoking a cigarette. You see him eyeing two pretty blonde women walking past him, and he looked back his way, now in your direction.
He finally did what you wanted him to do, and he stares at you for nearly a solid minute.
You waved awkwardly. 
Mr. Pink tosses the cigarette in a random person’s ashtray and disappears behind the door once again. You darted out of your chair, and marched your way to where he headed, just as the couple he served got up on stage to participate in the twisting contest.
A Zorro waiter jumps in front of you. “Stop right there, mi amor!” his eyes darted at you through the cheap black mask he was wearing. “I believe the bathroom’s on the other side of the bar.”
“Where’s Buddy?” you ask Zorro.
“I’m afraid Mr. Holly is taking a quick break from unenthusiastically serving love birds in their cars.”
“Can you tell him I’m looking for him?”
“Once I see him.” Zorro then took out his sword and pointed it at you, a grin plastered on his face. “Now, shall I escort you back to your dining spot?”
Although you were aware this guy was only in character, you didn’t wanna risk getting kicked out, or having a realistic looking sword ripped through your body. You sighed and turned around, heading back. You noticed at your table a folded napkin beside your empty plate. Mamie Van Doren was last seen there, her back facing you with her heels clicking away on the tiles.
“Excuse me!” you called after the waitress. She ignores you, smiling down at new customers at an umbrella table.
Cocking an eyebrow, you used your finger to flatten the crease and read the note in bold handwriting.
FIND ME UNDER THE GIANT RABBIT. - BUDDY 
You threw the door open and ran outside, precisely under the giant rabbit of the Jack Rabbit Slim’s sign, just like he said on the napkin. You felt like an idiot checking every direction to find no one. Not a lot of the bikers were seen riding or hanging out around the parking lot, some people were coming and going, but you couldn’t find Buddy Holly.
Defeated, you turn to walk back inside. 
Mr. Pink rushed out the door and caught his breath. It looked like he was chasing you down before you could take off. A song used for the twisting contest kept playing from inside.
You didn’t run up to him and jumped in his arms or anything dramatic in that matter. You both stared at each other.
A few days before the heist you two stood across each other waiting for Mr. Brown and Mr. White inside the hideout. It was a quiet moment, not an awkward one. He just took that opportunity to study you, as you did him. It took him that moment to realize he was warming up to you. 
“Well hello there, Buddy,” you smile smugly.
YOU and Pink loitered at the side of the eatery, where the back door to the kitchen was located. He had taken off his fake glasses, showing his full frame.
“Okay,” you watch him lean against the wall, lighting his cigarette. “Talk to me. What happened to you?”
“What the hell do you think? Cops tagged me when I tried driving away. I was put behind bars, and by some fucking miracle this place took me in when I needed money.”
“You didn’t know any other crime bosses looking for a lanky dude?” Pink rolls his eyes at your joke. “I know the heist went terribly wrong, I saw the news. Everyone’s dead as Dillinger.”
“That briefcase had a shit load of two million dollars worth of stones,” Pink blew smoke out. “I swear, if that asshole undercover cop was never sent to set us up, I could have been enjoying a cocktail in Santorini. You’re lucky you called in sick that day.”
You shuddered, remembering how god-awful the illness was. “Never again. I felt like I was being hot glued to a sauna.”
You remembered the day of the heist. In fact, you mentally prepared yourself for something that you’ve never done before. You braced for what was supposed to go smoothly as Joe promised. Instead, you were woken up by the worst case scenario above 38 degrees. You were thankful Joe took it easy on you and promised another job next time. 
“All right, your turn. What did you do after that shit show went down?” Pink asks you.
“Just did my own thing. I wasn’t there so the cops never searched for me.” Pink took a slow drag, staring at nothing. He didn’t really look the same as before. Still lanky, except his hair was a bit more darkened and styled in curls, possibly because Buddy Holly had it permed that way. But his face read that he had been through a lot. Normally you felt zero pity for assholes like him, but you managed to blurt out, “I missed you.”
Pink, blowing out smoke in the air, eyed you up and down and furrowed his brows. “Likewise.”
Not only did it suck not being able to make money, you also couldn’t do it with Mr. Pink. As much as he kept his professionalism to a T, he squeezed in time to get along with you. It was no wonder Joe hired you - you were different than the guys, you moved differently and never felt small. Mr. Pink was drawn to that. 
Maybe that was just an understatement. He grew intimidated by something he expected to experience the least from in the job, and of course, straight out of a fairytale, you had to stop and ask yourself if you felt the same way, and if what you felt was right. Neither of you had any idea. It was against the rules to give out personal information to each other, and Mr. Pink took those rules very seriously, even if it was just one job that he most likely wouldn’t come back to unless a higher pay was involved and Joe Cabot liked him enough to recruit him again. 
If Mr. Pink grew too attached, if he let his guard down for one second, God forbid something would have happened to you. Without a doubt, he would have heavily blamed himself and walked away from the job without saying another word. 
His options were to wait until after the robbery to make a move, or do his job, get paid and leave. Whether or not it was out of selfishness was out of the question. Mr. Pink is already selfish in an intuitive kind of way, he’d rather avoid spiraling into a wave of emotions for one person - so he chose the latter.
“What?” Pink looked at you, feeling a bit tense. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Huh? No. It’s nothing,” you blinked, realizing you were staring at him longer than you should have. You shook your head, most likely shaking off the intrusive thoughts. Maybe this wasn’t a good time to tell him what’s on your mind. 
If anything, he’s most likely sleeping with the Marilyn Monroe waitress. “It’s just… you shaved the goatee.”
Pink nodded, looking a bit annoyed that there was no facial hair left on his chin to rub. “Buddy Holly had a clean face. For the record, the only advantage of this job is that I’m under disguise. Other than that, this place is a circus. I’m zooming back in time whenever I clock in.”
“It’s a 50s themed restaurant,” you state. “Working here sounds like fun. At least you get to dress up and experience pop culture.”
He scoffs. “No, fuck the 50s. Shit was all I Love Lucy and those puffy ass dresses.”
“They’re called poodle skirts, Pink.”
“Like I give a fuck what they’re called.”
“You know Buddy Holly smiled. He was a singer and a guitarist. If you keep up the attitude, no one’s gonna tip you. Nice Guy Eddie told me about your rant on tipping.”
“Ha! And? You will never find me up on that stage performing That’ll Be The Day, moving like a fucking animatronic.” Halfway finished, Pink tossed his cigarette aside and looked at you. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
You felt your cheeks flushing. Fuck. “I am?”
He nodded, putting his Buddy Holly glasses back on his face. “Yeah. It’s a breath of fresh air seeing you here.” He stares down at his wristwatch for a moment.
“Your break’s done?”
“It’s been done,” he says. “Fifteen minutes ago.”
You shook your head, chuckling. “You’re so fired.”
“This isn’t the first time I stopped caring, so my boss isn’t gonna bat an eye.” He had his hand wrapped around the back door which was supported by a wooden block to keep it open. “Look, I’ll see ya arou-”
“Pink?” Your heart rose up to your throat.
He turned back to you. “Hm?” 
You just had to do it. You reached up and kissed him softly. Pink didn’t shove or curse at you. His features softened, pulling you close to him and kissed you deeply. Even when you two pulled away, his arms didn’t unwrap from your waist. His forehead was pressed against yours now.
“My name’s Y/N,” you tell him.
He stares at you, no snarky, sarcastic comment left for him to give.
“I know you’re not willing to give your name up just yet, you can’t fully trust me, and I get that, but I won’t tell anyone what happened. You got lucky, I think… but I’m really glad you’re okay.”
“You don’t have to-”
“I’m serious.”
“Y/N,” he says your name for the first time. “You don’t have to go all sappy for me. Karma came in hot. Jesus Christ, I mean, I left you.”
“Not really. You didn’t know me. The cops had the place staked out the entire day, there was nothing you could do.”
He looked down at his shoes. “All right. But still, I feel shitty. Can I at least make it up to you?”
“How?”
Pink shrugs. “I get paid tomorrow.”
“Good for you,” you reply. “Save it like you’re gonna lose it.”
“I’ve had this job for a while now, I got enough to last. But once I win the lottery, I’m gone.”
“To Santorini?”
“With a cocktail in my hand. But that’s besides the point, right now I got enough to take you out on a date… if you’re down.”
“Where would you plan on taking me? Here?” you laugh.
“You’re funny. How about the movies? Overruled, I’m taking you to see a movie. I gotta know where you live first. It’s okay to know now.”
You nodded, you couldn't argue with that. Besides, you two would just be making out in the dark the entire time.
His hand was back on the handle of the back door. Pink pulled it open, looked back at you and smiled for the first time tonight. That warmed your heart, and you were certain it warmed his. He watched you stuff something inside his pocket square as you told him your address. He went back inside, shutting the door on you. You walked back to the front of the restaurant to pay for the bill, and went straight home. 
Mr. Pink shuffles past the chefs in the kitchen, feeling through his suit pocket to pull out his notepad and whatever you stuffed inside just moments ago.
I didn’t even serve them. Is this supposed to be for Mamie Van Doren? He stares down at the dollar bill crumpled in his hand. His frown suddenly transitions to a small but genuine smile. 
Fuck it. Nothing could stop him now. He definitely owes you a date night. He quickly stuffs the tip back in his pocket square, and comes out the sliding door. 
THE END
TAGLIST: @locke-writes​ @aryn-the-bearheart​
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akielonsummer · 4 years ago
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Mortal Errors
This is only loosely based on the Blade Runner universe and can be treated as a generic sci-fi AU. If you’re not familiar with Blade Runner, you only need to know that: Replicants = Bioengineered androids that look exactly like humans, but sometimes certain qualities can be enhanced to serve different purposes. Blade runners = Bounty hunters whose job is to track down and kill (retire) rogue replicants. Technically belong to the police department.
Give this a chance please? :* (I’ve also posted it on AO3 if you prefer to read it there)
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By 9pm, Damen was positive he got stood up by his informer who was supposed to rendezvous with him in this night club an hour ago. It was pouring outside, and he was overworked and exhausted, stuck in this raucous and filthy place without a lead or an umbrella.
If he would be completely honest with himself, like he usually was, he would acknowledge that there was another reason for still sitting here other than reluctance to get soaked in the rain on the way back.
The blond man sitting across from him at the large oval-shaped bar had just politely refused the second drink a bulky male stranger was trying to buy him. From afar he could see that the blond wore a high-neck black top that was possibly an effort to keep a low profile, but only served to highlight the slim lines of his shoulders and chest even more. Damen could see why the other man was willing to try so hard. The moment Damen had noticed him, he had been sure he’d been looking at the prettiest face in the entire club tonight.
The big guy was persistent, shameless enough to linger around, still trying to chat up his target. Damen unselfconsciously began studying the blond man’s demeanor, the way he eluded the other person’s gaze and carefully positioned his body. All of Damen’s detective instincts were telling him that the blond was utterly annoyed by the other man’s presence, but would prefer to keep things civil. He was waiting for a specific person in that spot, and therefore could not easily retreat to a less noticeable corner to escape all the attention he was attracting. You would have to be very unobservant not to notice that several other pairs of eyes nearby were preying on him likewise, impatiently waiting for the next chance.
Damen made himself look away, drank some of his beer, and reminded himself of his purpose of coming here.
“Sorry, I’m late,” Damen heard himself say casually as he appeared on the vacant side of the blond man. Inwardly, he cursed himself for giving in to his own curiosity.
And vanity. This had always been his favorite part on a night out.
Getting the beautiful, but difficult ones, while others watch.
“Hey,” the blond looked up, and quietly eyed him once before he continued, “I was beginning to worry that you might have been blown away by the thunderstorm.”
“Looks like you took the underground streets,” he raised a hand to feel Damen’s curls, which were dry. If he was surprised by Damen’s sudden approach, he didn’t let his reactions give away any of it.
Up close, Damen saw that he wore a small dangling earring in a starburst shape, the gold just a shade deeper than his hair. This place had an awful diffused pale purple lighting that made almost everyone at least a bit sickly, and he looked absolutely gorgeous.
He turned his face to the other side to send off the big guy with a final “Excuse us”, then turned back to stare at Damen. The corners of his mouth lifted to form a conspiratorial smile that disappeared too quickly, but at least he didn’t look like he wanted Damen to be gone immediately.
“That was smooth,” he waited until the man was out of earshot to say, “I’m Laurent.”
“Damen,” Damen replied as he felt the deep blue gaze from those almond-shaped eyes do funny things to his stomach. Something deep inside him whispered danger. He promptly dismissed the alert, and went on, “Why didn’t you just tell him to get lost?”
“I didn’t want to start anything. I’m waiting for somebody,” said Laurent, then after a brief pause, “—was waiting.”
Laurent shrugged and gave a wry smile. Damen was pleased with this answer because it both validated his earlier theory and broadened the range of possible things that could happen tonight.
“That makes two of us,” and so he advanced.
“Let me guess,” said Laurent, humming as he sucked on the olive of his martini, then licked the drops of alcohol trickling down his fingers, “it’s a woman.”
“Someone who was supposed to bring me good news tonight.”
“That’s frustrating. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Apparently I’ve found something better to do here,” said Damen. He started to wave the bartender over to buy both of them drinks as a man in a terrible, flashy silver jacket got close to Laurent from behind. It was hard to tell at that moment whether he was too drunk to see Damen or simply audacious—it could be both, because he was bold enough to place his hand on the side of Laurent’s waist and was beginning to lean in to mumble some drunken nonsense in his ear.
It was happening fast, but Damen’s reaction was faster. He slapped off the stranger’s hand and as the man tardily became aware of the situation and glowered at him, warned with a low but clear “No”. The man took two seconds to evaluate the physical difference between himself and Damen, and wandered off grudgingly.
Laurent considered him briefly and let out a poorly stifled snicker.
“What,” Damen snapped, not entirely in an unamused fashion. He was aware that his hand had replaced the other man’s to linger around the smalls of Laurent’s back, and decided to keep it there.
“When I first saw you over there earlier, I thought there’s no way you’d be into men,” Laurent said with a slightly bashful expression, lowering his gaze on the bar table. Damen felt a surge of satisfaction upon hearing his honest confession. He was ready to respond with something nice and clever until Laurent looked up again and finished, “or you should at least prefer real boys.”
Laurent kept his meek, picture-perfect smile as he waited for the meaning of his words to sink in.
“You’re a replicant,” attempted Damen, a part of him still reluctantly trying to make sense of the now-conspicuous truth.
“And you, a blade runner,” Laurent enunciated each syllable as he held Damen’s gaze unwaveringly. In that instant, Damen could see from an angle a flash of a curious reflection at the center of his blue eyes. A sharp, contrasting color. Of warning, and of blood. Laurent blinked once, and it was gone.
“How—” Damen began, and was immediately interrupted by the huge noise of a brawl that had just broken out behind them at one of the VIP tables.
“Just before you came over, I was telling big guy that the people I knew at that table had some extra pills they’d gotten as samples from a supplier, and that they were happy to share,” said Laurent matter-of-factly as he got up from the bar stool and began putting on his black leather jacket.
Damen turned to look, and saw that the first man he had warded off from Laurent was now deep in a fist fight with two of the men in black suits from that table.
“You don’t know any of those guys,” said Damen, a bit awestruck by now.
“No,” answered Laurent. He popped one last piece of peanut in his mouth and started for the exit. “We should go now.”
-
Thirty minutes later, they were both sitting in the couch in Damen’s living room, sipping whisky from heavy-bottomed glasses with a rain-drenched towel draped around the neck.
“You’ve been laughing for the past fifteen minutes. Get over it,” Damen said sourly when he saw that Laurent was still smirking around the rim of his glass.
Their escape had not been completely free of obstacles. They had intended to sneak out through the less noticeable side exit of the club, until they had realized there’d been simply no way not to get noticed when you were moving with someone of Damen’s stature. With the brawling in the VIP area escalating in the background, the bouncers had become more vigilant with people getting in and out of the place.
It’d appeared that Laurent had gotten through the control at the exit without a hint of effort but just by being himself—a seemingly harmless young man with the face of an angel—while Damen was inevitably stopped, by not one, but two of the most intimidating-looking bouncers guarding the exit. They had padded him down scrupulously and proceeded to ask questions to make sure he’d had nothing to do with the rows in the club. Perhaps more out of curiosity than necessity, before they had let him go, one of them had asked what he’d been doing for a living.
“‘Same as you. I work at a club uptown.’” Laurent repeated his response in a way that was more a derisive reenactment than an honest impression, then added for accuracy, “‘a small one.’”
Damen rolled his eyes in disapproval and sought to detach himself from this conversation by refilling his glass with the bronze-colored liquid.
“And now, to answer the question you’ve been waiting to ask,” said Laurent, gradually dropping the amusement in his tone and replacing it with his default placid composure, “I knew you’re a blade runner because I know someone who wears a device like that too.”
He pointed at the black wristband on Damen’s left wrist.
It was a location tracker that would have been concealed more carefully with clothing when he was on an active assignment. Anybody who shared his job title would get one on the first day they reported for duty so that their superiors could track their locations real-time, to make rescue or body retrieval easier. Unsurprisingly, hunting down rogue androids meant putting yourself on a knife edge too, quite literally.
“You’ve chosen a tough job,” Laurent continued when Damen said nothing. “Someone’s got to do it, I guess.”
He sounded like he was talking about the work of a butcher or an undertaker, which was not that far from the truth.
Despite their dramatic encounter with each other, Laurent didn’t seem like he had anything against Damen’s kind. In fact, he had just mentioned that he personally knew another blade runner. He must be a registered new model if he was able to roam the city freely, perhaps the vocational type, even. It was not uncommon to see new generation replicants that were indifferent to the nature of a blade runner’s job. After all, they only retired the obsolete rogue models who posed potential threats to society, and most of these fugitive replicants lived in underground communities that were completely segregated from the legal models.
“I didn’t,” said Damen, at last.
Laurent gave an inquisitive glance.
“I didn’t choose it.”
And that was all he was willing to say about why he had fallen to the current point of his career. Realizing he had brought the conversation to a cul-de-sac, he tried for a different direction of the topic, “it’s neither pleasant nor glorious, indeed. But I try my best to make it quick, at least.”
“Quick and painless. They won’t even feel a thing,” Laurent mused. There was a subtle edge in his voice that disturbed the relative ease of Damen.
“We use a special type of taser,” said Damen, because he felt that the word “gun” might just sound a little too strong. “It takes less than a second.” If you aimed at the right place, and if your target didn’t struggle.
“Has it ever crossed your mind that,” said Laurent, leaning back into his corner of the couch so that he could look right into Damen’s eyes, “you could be one of us, you just didn’t know all along?”
“They run tests on us every day, at work,” answered Damen, finding the question a bit absurd. “I know what I am. I know what I’m doing.”
“Oh, so do we,” Laurent huffed, staring at the remaining content in his glass as he whirled it. Damen didn’t miss his choice of pronoun and that familiar edge in his voice that came and went.
“For better or worse, your job is certainly much more exciting than mine,” Laurent began again as he adjusted his position, crossing his legs. For two seconds Damen’s attention was stuck on the smooth fair skin showing through the ripped parts of his grey jeans so he didn’t registered that Laurent had shifted closer in his direction. “I work in a biotech lab.”
“As a technician,” he then added, probably for fear of confusion.
The lack of immediate response betrayed Damen as much as his briefly widened eyes did.
“I… had different assumptions about your occupation,” admitted Damen.
“You thought I was a pleasure model,” said Laurent, surprisingly seeming more amused than offended by Damen’s presumption. His eyes were the color of fine blue topaz in this lighting, his dampened hair ready to drip liquid gold.
“You’re way too attractive to be anything else,” Damen tried his best to make it sound like a compliment but not derogation, as it was supposed to be.
Laurent hummed as if plotting something in his head. He lowered his gaze to look at his own hands, which long and delicate fingers he was now slowly flexing. When he blinked, his dense lashes brushed against the highest points of his cheekbones, flapping and trembling like wings of birds.
“They say I’m a customized model,” he lifted his wrists slightly to examine the inner side of them, like they were some novel objects instead of parts of his own body. Blue veins ran under the finest skin there—replicants were bioengineered to look exactly the same as humans, but it still shocked Damen sometimes how much they resembled the real thing.
“Who knows where they had gathered the parts to build me?” said Laurent, it came out like a question that was not demanding an answer.
“Where, I don’t know. I just know the person who commissioned them to make you must be filthy rich.”
To that, Laurent didn’t answer. He picked up his glass from the coffee table, tilted his head back and downed all the alcohol in it.
“I might just have too much to drink,” he said, leaning his upper body forward to put the glass back on the table, suddenly looking like he might topple over. The towel fell from Laurent’s shoulders. Damen grabbed on his arms in time and pulled him back in place.
“I thought alcohol didn’t affect you,” Damen said as he still kept both hands wrapped around Laurent’s arms from behind, but they went from just supporting them to a soothing, sweeping motion against the now half-dried black fabric. He felt the lean muscles underneath tense and relax in his palms.
“The effect, like most other things in us, is also customizable,” Laurent pointed out as he briefly luxuriated in Damen’s massaging hands like he was genuinely enjoying it. Then, in their awkward position of Damen half-embracing Laurent from behind, he tilted his head to one side so that he could turn his face to look at Damen, “I’m only doing this so that you could take me to bed.”
Damen’s hands stopped abruptly. But then Laurent began to snuggle up to Damen’s chest, fitting himself perfectly in the space there, looking up at him with his marble glass eyes with intent.
Damen knew his own weakness, knew that once he was caught in a situation like this he would have no means to back away from it if he ever found out it was a trap, as it had happened once in the past.
“We don’t have to,” he tried to resist, and it sounded too much like pleading.
“I think we both know why I’m here,” Laurent cooed as he gently pressed the side of his face onto Damen’s shoulder, then, in a voice that was not completely free of self-disdain, “a stray android, clinging to the arms of its executioner.”
The sudden realization of how this was a much more precarious situation for Laurent than for himself, coupled with the intense urge to feel the fine strands of gold now rubbing on his sweater, was all it took to dismantle Damen’s feeble defense.
“Only if you want,” Damen yielded, lifting one hand to smooth the soft hair around Laurent’s face.
“To let you take me apart and examine me everywhere?”
There was a change in the quality of Laurent’s voice that Damen couldn’t exactly fathom. He looked down, and saw that the smile on Laurent’s face was devious, saccharine and sad, at once.
-
Simulated fire crackling from the atmosphere panel in Damen’s bedroom masked the distant sounds of incessant rain and thunder outside. The advanced thermostatic system kept his living unit at an optimal temperature at all times, but it was Laurent’s human-like body heat that was keeping him warm tonight.
Damen slid his hands over Laurent’s still-clothed thighs, which were now aptly straddling his own atop his queen size bed, delighting in the soft sounds Laurent made between deep kisses as his thumbs drew small circles on his inner thighs. Laurent smelled like rain mixed with expensive perfume, and tasted like honeyed wine. It kept Damen wanting more, how Laurent’s kisses were alternately hesitant and unrelenting, a liquor that was sweet on the tongue but burned the back of his throat.
“Have you ever,” Laurent managed, in a charmingly breathy voice, as they broke off once.
“With a replicant?” Damen took over seamlessly, Laurent’s question communicated in means other than words somehow. “Not knowingly.”
Flashbacks filled his mind momentarily against his will, as the ambiguity of his answer hung in the air. He mentally shook himself out of it. Turning back at Laurent’s pale hair and blue eyes, he suddenly saw the irony in it, plain as day. Then, when Laurent didn’t push further but accepted his partial truth with only a raised brow and curious eyes, he corrected himself. Laurent possessed beauty that was comparable to that of hers, but they were evidently two entirely different things.
“And you, have you ever?” Damen whispered as he leaned back in to kiss the spot behind Laurent’s ear, nuzzling the silky golden hair there. His hands had since taken on an exploration of Laurent’s body, albeit still hindered by a layer of fabric, around his taut waistline, up his back, down the flanks and then up again. He surveyed Laurent’s reactions to his different touch, logged them, and imagined doing it all over again. Later, on bare skin.
“He thinks he’s the first,” said Laurent as he visibly fought back the gasps elicited by Damen’s nibbling along the underside of his jaw. The sentence uttered with summoned scorn, complemented with the reddening at the tips of his ears and the glint in his dark eyes, had a heady effect on Damen. He could feel himself rousing—in more ways than one—but more than anything his body ached with a deep, growling desire uncaged.
“He just thinks,” Damen cooed, soft and low, “that he’s very, very lucky.”
He dragged a trail of kisses across Laurent’s left cheek. He paused when he reached the corner of his lips, waited for the first sign of hesitation from Laurent, then took over his mouth as his hand found its way to Laurent’s nape to pull him in. This time, he kissed him like he hoped to deliver all the praises that would sound excessive in words, in the form of long, hot and deep exploitation of Laurent’s mouth.
When he finally pulled away, it was to check if he could find a hint of annoyance on Laurent’s face at the interruption. Convinced that he did, he tugged at the hem of the top Laurent was wearing to signify that the break would only be brief but was necessary. He pecked on his cheek in compensation, and asked softly, “Can I see more?”
He would have spent more time to consider the momentary disbelief on Laurent’s face upon hearing that, if he hadn’t been so stunned by what he saw when Laurent swiftly lost his top.
It was at that particular moment that Damen had the strange epiphany that Laurent, despite everything, was indeed man-made. If God existed, he did not make this. He thought as his eyes savored the fine alabaster skin now fully on display, a stark contrast to the dark veil that had covered it and was now discarded on the floor. He tried to recall art terminology he had heard of: golden ratio, perfect balance; but none of these could even begin to describe the way lines were placed on Laurent’s body. The hollows and protrusions around the shoulders and collarbones were shaped like grips of luxurious handcrafted bows, elegant to look at and perfect to touch. When he breathed, the lines that cut in all the right places over his chest and abs deepened and faded. God made men the way he liked them to be, and men did the same with things. Damen continued to muse as his admiration went on. God did not make this. A man did. This was made according to men’s liking, not God’s.
“I bet it turns you on to know you could do virtually anything you want to a body like this without any real consequences,” said Laurent, in a tone that could be either seductive or provocative, or both. There was a cruel degree of truth to what he just said. Yes, there were laws which prohibit abuse of replicants, but according to them, anything that could be fixed with money and some tweaking of programs was never considered to be out of line.
“When I see a body like yours,” Damen began to disagree. The prettiest, finest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, he added only mentally. “I only want to do everything you want.”
At that, Laurent again gave a subtle scowl with distrust, but was quick to turn his face away as Damen finally smoothed his hands on his bare waist, where the skin was soft as cream. Damen was not sure why Laurent should get offended by his saying a thing like this or asking for permission, but he was currently too fascinated by the way Laurent was responding to his hands gliding all over his body to be truly concerned.
“It suits you,” Damen praised as he passed an index finger over the navel piercing on Laurent. It was small and simple, adorned with a tiny blue gem. “Are there more?”
“You’re insatiable, you know?” The look Laurent gave him as he said this was supposed to be chastising, but only served to send a thumping pulse down Damen’s lower abdomen.
“I once heard,” Damen said, as his hands went up to Laurent’s chest to roll his nipples between his fingers. They were small and hard like summer berries; Damen’s mouth thirsted for a taste of them. Laurent’s body gave a jerk that was frankly overreaction to such a minor stimulation, which he tried to conceal with a quick kiss on Damen’s lips as Damen leaned closer. He finished his sentence against Laurent’s lips, “That certain parts of the pleasure models’ bodies were specifically designed.”
He adjusted his tone so that it fit the topic he was discussing. His tone was lewd. One of his hands left Laurent’s front and traveled to his back to cup his buttock, still clad in jeans but soft and full all the same, as if he feared he had not made his meaning clear. Damen was aware he was taking liberties both with his words and his body, but he couldn’t wait any longer to show Laurent what he wanted Laurent to see and feel, what no one else could give him. He wanted, to see his sophisticatedly engineered mind to be able to process nothing else, and to hear his wonderful mouth sigh only his name.
A wicked smile appeared on Laurent’s innocent face, informing Damen in his own unique way that his invitation to this night-long venture had been accepted. He rolled his hips once, twice against the burning core of Damen, which was hard as rock, then began to walk his palms onto Damen’s chest to push him down onto the bed. Damen’s head landed on the pillows as he heard Laurent’s clever mouth say one last thing,
“I guess there’s only one way to find out.”
-
Laurent got back to his neighborhood by his motorbike when the sky was a ghostly white. “Neighborhood” was a nice way to put it, while it really was just the gutter where everything that fell through the brighter parts of the city gathered. Drizzle wetted his outfit which hadn’t been fully dry since he had left that night club last night. He took off his helmet and habitually shook his head twice once he reached close enough to the building. A homeless man lay at the open entrance of the building, next to which black letters “SKINJOB RIGHTS” were sprayed on the cement wall. There was not enough information to tell whether the man was just asleep or dead.
Over the past two years, Laurent realized that there were a lot of similarities between the life here and playing a new game. There were a lot of rules to learn. Many things that were forbidden in other parts of the city were allowed here, such as off limits drugs, contract killing, trafficking and prostitution involving underaged replicants; and vice versa, like how you should never fly a hovercar around here although they were everywhere in other areas, because they would attract too much attention from the cops. Then, like in games, there were things you could practice to get better at. Like getting yourself out of trouble, or looking for it intentionally then getting out of it. Good thing Laurent was a fast learner, because the biggest difference between his life now and a game was that if he slipped up, what awaited him could be worse than death.
Laurent opened the door to his unit and was relieved to see no one in the living room. He proceeded to his own room with footfalls as light as a cat.
As the familiar smell of the air of his own space filled him, he realized suddenly he needed a moment to collect himself. He lay down on his bed and started breathing deeply in a rhythm, imagining the fatigue from the escapade at the club fading with each exhalation. To his frustration, the more he tried, the more he felt a different kind of soreness take shape instead. Soreness resulted from other uses of his body last night. He allowed himself to stay like this for two minutes.
The monitor on his desk, switched on automatically when he entered the room, was showing widgets of information such as sightings of police in the area and job requests from the black market repair shop Laurent worked at. At the top left corner was a gallery displaying photos, taken from times when wanting to remember specific moments of his life was still a normal thing to Laurent.
On the screen was a photo of Laurent in polo uniform, posing next to a stocky white pony. He had been eleven years old. That same year, he had been given the truth about what being a son to Aleron and Hennike Arles of the Arles Corporation had really meant. He learnt that his resemblance to his mother was not a result of the wonder of inheritance, only state-of-the-art engineering. He also learnt that human boys didn’t receive a new body and have their memory and operating system transferred to it each year. It was shocking to him, because between homeschooling and only playing with a carefully selected group of girls and boys of his own kind growing up, he had never once doubted his realness.
For countless times, they reassured Laurent that not a thing in his life was ever going to change due to his nature, that the very reason he had been created was because there had been love and wealth with no place to go. Yet, in the end, what really brought him peace was knowing that Auguste, his golden shining star of an elder brother, was also a replicant. At eleven, Laurent had thought, how could that possibly be bad, if it meant being just like Auguste?
Another photo popped up. In the picture, Laurent’s ski goggles were pushed up to show his cold-pinked cheeks; Auguste was next to him, laughing and wearing a beanie covered in chunks of snow which had been Laurent’s doing. Laurent looked at himself on the screen—he was smiling just like an ordinary teenager having the time of his life—and felt an urge to look away.
Everything had changed after that trip. They had come home to the news of their parents’ fatal private jet accident, and the subsequent board decision for their uncle to take over the Arles Corporation. Several months later, the company had announced a list of older replicant model numbers manufactured by the Corp that had been found to be seriously fault-prone, together with Auguste’s removal from the board. Auguste had been one of the original models pioneered by the Corp.
Laurent lifted both hands to cover his eyes with his palms. He remembered that night like yesterday. Auguste had appeared in the doorway of Laurent’s room, still in his business suit and carrying a duffel bag. He’d wrapped his arms tightly around Laurent’s shoulders and kissed the top of his head wordlessly. He had only come to say goodbye, but Laurent had been taught to make his own decisions his whole life. A life without Auguste or a lifetime of side-stepping, dodging and running away. It had been the easiest decision he had ever had to make.
Hot water from the shower warmed Laurent’s body, washing away the rain that had soaked every inch of him last night.
The only tricky part had been building the connections he’d needed to get the name of the blade runner assigned to hunt his brother. That had taken time, money and effort. Everything after that had been easy.
Damianos had been easy.
Most of the information Laurent had successfully obtained about Damianos turned out to be accurate. The excessively powerful physique. The imprudent, egotistic demeanor. The lack of discretion and self-preservation. The strong tendency to give in to physical attraction—it was almost ludicrous, how simple it had been to seduce this man. Perhaps even the unverified rumors he had come across about Damianos were indeed true. How he had slumped from deputy chief to a bottom-ranked, scavenging blade runner, all just for covering up some data breach committed by the mistress of his chief of police half-brother. It sounded like cheap soap TV, but after meeting Damianos in person, Laurent’s doubt about the authenticity of this story had now shrunk significantly.
The only discrepancy Laurent hadn’t expected was how Damianos had behaved in bed. Laurent examined the marks scattered all over his body in the mirror as he toweled himself down. They looked like crimson scars of various sizes, burned there by Damianos’ mouth. Laurent’s mind wandered off as he discovered more and more of them, in places he didn’t remember had been touched.
Tell me how you like it. Damianos had whispered near his face, as his palms had slid down Laurent’s thighs, spreading them. Rough. Eyes closed, Laurent had responded, because that way it would be over sooner and more tolerable than this. Then you don’t know what you like. Damianos had said with an infuriating smile in his voice before he had begun to put Laurent through rounds of slow, torturous, dragged-out pleasure.
It had been nothing like Laurent had rehearsed mentally with the theoretical knowledge he’d possessed, especially with Damianos. He recalled the sounds he had made when Damianos had pushed him to the edge, repeatedly, and felt heat creep up his cheeks.
None of that mattered anymore. He demanded himself to shut last night out of his mind as he pulled on a sweatshirt he’d borrowed from Auguste and returned to his room. This had been planned to be a one-off, and his plan had worked out.
He keyed in the pin to the lock on his drawer and picked up the mobile device stowed in there. A few taps and swipes and a map of the city was pulled up on the screen. There used to be only one moving dot on it, but now there were two, thanks to the codes Laurent had loaded onto Damianos’ tracker wristband while he had gone in the shower after they’d been done. Laurent had been extremely lucky he hadn’t even had to consider using any of his backup plans.
He watched the dot that was Damianos hovering around the downtown police station as his other hand reached deeper into the corner of his drawer. He knew it was there, but he needed to feel it. His fingers slipped along the cold metallic barrel, then to the curve of the back of the grip. He lifted it slightly, sensing the grounded weight and the finality it carried.
Withdrawing his hand, he took one last look at the screen and saw the other dot approaching his own current location. He put the device back, shut the drawer and heard the lock click.
Outside, there was the sound of the main door opening.
“Laurent, I’m home,” said his brother, coming home from a night of strenuous, exploitative labor, the only type of work he was able to sustain without proper documentation.
His brother should not have to live like this, but even living itself was quickly becoming a thing he had to fight for. Fury was a hissing snake perched in Laurent’s artificial heart.
His plan was simple, and only one more step remained: One day, the dot on the map that was Damianos would finally get too close to the one that was Auguste, and that would be the day when Laurent would pull the trigger on Damianos.
There was nothing Laurent would not do to save Auguste’s life. And he knew Auguste felt the same way for him, too.
So he ran his fingers through his damp hair once, pretending he had just freshened himself up with a morning shower after a good, undisturbed night’s sleep, and opened his bedroom’s door.
“Morning, Auguste.”
-------------------------------------------------------- This is a completely self-indulgent fic and I enjoyed writing every word of it so that was noice. That being said, writing in a second language will never not be nerve-wracking and there were times I simply had no idea what I was doing. Please pretend you don’t see bad grammar and weird phrases because I know they must exist. I apologize if Damen sounds like a complete douchebag at times. It’s entirely intentional. I tried to downplay the potential Auguste/Laurent in this but no matter what I did it’s just kind of there LOL they’re also not REAL brothers when you think of it so
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bandaged-writer · 4 years ago
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swan song || dazai
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➤ Pairing: PM! Dazai x Contemporary Dancer! Reader
➤ Genre: fluff, romance, angst 
➤ Warnings: mention of minor character death, mentions of suicide, alcohol consumption, innuendos, murder in the form of a nightmare, violence, language, blood, mental breakdown 
➤ Summary: Not even Dazai could predict that a certain calico cat would lead him to his serendipity made of bruised knees and angelic smiles. 
➤ Word count: 10k
➤ Note: This fic is very important to me since it’s partially based on events I went through as a dancer myself; therefore, I’d be really happy to hear what you think of it. Have fun reading. <3
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It was rare for Yokohama's streets to be completely empty, especially when the moon illuminated even the darkest alleys and offered to lead the way home for many lost souls. Ever since November arrived and the trees' leaves had already fallen, the temperatures had dropped considerably. Snow began to fall and wrapped the port city in a gentle blanket of white; even in the dark of the night, branches shimmered in the moon's light, streets became as clear as day as the artificial light of street lamps was reflected from the snow's surface. 
For once, it was a tranquil night in which blood didn't stain the innocence of Yokohama. 
Dull footsteps filled the silence as Dazai followed the calico cat - Sensei - out of the bar Lupin. The cat had been pawing at the brunette's pants, meowing at him to finally leave the empty bar and catch some fresh air. Truth be told, Dazai didn't know why he listened to a cat of all creatures which graced the surface of this planet. Maybe it was the tiny voice in his head which wanted him to go home, rest his sore limbs and hopefully find some peace and quiet in the form of sleep. 
"Where are you leading me to, Sensei?" Dazai's tongue still tickled with the taste of whiskey, but his head was very much sober. Chocolate orbs watched how the cat left tiny prints of his paws in the snow and merely meowed at him in response as if telling the mafioso to trust him. Who was Dazai to deny the request of a lucky charm on four legs? "Yeah, yeah, got it." Odd, how the mafia executive found comfort in talking to a cat. 
Dazai's breath came out in white puffs of air which dissolved into nothing, the cold nipped at his cheeks and would hug him like the familiar arms of death if it weren't for the black coat wrapped around his slim form. As much as Dazai craved to die, freezing to death wasn't his favorite way to leave this world; he had standards, after all. 
Streets had long since blurred into one another when Sensei suddenly meowed out loud and pawed at the spinning door made of glass which was rimmed by a golden color. Raising his gaze, Dazai recognized the building immediately. It was an expensive theater which was often rented by the mafia to celebrate the success of bigger missions. Famous actors, singers and even dancers held their performances in the vast venue, but it was nothing but another building at night. 
"Are you sure, buddy?" A small smile decorated Dazai's usually unreadable face, a curious shimmer flashed in his eyes as he heard the soft bass of music being played from within. Another proof that Sensei certainly wasn't an average cat. Intrigued by what - or rather who - was awaiting him, Dazai entered and let a sigh of relief slip his chapped lips, Sensei always right by his side. 
Warmth greeted the mafioso, the red carpet below his feet silenced any sound his shoes could cause and possibly startle whoever was at the very heart of the theater. Cash registers were unoccupied, snack bars were filled with various treats, but they seemed to be untouched as well as the alcohol on display. Everything that was of value was still in place, unscathed. 
Every step Dazai took was in sync with the rhythm which faintly caressed his ears and he found himself enjoying the calm beat. Before the brunette knew it, he stood in the middle of rows upon rows of chairs, the cushions cold and unused as his eyes were focused on the dancer, clad in black, on the wooden stage. Dazai only registered how Sensei leapt on one of the chairs, everything else was unimportant. 
Bare feet floated across the floor from left to right, arms moved gracefully like the stretching wings of a swan. Eyes were closed in concentration as your heels turned to the right and your arms rested across your torso. Your left hand went around your head once, traced the line of your right arm and ended up intertwined with your other hand. Stretching your leg out in front of you, you swiftly kicked the limb to your side and let your torso follow the movement by dipping it low and coming to a standing position. 
The song Dazai didn't know came to an end, your heavy breathing filled the room along with the soft sound of your feet padding along the stage. 
"You know that staring at a woman is rude, don't you?" Your voice was rough around the edges as your lungs grasped for some much needed air. A thin layer of sweat made your face shine in the dim light and a smile settled down on your lips. Ripped out of his mesmerized state, Dazai chuckled at your reaction - he had expected you to yell at him, scream, threaten him, but instead, you called him out. "True beauty even makes a gentleman stare," he said. 
A rosy blush bloomed on your cheeks as you suddenly laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls which were decorated with rich designs and several paintings you couldn't name. "You sure know how to flatter a woman. I'll give you that," you sat down on the edge of the stage, right in front of Dazai and reached for your half empty water bottle. Honestly, you couldn't quite believe the stranger's words; who found a sweating person beautiful? Either way, you didn't bother to ask and simply let him have his fun. The mafioso sat down on one of the many chairs, took off his coat and let Sensei cuddle himself into the fabric. 
"Can you do that again?" 
"Huh?" 
"Dancing. Can you dance once more?" It was an innocent request from Dazai's point of view. He wanted to understand what you danced to, what made your body move and how you moved it. He wanted to understand the story behind it. With a soft gaze, you leaned forward, chin resting on your palm. "In exchange for your name, I will consider dancing, again," the smile on your face was pure, there were no hidden intentions behind your persona, just the innocence of curiosity. You were far from being a threat. "My name is Dazai. Dazai Osamu."
"Well, it's nice to meet you, Dazai. I'm [Name] and not someone to deny the audience a wish," grabbing the hem of your black button down shirt, you wiped some sweat off your forehead and made your way to the bluetooth speakers which stood somewhere in the shadows. 
Dazai found himself drawn to the mere way you walked. Yes, he had seen many confident women, especially in the mafia - Kouyou was the best example for that, but no one carried themselves like you. There was an air of elegant confidence surrounding your being like a halo, every step was memorized by your legs, every turn you took was sharp. Dazai had never interacted with a dancer before, but he could tell you were one. An experienced dancer, too. 
His train of thought was interrupted by the soft sound of a plucking instrument being played and he saw the way you fell into a completely different persona. The air around you seemed to change into a melancholic one, your face reflecting emotions he saw daily: fear, anguish, melancholy. Gone was the friendly you. It was replaced by someone who looked like you. 
Naked feet glided across the stage with ease as you seemed to become the beat yourself. Muscles smoothly tensed up to hit a sharp beat and immediately slid into a more relaxed state like it was the only thing you knew how to do, like it was breathing. 
The closer Dazai looked, the more he noticed the calloused parts of your feet and for a moment, he wondered how much it had to hurt, but your face showed no signs of discomfort - if anything, you were at peace, in the middle of your very essence. 
Much like paintings, Dazai didn't quite understand the story behind it, couldn't put together the pieces you showed him. He only finished the edge of the puzzle you performed which gave the mafioso a slight idea of the bigger picture you were trying to show him and maybe if Dazai asked, you would tell him the story behind the dance. For some reason, he sensed that it was an intimate question to which the answer was the moves you generously provided. 
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A slow jazz beat filled the empty bar named Lupin at nearly 00:00 o'clock, the faint smell of alcohol and cigarettes lingered pleasantly in the air. Only two seats were occupied at such a late hour; one by Dazai and the other seat was taken by Odasaku, the brunette's best friend. 
"You've been looking at the clock quite a few times now. You still got plans?" Odasaku took a sip of his glass of whiskey with a large ice cube in it. The liquor pleasantly burned his throat and warmed the older man up from within - very welcoming considering the minus temperatures waiting outside of the bar. A single finger traced the edge of Dazai's own glass, his mind occupied with something - no, someone - else. "I can't hide anything from you, can I, Odasaku?" A tranquil smile found home on Dazai's slightly chapped lips. Something about Oda figuring him out like any other person made Dazai feel normal instead of an oh-so-called demonic prodigy with an unmatched intellect. 
The mafia executive rested his cheek on his palm as he recalled the recent events. Sensei leading him to the theater, the soft thumping of a bass caressing his ears and his eyes landing on someone who bloomed on stage like a flower which was about to wither. "I was wondering if she was still up." At that, Odasaku's interest was piqued. It wasn't unusual for his suicidal friend to woo a woman, but it was unusual for him to wonder what his latest encounter was up to. "She?" The man was fairly curious, given that he usually witnessed how Dazai took a pretty lady home, but this time, Oda couldn't recall someone catching his friend's interest. 
"Last night, Sensei lead me to the theater which the boss often rents for celebrations. I thought that maybe Sensei just needed a place to sleep at, but when I got there, I met [Name]." Slowly, Dazai twirled his glass and watched the liquid moving around while Oda was attentively listening. It certainly wasn't a common story to meet someone. "She's a dancer. Ah, what was that style called?" The brunette looked up at the ceiling in thought, eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly. "Temporary? No, contemporary! She's a contemporary dancer." 
"Let me guess. You want to see her, again." Oda spoke, finished his glass and looked at his dear friend in wonder. He didn't know who you were, probably never even saw your face, but the fact that you somehow managed to charm Dazai was quite a feat. After all, Dazai rarely thought of anything or anyone interesting enough unless it challenged his mind. "I do. But I don't know why." Dazai admitted, his lips pulled into a soft frown as he stared at his still full glass. For some reason, he had lost interest in getting pleasantly buzzed with Odasaku. "There's nothing special about her nor am I interested in dance and yet.." Dazai trailed off for a second and sighed. You confused him, although you were so easy to read and figure out. The blush on your cheeks gave away that you liked having Dazai's attention, you were easy to please. "She's pretty. I guess I enjoy being near her."
If anyone else had told Oda about Dazai's encounter with a dancer, he probably would've thought of it as a joke, but hearing such words from Dazai himself changed the situation. He could tell the younger man meant what he said and wasn't only trying to woo you for as long as you'd please the executive. 
"Well? Is there any more to the story?" 
"I only watched her dance, Odasaku."
"That's it?" 
"That's it." Dazai confirmed with a tender nod of his head, brown locks going with the motion. 
Odasaku looked at the clock - 00:30. For once, he felt like Dazai might see something more in a person than mere profit for one of his plans and he was looking forward to the day that epiphany would reach his friend. Hopefully sooner than later. If someone like Dazai was interested in someone simple like you then you could positively influence the man who had experienced nothing but violence, death and bloodshed for a majority of his life. "You should go, then. It's painfully obvious you want to see her."
"Are you sure?" Dazai asked, eyebrows pulled up in slight surprise. It didn't happen too often that he got to talk to Odasaku so freely without any prying eyes and judgment whispered behind their backs. In this bar, they were only Dazai and Odasaku. Not an executive of the mafia and a mafia member with the possibly lowest rank in the organization. "Why wouldn't I be sure? I can handle going home alone just fine."
There was no point in trying to argue with Odasaku. The man was awfully perceptive and aware of those around him and would probably drag Dazai out of the bar if it was in Oda's nature to do such things. Besides, Odasaku was always correct, right? 
"Then I guess I'll see you around, Odasaku." Dazai wrapped his pitch black coat around his slender form and left with a gentle wave of his bandaged hand. Oda merely made a noise of acknowledgement. 
He knew that one positive influence couldn't fix the trauma that Dazai had gone through, but love made man better, right? Deep down, Odasaku hoped that you would leave some kind of impact on his misguided friend, hoped that at least you could show him a bit of the light Dazai was so severely lacking. 
He hoped that life would be kind to Dazai for once. 
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This time, Dazai was greeted by orchestral instruments put over a simple, consistent beat. No vocals accompanied the song, only the repeated words "save me, save me" echoing throughout the very lonely and cold hall. Yet, your mere presence seemed to fill the theater just fine. 
He noticed you wore shoes unlike last night. Your dancing style was also slightly different. It lacked the element of ballet, yet he found himself watching you all the same. 
How you kicked your leg out to the side, wiped your lips and for a moment, it seemed like you were getting ready to run only to pretend to slip. Skillfully, your hands caught your body before you rested on your back, hand reaching up in the air as if begging someone to save you from misery. The notes gently faded into nothing and found their end. 
"And here I thought this was a one time meeting, Dazai." You teased from your position on the ground, rolled your body up into a sitting position and gave the man a teasing yet welcoming smile. A few strands of hair stuck to your face, some stood in weird directions, yet Dazai would still describe you as lovely. Sitting down on the chair he occupied the last time, Dazai returned the friendly teasing. "I like to make sure I see pretty things several times."
Damn smooth talker. Oh, how you'd love to wipe that cocky smirk off Dazai's stupidly handsome face. Damn him for making you blush so easily when his words weren't even that special. "Whatever you say." You dusted off your pants, let a few joints crack and tilted your head to the side as you took in Dazai's form. 
The cold had bitten his cheeks red, a trail of goosebumps between the bandages around his neck and his jawline revealed itself to your eyes, he was shivering ever so slightly despite the coat clinging to his body. You couldn't blame Dazai - it was probably -10 degrees Celsius outside, some snow had frozen and the theater wasn't known to get heated up at night. Truth be told, you had also been shivering when you came in, but then.. 
Suddenly, your eyes widened in curiosity. "You're cold aren't you?" Dazai nodded his head slightly, not quite knowing where you were going with this. Of course, he was cold. What kind of question was that? Going to the very edge of the stage, you offered Dazai your hand and grinned from ear to ear with that silly blush still on your cheeks. "May I ask for this dance, dear sir?" 
Warily, Dazai's gaze flickered from your palm to your face, his reaction hesitant. "Oh, belladonna, you do know that I'm not the dancer here, do you?" He just wasn't the type to dance, wasn't interested in the art either. Dazai only knew a few basic steps that Kouyou taught him years ago, but he barely ever had to use his non-existent dancing skills. "Aw, come on~" A cute pout adorned your lips as you tried persuading the mafia executive with puppy eyes and hopefully arguments that would convince him. "I'll teach you something really easy. I promise it'll be fun!" 
Dramatically, Dazai threw his head back and covered his eyes with his palm, his loud voice easily filling the vast space. "How did you know that your mere beauty was my weakness? Truly, my only weak spot is standing right in front of me! How could I say no to a beautiful lady such as yourself?" At his antics, you couldn't help but roll your eyes, grab Dazai's hands and pull him on the stage with you. You noticed how calloused his hands were and wondered what his profession was since the rest of him seemed nearly dreamy. The more you thought about it, the more you could feel a headache approaching, though. 
"First, off with that coat. You're gonna get warm real quick." Contrary to what your words implied, you took the coat off for Dazai and tossed the article of clothing in a corner where it wouldn't get in the way. Another thing Dazai learned about you was that you were touchy - not that he mined. He loved touchy, pretty ladies. But you..you nearly made his heart skip a beat with how eager you were to dance with him. "I didn't know you were so keen on getting me out of my clothes, belladonna."
Maybe the day you'd smack Dazai's face would come sooner than you thought. "Pfft, you wish, don't you?" Laughing, you shook your head a few times and picked your phone up from the ground to choose a song. What song would suit the situation or even Dazai's persona? He sure liked to joke around, yet his attire told you that he worked in a serious field. "I wouldn't mind~" Dazai spoke in a sing-song voice, hell bent on teasing your for whatever reason. However, it was part of his charm, you concluded for yourself. 
In the end, you settled for a song played by only a piano. The mood was neither too sad nor too upbeat - it was a perfect mix of a tinge of sadness and the beauty of emotional clarity. 
Dazai let you hold one of his hands while the other rested on your back, your free hand placed on his shoulder as you gave him instructions. "Take one step forward. Then I'll follow by taking a step backwards." His foot was quick to be placed between yours, chocolate eyes finding the two pairs of feet rather interesting. Dazai simply didn't want to step on your feet. Yet. "Good. Now one step to the right and a step backwards."
Dazai did as he was told and came back to center with you in his arms, leading him around the stage. Moving like this with the peaceful music in the background and your laughter right in his ear, some sort of warmth started spreading from Dazai's core and filled every fiber of his being with each step he took. Or maybe it was just the happiness swimming in your eyes. "See? It's not that hard. Do it again, but a bit faster." You encouraged the inexperienced brunette, grasping his hand tightly in yours. Dazai, on the other hand, felt oddly vulnerable as you lead him, taught him something he usually never used. It was a skill Dazai didn't possess, yet he found comfort in the fact that it was you taking the lead, dancing him through the steps his body had long since forgotten. 
As time passed, Dazai gained security and picked up the speed until you told him that this was the perfect pace. At some point, your palm slid down his chest, the man's own palm coming to rest in the dip of your waist. Neither of you seemed to notice nor to care. Possibly, Dazai even dared to pull you closer, although he knew he shouldn't. Getting attached was a dangerous game, especially in his case. If Mori was to find out who Dazai found himself gravitating toward, he'd lose you. If the enemy was to know of your existence, he'd lose you. 
Everything he'd never want to lose, would eventually slip through his fingers like water. 
But there you were, in the blood-stained hands of a mafia executive, a content smile on your face and your heart beating in sync with Dazai's. The act of dancing with you was pure, probably the most common and innocent thing he had ever done, yet Dazai felt like it was wrong. 
You were an angel, giving herself to the demon himself. 
Yet, why did it feel so right? 
"See? You're much warmer now." You beamed up at Dazai, eyes closed and he knew that this view would haunt him in his sleep. He should've stayed at the bar with Odasaku, drank a bit and then call it a night, but no, Dazai had to be selfish, greedy even, to come see you again when you were nothing but a stranger. Why the hell did you make him feel welcomed like he belonged right here with you? Dazai wasn't part of your blissfully mundane life and if you knew how many crimes he had committed, you'd let go of him like you had just burned yourself. And maybe, you actually would end up scorching yourself if you kept touching him, being near him. 
"Yeah. It's your hard work though." Despite the emotional conflict raging on in Dazai's heart, he returned the smile you gave him, but it never quite reached his eyes. If you noticed, you didn't bother asking which the brunette was thankful for. How was he supposed to explain something he didn't quite understand himself just yet? "I argue we both worked hard." You gave his hand a squeeze. A gentle reminder that you were indeed there and not anywhere else. 
Eventually, hours blurred into one another and Dazai was back in his seat with you sitting next to him, talking about the one time you thought your toaster was broken, but you only forgot to plug the device into the socket. You were silly and clumsy, too, Dazai learned. 
"Oh, time flies, huh.." You looked at the watch wrapped around your wrist and sighed, the hint of a frown settling down on your face. The time read 4:53 am, the sky was still pitch black - definitely a downside to winter. A groan of annoyance rumbled deep within your chest, your head leaned back and eyes closed shut as you voiced out your frustration. "Why can't time go by a bit slower? I was really enjoying myself, too. Being here with you is better than going home."
"Oh? How so?" Dazai didn't expect you to be so open about your way of living, considering that he had met you not too long ago. But he did hear about some people who overshare personal feelings and issues, so were you a part of those people? Or did your trust already run so deep? "You see, I live on my own and it just gets..very lonely. It's almost depressing when there's no one to greet you, nothing to take care of. Agh, I said too much didn't I?" Maybe this was why your friends sometimes told you to shut up at a certain point. You rubbed the back of your head sheepishly, chuckling. "It's okay, don't worry."
But maybe that piece of information was what caused Dazai to offer to walk you home even though you only lived a 8-minute-walk away from the theater. 
Or maybe it was the fact that the sun wouldn't rise until 8 am. 
Whatever reason it was, you felt less lonely when you stepped foot into your home. 
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The meetings continued.
Dazai would occasionally pop up during your practice in the dead of night, after a drink with Odasaku or because he was simply straying throughout Yokohama's streets like a lost dog. You had quickly learned of Dazai's suicidal tendencies, even scolded him whenever the brunette enthusiastically told you about a new suicide technique he had read about. Usually, those around Dazai didn't care about that, because it was normal and he would always show up the next day in one piece, overdramatically devastated that he was still very much alive. 
"Why are you so worried about a stranger's life?" Dazai had asked with a teasing tone lingering on the edge of his voice. He didn't expect a serious answer, didn't expect a response which he couldn't decode right off the bat. "Then who would I be dancing for?" A tinge of blue had colored your words; the color of the ocean. Beautiful to look at, but so unbelievably deep that one could drown in them if they weren't careful. It had left Dazai a tad bit confused; apparently, you had danced just fine without him as well, so why were you so worried about something as trivial as an audience now? Nevertheless, he had smiled - it was a gentle one. 
"I'm sure you would find another audience."
"But none of them are you."
He had felt special and maybe it was delusional of him, but the more time Dazai spent with you, the more he wanted you for himself. No one else should hear your laugh for they might ruin the sound. No one else should be on the receiving end of your teasing for they might corrupt you. No one else should see you dance for Dazai liked to pretend that you only moved for him and his selfish eyes. 
But that was wishful thinking. Just like writers needed readers, just like musicians needed listeners, a dancer needed an audience to gain energy from, an audience to perform for. Dazai knew he couldn't remain your only crowd forever. 
The worst of it all that Dazai did get attached to you. Attached to your clumsiness when you tripped on stage and lied that it was part of the choreography. Attached to the way you'd grin from ear to ear once your eyes spotted him sitting in his usual seat. But most of all, he got attached to your kindness. You always offered him something to drink or some of your snacks, offered to distract him from whatever was bothering Dazai some nights.
You offered him some peace and quiet, physically, mentally and emotionally. 
However, the more time Dazai spent with you, the more his premonition proved to be true. 
You ended up haunting his dreams like a ghost and twisted them into nightmares that he often had, but it was even worse now that you had stepped into his life. It was your fault for ruining his already morbid nightmares by popping up in them out of the blue. Each time Dazai dreamed about shooting someone, your hand would hold his wrist to stop him. Each time he dreamed about a new suicide technique, you'd cry out his name in the ugliest way with tears streaming down your cheeks and a painful strain tearing your vocal chords. 
But this night was so much worse.
"Dazai, we need your help in our current interrogation. The prisoner won't spill, no matter what." A buff man in a suit and shades resting on his nose deadpanned. With a sigh, Dazai put both of his hands on his desk and got up from the comfortable chair, silently wondering if his men were capable of fulfilling a simple mission, at all. He didn't know the details, busy with his own case and trying to come up with a new way to finally get rid of this life he never wanted. 
Empty footsteps echoed right through the cold hallways of the mafia, no word was spoken, no breath could be heard. It was a heartless place which had witnessed the deaths of so many souls that it could be the equivalent of a graveyard. The amount of bloodshed was gross, but necessary in order for the mafia to survive. 
As the heavy door made of pure metal opened, Dazai's eyes widened. He would recognize the person anywhere, no matter how big the crowd was. Cautiously, he approached your shaking form and kneeled down in front of your broken body. Deep bruises in various shades ruined your skin, no doubt you were suffering from a couple of broken bones as well. Upon a closer look, Dazai could see that you definitely lost weight as well. 
Dead eyes met his own, the withering shimmer of recognition floated in your orbs before it rotted away. "Please, kill me, Dazai." Your voice was weak, hoarse from the lack of hydration and screams you let out as the men in black tried to get information out of you. "What the hell are you talking about?" Grabbing your shoulders, Dazai put you into a sitting position and let your chin rest on his shoulders. You were broken beyond repair and it was his fault that you got caught in this mess, in his mess.
"Everything hurts. I'm in nothing but pain, anymore. Please, I'm begging you to take my life." Tears streamed down your cheeks at the mere thought of leaving this world behind. Death terrified you, you didn't know if anything was waiting for you on the other side or if your existence would simply vanish like someone had pressed the delete button. "Don't be stupid, I can get you out of here, I can-" Dazai was rambling and it was the first time you saw him lose his composure. "It would be an honor to die by your hands, Osamu."
Somewhere deep down, Dazai knew he couldn't get you out of this alive. The mafia would kill you. You'd seen their faces, knew where these creatures of the night operated from. Too high was the possibility of you running to the government and spilling all that valuable information. 
Too high was the possibility of his men letting you die a painful death when Dazai could give you a fast, painless way out. 
"I'm sorry." Dazai whispered in your ear, his lips tickled the shell of it and you basked in the gentle feeling for a moment. It was a luxury you wouldn't get to experience, again. A wistful smile settled down on your lips, your eyes closed. You were at peace. "It's okay, Osamu. I'll watch over you from the other side. But for now, this is goodbye."
Dazai's hands shook as he placed the muzzle of his gun right against your chest where your heart was peacefully beating. Why did he have to kill the one person he was attached to? One of the very little good things he ever had in life would slip through his fingers, no matter how desperately he'd reach out for you. Dazai took a deep breath - a futile attempt to keep his composure - and pulled the trigger. 
You immediately went limp in his arms, blood staining the white dress you wore and his own clothes too. The executive dropped the gun, held your corpse tightly in his arms and buried his face in the crook of your neck. He was glad no one was there to see him cry and sob into your hair. No one would ever see the way he held you for an hour, the way he grew terrified of how your body temperature dropped. 
No one would ever see the pure feelings he had towards you. 
"Goodbye, [Name]."
Dazai woke up in a cold sweat, spine as straight as a candle while his mind was slowly realizing that this was nothing but a nightmare. A bad one, too. "Crap.." The executive rubbed the side of his head, his heart still pounding in his rib cage from the vision that had just haunted him. He hated how you tormented his mind and occupied it like it was your own pretty place. You should at least pay some rent.
Checking the time on his phone, the numbers 02:13 am greeted him. At that time, you were normally still practicing, pushing yourself past your limits until you were so worn out that all you could do was lie on the cool ground, panting. Dazai threw the blanket away a little harder than needed, grabbed a pair of pants and a button down shirt. He needed to make sure you were still alive, he seeked your presence. 
Maybe you could tend to the foreign panic he felt. 
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A strong wave of relief and comfort washed over Dazai as he saw you on the stage and the song found its end. His heart no longer beat erratically in his chest, but gradually calmed down. Slumping down in his usual seat, Dazai realized one thing. 
He was scared of losing you. 
And judging by the way you stopped everything and ran off the stage to sit down right next to him, you were worried about him, too. Ah, how nice it was to feel your hand cup his cold cheek, the pad of your caressing the skin right underneath Dazai's eyes. He had grown used to your touchy-ness and right now, it was very welcomed. A confirmation that you were very much real and alive unlike in the nightmare you'd unknowingly put him through. 
"Everything okay?" Carefully, you asked as Dazai didn't mumble a single word and let himself being touched without much of a comment that served the mere purpose to make you blush. The suicidal brunette you grew fond of snapped out of whatever thought he was stuck in, his head whipping towards you. Worry was laced in your eyes and while Dazai definitely expected the devastating look you gave him, it pierced right through a sensitive spot of his. It was weird. 
"Do you think there's a difference between good and evil?" It was an unusually deep question which Dazai had never asked you before. Normally, he asked you for silly favors like choking him to death or using your high kick to break his neck. You blinked once, twice.
Then you realized that this was Dazai being in a vulnerable state. 
A heavy moment of silence filled the air around you and weighed heavily on your slim shoulders, words got stuck in your throat. School, family and society would say yes to that question, but the more you thought about it, the more you realized that maybe it was a matter of circumstances, interpretation and one's own morals. 
With a huff escaping your lips, you sat back in your seat and stared at the empty stage. The one you wanted to perform on with the hall being sold out, one day. "Maybe there isn't that much of a difference, depending on how you look at it," you started and caught Dazai's attention. He had long since figured that you were capable of thinking and feeling for your own, but he wasn't sure if he expected such a response from a citizen. "If two nations are at war and a man kills someone from the opposing country to protect someone close to him and the same happens vice versa, then who is good and who is evil?" Eyes fluttering shut, you tapped your temple with your index and middle finger, Dazai's own eyes always set on you. 
"Then there's also Yin and Yang. A bad seed lies in every good thing, a good seed lies in every bad thing," your gaze flew to the wall high above you, the dim lighting of the theater emphasized the tender structure of your jaw, the light in your eyes and the delicate curve of your neck. "So maybe good and bad are a curious mix of one another and aren't that different from one another."
Gradually, the light returned to Dazai's eyes and dipped them into the rich, chocolate brown color you liked so much. The curve on his lips was tender, the ghost of a smile but it was genuine and came from somewhere deep within his heart. You didn't know where this sudden, fond look came from, but you knew you never wanted it to disappear. "Do you have a camera with you?" Thrown off by his sudden question, you could only nod. "Uh yeah, why?" 
"I want to take a picture of us." Because he feared he might lose you for real. 
Without prodding any more, you dug around in your bag for the black device and came back with the camera in your hands, a smile on your face. "Well then, let's take a fancy picture." You positioned the camera on one of the empty seats. Dazai casually leaned his weight against the stage while you sat on the edge, feet dangling in the air and your arms wrapped around his shoulders to pull the man closer. A tranquil expression was on Dazai's face as you did so and said "cheese!".
The picture ended up in the pocket of his trench coat, reminding him that he had a bit of light in his life. 
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Lady luck certainly wasn't on your side this snowy day since she thought it was really funny to let your tyre drive over some sharp shards of glass. Swerving ever so slightly, you pulled up at a parking lot at an unfamiliar restaurant which was close to the frozen pier. "At least I didn't strand in the middle of nowhere." You huffed and tightly wrapped a scarf around your neck until the warm fabric covered about half of your face. It was a short walk from your car to the restaurant, but there was no way in hell you'd let the cold sink deeper into your bones than necessary. 
Once the engine died down, you got out of your car and entered the small restaurant which was visited by only one man. Red hair, blue eyes and a pleasant voice as he chatted away with who you assumed was the cook and boss of this place. Tugging off your gloves, the scarf soon followed and was placed on the empty stool next to you; at least it was comfortable. 
"Excuse me?" You politely interrupted the conversation between the two men and caught their attention. "My car died and I wondered if I could use someone's phone to get it towed away." The chubby cook was quick to respond as he handed you his old Nokia which was safely stored in the back pocket of his jeans. You thanked the man, glad that someone was willing to help and called the nearest auto repair shop. Ultimately, you didn't have any tyres in your trunk since you rarely drove. Oh, what a stupid decision that was. 
After a small phone call and receiving the information that it would certainly take some time to get to your car, you decided to at least order some food and a glass of water. It was the least you could do after the owner was kind enough to lend you his phone for approximately five minutes. 
While you were obviously enjoying your food, Odasaku couldn't help but wonder how high the probability of meeting you was. 
At first, he thought his eyes were deceiving him, but there you were, sitting a few stools away to keep a decent distance from the stranger who was Dazai's best and only friend. The description Dazai had given Oda was definitely more than accurate and not an exaggeration on his friend's part: the hair, eyes, height and way of dressing up matched Dazai's words all too well. Ah, what did the brunette say about you once? Right, it was like you demanded everyone's attention as soon as you stepped in the room, but in a very positive way. It was simply the aura you gave off. 
Odasaku had seen the picture, too. You were definitely the woman who had hugged Dazai in the picture, beaming into the lens like no one else was watching. 
"It's pretty cold, isn't it?" To Oda's surprise, it was you who actually struck up a conversation out of the blue. You wiped the small heap of snowflakes from your head, some of the melted snow had already dampened your hair and clothes. "You know Dazai, don't you?" Odasaku changed the topic, curious about what you thought of his dear friend, what your feelings were and if you had any concealed intentions. Admittedly, it was impudent of him to question your aim when Odasaku only knew you from words. 
Eyes wide, you blinked in slight confusion before it clicked. "Yes, I do. Are you..by any chance Odasaku?" You had heard about Dazai's friends from some of his stories that either included a bar named Lupin or his job which the brunette still hadn't revealed. Well, it wasn't like it was any of your business, anyway. "I see he has already talked about me, huh? Only good things, I hope." Oda pretty much deadpanned and you couldn't help the laugh bubbling in the back of your throat at how serious he sounded - just like Dazai said. "Of course I heard only good things about you! Don't worry about it."
In-between a quick introduction and a few bites of the pasta you had ordered, you heard the question:"What do you think about Dazai?" Warmth was quick to dip the apple of your cheeks in a reddish color as your brain thought of an appropriate answer and how far you could go. Sure, this man was Dazai's best friend, but in the end, Odasaku was still a stranger to you. "What I think of him?" You repeated more to yourself than to Oda and suddenly got..shy. Odasaku nodded wordlessly. 
"Dazai is an interesting person. It's hard to tell what he's thinking or feeling, yet being with him is fairly easy. Strikes me as someone who's definitely popular with the ladies and knows it, but he seems like a good guy, regardless. Pretty funny, too." For a moment your pursed your lips, fork poking around in your beloved pasta as you possibly shared too much, yet again. "I really like him, I guess.." Oda found no lie in your body language, in the way you talked or reacted when he asked you about the suicidal brunette. However, maybe you liked the mafia executive more than you realized or wanted to admit, Oda silently thought to himself. 
"I might be sticking my nose into things where it's not wanted, but you definitely caught Dazai's interest." Oda paid for his own food, the cook mumbling something about him not having to do it, but accepting the money, nevertheless. "Huh?" Did your ears betray you or did Dazai's best friend, the infamous Odasaku who the younger man looked up to so much, tell you that Dazai was indeed intrigued? Maybe, you should get your ears checked, soon. Just to be sure.
"If you weren't interesting, Dazai wouldn't visit you. He's not much of a dancer and even less interested in it. But you seem to have caught him in a way."
With those words being said, Odasaku bid his farewell to the cook and you who was still processing his words and contemplating how much weight to give that revelation. Sure, Dazai had told you several days ago that he wasn't a dancer, but you couldn't really figure out why he insisted on still visiting you. 
For the rest of the day, your heart beat a little bit faster than it was supposed to and this time, you were aware of the reason why. 
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Your encounter with Oda should've kept your spirits high, but that wasn't the case unfortunately. This night was void of any stars, thick, dark clouds even hid the moon that was usually watching you akin to a certain brunette. 
But just like the moon, he didn't show up. 
As always, just like every night, you stretched and practiced in the empty theater. The more time progressed, the more you seemed to mess up and feed into your own disappointment which quickly turned into impatience mixed with frustration. It seemed like your legs had a mind of their own and refused to listen to you while your muscles were getting sore from the strenuous training you forced them through. 
You kept tripping over your own feet, painfully fell to your knees and sometimes managed to cushion the fall by dropping on your arms rather than your ribs. The soles of your feet ached, screaming at you to rest while a stifling soreness stretched itself throughout your muscles. But no, you couldn't stop. Not yet. Not when you were so close to perfecting the choreography, not when you were so close to feeling satisfied with the outcome. All you needed was more practice.
Sweat drenched your shirt and made your feet stick to the wooden floor in a disgusting way. But it would be worth it. The pain would pain off. You hoped. 
Stretching your arm out, you felt the pain in your shoulder, but you gave it your all nevertheless. As soon as you stood on one leg, the limb gave out below you and ruthlessly let another bruise bloom on your kneecaps. Red, blue, purple, green and yellow stained your knees. A pained groan strained your throat as you picked yourself back up again, palms red from the amount of times you had done so. It was a painful process, but you needed it. Feeling that pain was so much better than feeling the distress of the impending death as a dancer, again. 
Why couldn't you get that one move right? It was supposed to be easy and yet, you always failed over and over again. "Fuck.." You cussed underneath your heavy breath and wiped a few tears away. This was no time to cry over trivial things. The only reason why you picked up dancing again was to feel something. You had already died once and gosh was that painful. Oh, how you vowed to never die, again. 
Once more. Taking a deep breath to keep your composure under control, you kept your arms straight by your side and put your weight on your dominant leg. You were in the middle of pivoting with your chest nearly touching your upper thighs when you lost your balance and fell to your knees and elbows. This time, tears flowed, the music kept going without you. 
"To hell with it!" You yelled, threw your shoes against the wall in anger, frustration even and slid down the length of the wall. Heavy sobs rocked your body and you forgot that the vast space left an ugly echo of the disappointment you let out freely. At least, you were alone with no one to see you in such a weak moment. No one would see your tears and attempt to wipe them away. No one would tell you to cheer up and whisper sweet encouragements into your ear. 
All you needed was to let it out. 
It took you a while to calm down and find the bathroom of the theater. As you looked into the mirror, you were met with bloodshot eyes, messy hair and sticky clothes. Gazing downwards, you saw just how red your palms were and spotted a few cuts from mean splinters. Worn out, you rolled up the sleeves of your shirt and cringed at your bloody elbows, the red liquid was nearly dry and crusted around more severe bits. Just what you needed, really. 
A sigh slipped your dry lips as cold water hit your hands, the temperature somewhat soothed the ache and calmed you down until you saw how the water turned red. "No, no, no, no!" You called out, eyes brimming with new tears you didn't know you still possessed as you scrubbed your hands, forearms and elbows furiously. The minor wounds reopened, causing fresh blood to leak from the broken skin and stain the sink in an hideous crimson. 
That night, you scrubbed until it hurt. 
No song resonated with you. 
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A few nights had passed when Dazai stepped foot into the theater once again and was welcomed by the sophisticated shadow your silhouette painted on the vast wall like the finest of paintings. Compared to the shadow, you were so bright and oh-so-short. He liked the contrast. 
Silently to not disturb the flow you seemed to be in, Dazai took his seat as always and let his eyes drink in of the passionate smooth image that was you. The executive wondered just how much strength you had to possess in order to quickly switch from sleek moves to sharp ones that made your legs and chest pop. He wondered how many restless nights you had spent dancing in your room, on your own with no one to watch. He wondered why you still danced, although it seemed to be such an exhausting process. 
All these questions were answered as Dazai merely watched you. The way you got lost in the lovely melody of the piano which was akin to a day in spring and spun on stage with your hands resting right above your heart, a happy grin on your face - that was the answer. Dance was something you were good at and found joy in.
Dazai was drawn to the way your shoes squeaked against the wooden floor, how your ripped jeans hugged your legs and the adorably oversized sweater. Everything was so you that Dazai found familiarity in your presence, peace and a bit of warmth which every human so selfishly craved for. 
"It's good to see you, again." You squatted on the stage, arms hugging your shins closer to your body and as the holes in your jeans stretched, Dazai immediately noticed the nasty bruises on your knees. Seeing these stains for the first time, he wondered how hard how hard you had pushed yourself to look like you had fallen into a bucket of paint. How often had you fallen and still continued although it hurt? No doubt that the bruises still hurt at this moment, but when Dazai's eyes fell on your face, he saw nothing of the hell you had put yourself through. The smile on your reddish lips was tender, your eyes twinkled in the dim lighting and you welcomed him like he was your dear friend. 
You never complained about the bruises on your knees. 
"This sounds like you missed me, [Name]." In all honesty, a small, soft part within the brunette hoped you had missed him just like you had occupied his thoughts during his own work. For once, Dazai wanted to be missed by you, even though he had been gone for less five days. Your legs dangled off the edge of the stage, palms behind your back and supporting your weight as you nodded your head slightly. "Honestly? I did. It's not the same when you're absent, Dazai."
The mafia executive came to stand between your legs, bandaged hands resting on your hips and your doe eyes looking up at him in anticipation. His heart was so easily swayed by you and lord punish him if he would ever do anything to hurt you. "You meant what you said, didn't you? About not being able to find another audience." Ah, how were you supposed to respond? This was the first time Dazai got so close to you, touched you and it felt oddly intimate how he spoke, how he looked at you. Your heart pounded in your ribcage. "I always mean what I say, Osamu. None of them would be you." 
Dazai was nearly cautious when he tucked a few strands of your hair behind your ear as if you were to break if he was too rough with you. He so badly wanted to deny himself of you, of your presence and the mere thought of you, but humans were sinful beings who always wanted the one thing they could break, taint and corrupt. When had you made Dazai so weak for you? A foreign emotion which Dazai experienced for the possibly very first time in his lonely life and he didn't want to let go of it. Rather, he wanted to protect and treasure it in fear it'd break. But what if Dazai himself was the one to shatter whatever was going on between you and him? 
Unconsciously, Dazai cupped your cheek in his hand and caressed the skin underneath your eye - much like you had done when the man had searched for you after the nightmare he surely wouldn't forget so easily. Maybe, Dazai wanted to caress all your bruises and wounds away. "Really? I reckon you'd find an audience of much greater size." His voice was barely above a whisper while you leaned into his touch, blushing. Slender fingers tugged on Dazai's tie until the tip of your nose poked his own, your warm breath fanning over his cheeks. "If I could choose between a crowd and you, I'd always choose you, Osamu."
Dazai's lips hesitantly brushed over yours, it was like the touch of a ghost to see how you'd react and you never shied away. Instead, you took matters into your own hands and pressed your lips to Dazai's, gently at first. 
After getting over his initial shock, the executive let his eyes flutter shut while his hand now cupped the nape of your neck, thumb still on your cheek as Dazai let his lips melt into yours. It was a sweet kiss shared between two people who weren't familiar with the concept of loving someone else, but the act felt so awfully right; like one had finally found a long lost piece of a puzzle and could finally finish the picture. 
You smiled once the kiss was broken, but Dazai was quick to chase your lips and engage you in another lip lock. This time, it was firm and you let your lips melt into Dazai's with your palms on his chest to feel his heartbeat. Ah, it was just starting to calm down, you noted and smiled into the innocent kiss. 
You felt warm all over. 
"Let me watch you dance one more time."
Your response came in the form of a simple nod. 
And so, Dazai sat on down on the stage and watched you spin or fall into a half-split to your heart's content. He had no interest in dance, but he was interested in you. 
Hopefully, he would get the chance to see you during the day, as well. 
But that wish wouldn't be granted until four years later, because Odasaku died.
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Spring rolled around and cherry blossoms bloomed throughout the lively streets of Yokohama. Children's laughter filled the playgrounds with some much needed life, the sun smiled down at the city while the salty breeze of the shore cooled everyone down once in a while.
But the most important thing: The agency was as energetic as ever with Kunikida scolding Dazai for having tried to woo the waitress at Uzumaki's in an inappropriate manner. Something about needing her hands around his neck or something like that. Atsushi watched his superiors in shock and mild confusion as the scene continued. "Ah, right, I can't waste any more time on you. A client is on the way." The blonde detective brushed his palms off on his pants as though Dazai had dirtied them just by breathing. 
"Whaaat? But that means more work and even more reports!" Dazai complained and dramatically palmed his face, head leaned back to the ceiling as he dreaded the new amount of work a new client brought. Despite the brunette's constant complaints, Dazai still finished whatever was expected of him; it was Odasaku's wish he was currently living. "Quit complaining and make yourself look acceptable. You look like you just got choked." Kunikida scolded after having choked Dazai himself. 
The opening of a door went unheard as the two detectives kept arguing back and forth and was only interrupted by Atsushi greeting the client as politely as he could. He was told not to ruin the Agency's name and Atsushi was sure that Kunikida would drag him through hell and back himself if he was to mess up. "Welcome! You must be Ms. [Name], right?" Atsushi hoped you'd ignore the mess happening in the background. 
"Exactly. There's an issue and.." Gradually, you trailed off as you raised your gaze, let yourself take in the office until they landed on him. The man you thought had died due to his suicidal tendencies stood right in front of you among his colleagues. The man you had grown so deeply attached to was very much alive and still looked the same, though he had grown and matured a bit. Overall, his entire energy seemed to be a tad bit brighter. 
Your muscles froze, hands shaking as your eyes widened and silent tears rolled down your cheeks. Dazai seemed just as shocked; his gaze was deeply locked with your teary one as he too recognized you. How couldn't he recognize you? You were the first person to soothe the pain he felt even if it was only for a couple of hours. Dazai still carried the picture around. 
"U-uhm.." Atsushi was about to ask what was going on, but Kunikida stopped the rookie by putting a hand on his shoulder and leading him away from the scene. Kunikida didn't know the deal between Dazai and you, but he did know that you two obviously needed to talk about it without anyone interrupting. "Don't. You can ask him later."
"It's you Osamu, isn't it?" Hastily, you wiped your tears away once the shock wore off. How often did you wait for Dazai to come through the doors of the theater with an unreadable expression on his face? How often had you simply sat in the vast hall with Sensei in your lap instead of dancing? How often had you cried thinking that Dazai succeeded in taking his own life? "It's been a while, hasn't it, [Name]?" Dazai's expression softened upon seeing you again, although he was also scared. He never thought anyone from his past would see him ever again, and yet there you were. 
"Would you let me explain?" 
You should be angry at Dazai for leaving you behind just like that, but a bigger part of you was so relieved to see the brunette still breathing, standing in front of you with that same damn look lingering in the depths of his eyes. "You'd better." Dazai offered you his hand to take, hoping to take some of your anxiety and maybe some of his own fears, too. 
Luckily, Dazai found out you were still dancing. 
That night, he watched you once again and never stopped watching you.
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ingravinoveritas · 4 years ago
Text
Petal
(An Aziraphale/Crowley fic, inspired by these gifs of Michael Sheen as Nero. Fic is also available on AO3 here.)
----
"Mmh..."
Aziraphale inhales deeply, sighing at the decadent perfection of his surroundings. A private bath all to himself, obtained with just a gentle whisper to the guard with claims of distant relation to the Emperor, who would consider it a personal favor. Lavender oil perfumes the water, its fragrance wafting through the air, clinging to Aziraphale's porcelain skin. He'd reserved two little miracles for the occasion, the first of which ensures the temperature of the water remained just so, the heat never fading.
The second miracle is rose petals.
It's terribly indulgent and not at all becoming of a Principality, Aziraphale knows, but it hardly seems inappropriate when one is completely and entirely--
A set of footsteps pads across the marble floor, followed by a familiar voice. “Thought you were going to the Colosseum, angel.”
--alone.
Oh, God.
Aziraphale turns to face him, the sound of sloshing water echoing in the otherwise quiet chamber. He raises a hand to cover himself, false modesty as foreplay.
“Crowley. I...well, I was, but I got there and it was the children’s matinee. There was a little boy who didn’t have a ticket and I...I gave mine away.”
“You what?” Crowley doesn’t even attempt to feign surprise.
“I gave it away! It wouldn’t be right for a child to miss the show. So I, I put it in his hand and said ‘Off you pop,’ and off he...popped. Then I thought I’d just visit the baths instead! The water is quite lovely, but...well, I was given to understand this would be a private room...”
“Left a trail of denarii glued to the floor for the guard. He won’t be back for a while. Not happy to see me, mmh?”
“Oh, my dear, of course I’m happy--”
Aziraphale trails off, noticing for the first time that Crowley is nude, save for the little pair of dark glasses perched atop his nose. The steamy air clings to the fine hairs on his thighs and arse, lending his skin an unearthly glow. His cock is already half hard, curving up toward his stomach, covered in shimmering light from the reflected water.
“Well, are you just going to stand there like that?”
“Like what?” Crowley can’t keep the smirk from twisting his lips, head cocked to one side as he watches his husband grow flushed, cheeks pinking with barely-suppressed arousal.
“Like grand obscenity made flesh, that’s what.”
Crowley rakes his gaze up and down Aziraphale’s naked form, eye-fucking him over the rim of his glasses.
“Oh, me, obscene? What about you?”
“I am more than appropriately attired for these quarters--”
“Rose petals, angel. Perfectly scattered about the surface, without wilting. It’s almost...miraculous.”
Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Barely counts as a miracle, really...”
“Your arse,” Crowley continues, stepping one foot into the bath. “I saw it when I walked in. You pretended it was hidden under the water, as if you weren’t showing it off. The curve of your back, the lines on your shoulders...” He can’t mention the wings, tongue choked and swollen at the thought of even describing their indescribable ethereal beauty unfurled.
Crowley steps the other foot in, advancing slowly on Aziraphale like a shark toward prey. The water jostles with every word he speaks, breaking on the shores of Aziraphale’s body, and the angel shifts until the backs of his thighs press against the cool tile.
“Drops of water sliding over your arms. Your chest. Your hipsss. You, Aziraphale. Every blessed thing about you. You look like sin incarnate.”
Crowley stops moving when their mouths are a hairsbreadth apart, the tip of his long tongue darting out to trace the bow of Aziraphale’s lips.
“Oh...kiss me, dear. Won’t you?”
Crowley draws a hand down Aziraphale’s chest, pinching dusky pink nipples into hard peaks, making him gasp. Nimble fingers wrap around the admirable Effort he finds between Aziraphale’s legs, hard and aching.
“Was planning on doing a bit more than that...”
“Here? In the baths? What if someone sees?”
They’ve played this scene a hundred times and still Aziraphale manages to sound convincingly scandalized, even as he’s arching into Crowley’s grasp. His eyes flutter closed and open, long eyelashes lowering to the demon's lips as they kiss, sweet and urgently filthy all at once.
“Don’t worry, angel.” Aziraphale squeals as Crowley lifts his legs and throws them around his slim waist, grinding their cocks together beneath the water.
“If someone comes in, I’ll cover you with rose petals.”
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bleachanimefan1 · 4 years ago
Text
Oblitus Part Eleven
Down In New Orleans
A tall demon strolled over to Valentino handing him an pack full of ice. He took a seat across from the overlord, sitting down in an very expensive leather chair. He was an overlord as well who was slim in figure. His head was a flat screen TV. He was wearing a striped tuxedo and black and red striped shirt with light blue ascot with a Wi-Fi symbol and a red bow tie. He was also wearing a small black top hat with antennas sticking out of it with a Wi-Fi design on it, in red and blue. Vox.
Jagged red and neon blue eyes on the screen stared at Valentino, as the demon sulked, who was watching the Television that was mounted on the wall. It showed his Studio completely destroyed, blown to bits, demolished.
 Valentino groaned as he took it from him removing his hand from his bruised eye. Valentino hissed in pain as placed the cool pack on his eye.
The pimp was sitting on the couch with an ice pack on his bruised eye, along with Velvet, who was holding her severed arm. Vox couldn't contain it anymore.
"What the Fuck happened to you two?!" He exclaimed as he nearly doubled over, howling in laughter.
Velvet narrowed her eyes glaring at the TV demon.
"It's that radio bastard fault!" She growled. "Look what he did to me!"
 Vox stared at her with an amused smile on his face as if it wasn't enough adding more insult to injury. "What are you whining for? It'll grow back." He replied. 
"You're not the one holding an missing arm! This is going to hurt like hell!" The harlequin minion whined. Vox rolled his eyes. 
"What did you two do to piss Alastor off?" Vox questioned. "You've must've really done something to set him off."
"There's some new dame who's under a contract with him." Valentino said looking at the TV demon as he removed the ice pack from his eye. Velvet scoffed. 
"Why he would put up with a human woman, hell if I know, that's for sure?" She replied, shrugging her shoulders, as she slumped further on the couch.
Vox's eyes widen. Since when has Alastor ever been interested in just one woman? Especially, a human one at that, a weak pathetic creature?  Gears began to form in the TV demon's brain as he tried to process this. A light bulb flashed as a plan was starting to form. Perhaps he could use this to his advantage. Vox chuckled devilishly and smirked with a wide malicious grin across his screen. He leaned forward in his chair with his hands clasped together.
"Tell me more."
 Angel, Cherri, and Anna returned back to the hotel with Alastor. As soon as Angel opened the door walking inside with Alastor on his back, with Anna and Cherri behind him, Charlie was standing in front of the group with Vaggie beside her. 
 "Hey Blondie, what's up?" Angel asked. Charlie didn't answer him as she pulled out her Hellphone holding it out to them, showing Valentino's Studio in ruins.
 "What did you guys do?! You're all over the news!" She exclaimed furiously.
 "We'll explain it later, princess. Right now, Smiles needs attention." Angel said.
 "What the hell is with all this commotion? I've got a huge hang over so this had better be good!" Husk shouted walking over towards the group along with Niffty. The cat demon frowned as he noticed Alastor. "What the fuck happened to him?"
Angel explained everything to everyone how Valentino captured him, and how Anna, Alastor and Cherri had rescued him. 
"Smiles got hit with an angel's weapon. He's hurt bad." The spider demon tells them.
"Take Al to his room and we'll be up to help once we get some medical supplies." Charlie said. Niffty walked over to Anna.
 "But, first lets fix you up!" She shouted.
Before Anna could protest, the cyclops had quickly darted and started spinning around the human like a tornado until she stopped and was now standing in front of her. Anna looked down to see that her favorite shirt was now stitched up with no rips along with her blue jeans in one piece as well, looking brand new. Anna smiled as she looked down at the cyclops demon.
"Thanks."  She said, gratefully.
"Always willing to lend a helping hand to a friend of Alastor's, especially to a friend of mine!" Niffty grinned. 
Angel took Alastor upstairs with Anna following behind him leading her to the radio demon's room. The spider opened the door and Anna peeked inside. Her eyes widen in shock to see a swamp right in front of her and within the distance a wood cabin. Fireflies glowed in the dark as if lighting the way. The two stepped inside stepping into the muddy ground and Angel closed the door behind them and headed towards the cabin. Anna eyed the murky water carefully seeing seeing several alligators swimming in it. They were watching the two with a hungry look in their eyes as they advanced towards Alastor's cabin.
"How can we be outside while we're inside the hotel?" Anna questioned. Angel shrugged.
"Hell if I know? Smiles is the one who set it up like this. He probably did some voo doo or whatever you call it magic as a portal to his domain." The spider demon murmured. "Knowing him and his strange ways, that's probably what he did."
The two continued until they were arriving closer towards the cabin and reached the front door. Angel opened it and the two walked into the cabin. Anna looked around and saw some deer trophies mounted on the wall along with antlers. A small bed sat near a window next to a bookcase stacked with books on every shelf. A burnt out fireplace was sitting in the middle of the room. There were several photos sitting on the mantel.
Anna walked closer and she saw that there were of a man. Big almond brown doe eyes were staring back into hers, who wearing small round rimmed glasses. He had light brown skin and short brown hair but it looked as if it was difficult to manage. But, what really draw the human woman's attention was the man's unnatural smile, grinning back up at her.
Anna's eyes widen when she recognized who it was in the picture, Alastor.
He looked completely different than he was now, a human. Anna saw that there were some when he was younger and also some with him with a beautiful woman with him. She had light caramel skin and dark brown hair that was up in a bun with a few loose strands hanging on the sides of her face, wearing a bright red dress. His mom perhaps?
However, Anna noticed there was a frame face down. She picked it up and looked down at the picture. It was a family portrait of her and Alastor along with a tall white man who was standing behind them. His head was torn off from the picture. His father, maybe? Why was this picture face down and not standing with the others? Anna noticed that there was something wrong, Alastor and the woman weren't smiling. Anna slowly began to feel uneasy by the photo and she placed the frame back exactly where it was.
Angel walked over to the bed and laid Alastor down onto it as the woman looked silently at the picture. 
 "I'm going to start a fire to help warm up the place. I'll go look for some wood, watch over him will ya?" The spider called out.
"Sure." Anna replied, still looking at the picture. "I'll get him cleaned up."
She heard the door close behind her as Angel left, leaving her and Alastor alone in the cabin. Anna walked out of the living room and quickly into a small kitchen. She opened a cupboard and grabbed a bowl filling it with water and some towels. As she walked back into the living room, Anna saw Alastor stirring in the bed. 
She quickly rushed over him and placed the bowl on the floor. Anna reached out and placed her hand Alastor's forehead to feel it completely hot. He was burning with a fever. She dampened the towel into the water and started to clean the dried blood off from the demon.
As she finished, cleaning some of the blood off from his face, she looked down at the caked blood near his stomach. She needed to take his suit off to clean the wound. Anna felt her cheeks began to burn. Okay, she can do this! It's not like he was going to be naked, only half naked from the waist up. She felt her face lit completely up turning completely red. That did not make her feel any better...
"Just do it quick like a band-aid and it will be over with!" Anna murmured to herself as she reached out grabbing the lapels of Alastor's coat. She carefully pulled the collar down slightly until sliding his suit completely off. She folded it and placed the coat on the floor then turned her attention towards Alastor's shirt. She slowly began to unbutton each button one by one. Anna's eyes widen and her breath hitched as it got caught in her throat. She gasped in shock.
On Alastor's chest and body, up to his neck, was completely riddled in scars.
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askthewitchlady · 5 years ago
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A little Light of...
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It was a cool calm morning…
Well as much as any morning could be cool or calm in hell. Had he waited all night? Watching the light beginning to drift in through the stained glass of the door Alastor realized that, yes, he had in fact sat there watching the door all night… waiting.
Waiting for what?
What else, or rather who. Because in fact it was a who. The same vexing who that dominated his thoughts with his laughter, his dreams with his lithe body, his blood with a raw carnal hunger and need to posses.
He damned the spider demon even as he wanted him. Alastor was not a man of strong attachments. In life the only two people he had loved had been stolen away to early, his sweet gentle mother, and Mimzy his first and only real friend when he had moved to New Orleans.
Coming to hell, manifesting power beyond his wildest imaginings? It gave him all the more reason to not create connections… then there was Niffty, then there was Husker, and as time passed he saw on a picture show, the cheerful princess who would soon be yet another dear friend. None of it had been expected, but Angel Dust? Well he had been actively avoided! How could he have be so stupid?
Developing a fondness for that demon was silly, and all the worse a whore and a porn star…
Alastor rubbed his temple trying to stave off a building headache. One ear flicked the puff of hair and fur turning towards the door, he could hear the tell tale click of heels on cobble stones.  He was already standing,  He would reprimand Angel for being out all night and then- He never got to finish the thought as the door open and Angel Dust fell forward into the hotel.  Alastor moved quickly catching the slim figure almost staggering, not because the other was heavy but the awkward and sudden dead weight of him. "What in the nine…" he muttered shifting his hold on the spider demon one arm around his top most shoulders the other under his knees he lifted angel dust, shadows crept up enveloping them both, then just as quickly fell away leaving them in his personal rooms. Alastor carried Angel Dust to the thick couch, setting him down carefully.  Alastors smile almost faltered staring at the blood smeared on his hands,  it was hardly the first time and wouldn't be the last but this blood bothered him… he didn't like it. Angel Dust groaned drawling Alastors attention as he shifted on the couch on hand going to his head, the other tugging away the black ribbon he always had around his neck, the bruising beneath Sent a cold anger through the deer. "Angel Dust?" he asked simply, the spider moved eyes opening slowly as he looked up to Alastor blushing faintly
"A-al? Fuck…" his voice was a strained wheeze of pain as he touched his throat brows knitting,  it hurt him to talk, that much was obvious but what had happened.  Letting out a sigh Alastor snapped his fingers a chair manifesting beside the couch. He settled and reached out before angel could speak again covering his mouth "Don't, it'll just hurt you and I need to focus." He said firmly His eyes locking on the spider who after a brief moment of fear nodded slightly and closed his eyes relaxing as much as he could. Satisfied Alastor removed his hand from the spiders mouth and began his work.  
He had studied all aspect of his chosen magic's but healing wasn't really one he had used often, not for himself and certainly not for others.  So he worked quietly his focus entirely on healing the wounded demon.  The damage was far worse than he had initially seen and it required a lot of delicate work, from sealing internal wounds caused by magic, or setting the snapped elbow on his fourth arm,  Alastor worked meticulously repairing all the damage.
He had no sense of time as he worked  focusing on the detailed healing Angel Dust needed until finally the last of the cuts across the white skin sealed and he sagged back against the chair head back eyes closed his smile faint simply due to exhaustion.
He could hear angel shifting on the couch, probably sitting up, probably getting ready to leave, "Al?" the voice was soft and careful "Can you not be quiet for one moment and let me rest?" the radio demon asked with a half chuckle as he peeked and eye open to glance at Angel Dust who was sitting up and watching him with… worry?  Well that was new.  He sat forward and studied the spider silently a moment before gesturing
"Well, are you going to tell me what happened?" he asked calmly as Angel Dust squirmed under his gaze before finally sighing "Y-yeah…  Look I… You know I've been tryna go clean right? Followin Charlie's rules, I stopped the drugs, hell even made it through the shitty withdrawals, My heads clearer then it's been in years!" he exclaimed Alastor nodded more than a little surprised "I knew you had been cutting back, I hadn't realized you'd quit completely." He said quietly impressed with Angel Dusts resolve. "Heh yeah I know right, whoda thought it… but, well Charlie, and Vaggie, heck even Niffty they all think… they think I'm worth more than just bein a hooker for some cheap blow you know?  They… they make me wanna be me again." He admitted scratching the back of his head nervously Alastor nodded "That’s fair but what does any of this have to do with your condition?" he asked calmly Angel Dust blushed "I-I'm getting there… a-anyway havin a clear head means I was really thinkin… ya know about… my life and… well death and this…  Everything Charlie keeps saying and, things Molls had told me all my life." He murmured running a hand down his face before mumbling something Alastor didn't hear. "Angel I'm adept at many things but I can't read your mind." He pointed out with a chuckle.
"I quit my job… I… I'm not gonna… do anymore porn… o-or take any 'clients'." Angel Dust said looking away it took a moment for Alastor to process that, Angel had quit… angel had…. Quit.  As in he had approached Valentino, the dirty little louse and told him 'no'  Well his injuries certainly made sense now.
"I take it it didn't go well?" he said calmly though inside he was boiling, no more raging a hot volcano of rage that demanded blood!  Angel Dust managed a laugh
"Not, really,  I thought it did at first he seemed surprisingly amenable,  he was going on about how the last two shoots hadn't been my best work and how Porn just wasn't good if the players weren't into it." He said rubbing his arm "He suggested we have a last drink at least even made coffee he said I probably didn't feel comfortable getting drunk with him, and I didn't… But… Fuck… I should have known better I really should have… but a… I wanted… Maybe one last good time?  Not sex, not money just a quiet moment like we used to have." He said  Alastor tilted his head curiously and nodded quietly urging Angel Dust to continue. "Look it's not secret I'm not the strongest demon out there,  I've got my skills and I had what I learned in life but when you first die, you wake up here you see what you are, well a cotton candy Pussy like me was done from the get go.  Valentino found me, took me in, he taught me about hell Al, and for a while it was great, It was almost like bein alive again, He said he was cool with an open relationship if I wanted it, hey it's hell Baby who gives a shit… but I was his I'd always come home to him." He explained frowning as he rubbed his arm a bit more Alastor was surprised to find himself reaching out, he stopped half way and drew back sharply, angel dust wasn't looking at him and didn't see the motion thankfully.
"So with those stupid ideas I had coffee with him…. Bastard drugged me,  I don't know when I watched him the whole fucking time I swear I did!, next think I knew everything was going fuzzy and he's saying shit like Charlie and everyone here's just using me as an experiment, to see if the hotel idea would even work.  How I was an easy mark.  Well known enough that if I turned everyone would know, but dumb enough not to know they were just using me… shit like that,  I'm trying to tell him he's wrong as he just pushin my clothes off and tellin me he cares, Lying through his stupid ugly teeth." He said shuddering harder he hugged himself head bowed and this time Alastor didn't stop himself from reaching out, Clawed hand gently resting on Angels head stroking through his soft white hair, any other time he might have marveled at just How soft it was.
"Angel Dust,  Did he-" he was cut off as the spiders hands came up and held his hand in place he was shaking, pale body quivering under his touch. "I don't want to hear it… I know… you're probably thinking what he did.  I'm a whore what's the difference it's all just sex, b-but… but I have the… I… I deserve…"  the demon choked. He was crying and Alastor almost floundered he didn't do well with tears, the vulnerability they showed!  He hadn't cried once since his death and in fact had not cried much in life. "I don't… I don't think that." He said finally thinking of something to say.  Angel tensed under his hand before slowly looking up eye red rimmed as he stared at Alastors face looking for… something, The radio demon wasn't sure what. "I don't think that at all Angel Dust… I may not be fond of the act myself, but I understand it is a very personal thing.  Even for you, just because you do it more frequently doesn't make it less so, your still allowing someone inside you…" Was he blushing?  He felt like he might be… shit… "T-the point is,  it's… you… There are rules… even here in hell." He coughed out finally glancing away, fuck.  He was not an awkward man but discussing the emotional intimacy and vulnerability of Sex was hardly easy even for him… maybe especially for him. "You may be a … or where a prostitute but that doesn't mean you don't get to say 'no'." he said finally looking back at Angel who was giving him a small smile.  Alastor quickly pulled his hand back and stood striding across the room and opened a cabinet pulling out a decanter and a heavy crystal glass. "I trust abstaining from drugs doesn't mean you adverse to a brandy to steel your nerves." He said quickly as he fought to regain his mental balance turning, glass in hand he walked over and passed it to angel who took it with a murmured thank you before tossing it back like a champ…  Alastor tried not to be annoyed by the waste of a good brandy, such things really should be savored but, he'd stay close lipped about it for now.
"Thanks Al, For everything, I'm sorry I took up so much of your time I know you got… whoa." Angel Dust wavered when he tried to stand instantly flopping right back down onto the couch.  Alastor sighed pushing the demon back to a laying position
"Just rest for now, you lost a lot of blood,  I have work to do but I don't mind you staying here.  Would you be more comfortable on the bed?" he asked simply Angel Dust blushed at that shaking his head quickly and instantly regretting it,
"N-nah this is fine… a-are you sure?" he asked making the other demon chuckle
"Now now do I ever come across as someone who makes an offer he's not sure about?" he asked calmly the other demon inclined his head, Alastor had a good point.  The radio demon moved back and in a smooth motion whipped a blanket from his bed and draped it over angel dust and moved to carefully slip off his boots. "Y-ya don't have to do that!" Angel dust squawked embarrassed, Alastor only chuckled. "What are you saying I don't want muddy boots on my furniture." He said simply setting them beside the end of the couch and waving a hand the light dimming as long legged strides carried him to the door he opened it before pausing glancing back over his shoulder and grinning for a moment angel Dust would swear his eyes where glowing. "Now as I said, you rest, I have work to attend to.  I'll have Niffty come check on you in a couple hours.  If you're not still on that couch I'll be cross." He said simply before shutting the door.  Leaning against it he rubbed his temple with two fingers, he had no doubt angel would listen to his order, he was just tired from the healing,  He needed to eat… And wasn't it so wonderful of Valentino to offer himself up as a much needed meal…  Humming lightly to himself Alastor walked along the hall imagining what different lovely dishes he could make.
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renywrites · 5 years ago
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How about the ineffable husbands finding out about Beelzebub and Gabriel’s relationship? :D
This was honestly so much fun to write, I hope you like it!
*
“Are you kidding, angel?” Crowley snorts into his drink, lounging lazily on the sofa in the middle of Aziraphale’s beloved bookshop. “Beelzebub would smite him before he even got close to her.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” The angel hums, shelving a couple books he had almost lost to a potential buyer that afternoon. Of course, Crowley had interfered and scared the boy away with his antics. 
“You’re out of your mind.” The demon snorts, tipping back the last of his drink and wiping a hand over his mouth. “Lord Beelzebub loves nothing and no one. Well, except maybe those damned flies.”
“I never said anything about love, my dear.” Aziraphale chuckles, shaking his head and going over. He nudges Crowley’s legs, sitting down beside him and sighing when his lover sets his gangly limbs into his lap. 
Crowley considers this. “Well… I guess they’d probably be fucking. That seems more likely. Hypocrites, the lot of them.”
“What else are you expecting, my love?” He sighs heavily, patting his legs. 
“S’pose you’re right, angel.”
*
One afternoon, Crowley comes hurtling into the bookshop like, pardon the irony, a bat out of Hell. He slams the door, jostling the poor little bell, and leans against the door. He looks as though he’d seen Jesus Christ in the flesh.
“Aziraphale!” He hisses when the angel pops his head around a bookshelf to see what the commotion was all about, a reprimand on his lips. 
“Really, Crowley, must we go over the slamming doors lecture every month?” A very put out angel sighs. 
“Forget the door, angel!” He rushes over, hovering over Aziraphale as he leans up on his tiptoes to pull a book down from the shelf. 
“How am I supposed to forget every time I have to replace a glass pane or a chipped bell?” He huffs, shaking his head and reaching for another book. 
Before he can grab it, the demon grabs him by the wrist and whirls him around. The books tumble to the floor. Aziraphale’s eyes widen as he’s pressed back against the shelves. “Really, dear, at least let me close up shop…”
“No, I- Angel! This is important!” 
“Oh, alright then, what is it?”
“I saw Gabriel kiss Beelzebub.” He hisses, his eyes glinting intensely behind the rims of his glasses, which had been knocked askew in his desperation to get his angel’s attention.
“You…” The angel takes a moment, letting this all sink in. “What?”
“In the park!” Crowley stresses, shaking him by the arms. “By the duck pond!”
“Alright, okay! I believe you, dear, you don’t need to shake the life from me.”
The demon releases him, brushing his suit off sheepishly. “Sorry…”
“Are you absolutely sure that you saw them and not another couple who looked similar to them?” Aziraphale says carefully, noting the crazed look in his lover’s eyes.
“No, I- Oh, bugger it all.” He hisses, snapping his fingers. Instantly the shop begins to close itself. “Come with me, you’ll have to see this yourself.”
Crowley whisks Aziraphale off to the park with him, back to their normal bench. “There!” He hisses, pointing to a couple a few hundred yards away. 
Sure enough, it was the infamous Archangel and the Prince of Hell herself. They were leaning against the railing, watching the ducks. 
Gabriel was bent forward slightly so he could talk to her easier, his hands shoved in his pockets and the button of his suit jacket undone. Beelzebub was lounging against the railing, peering down at the pond and talking to him. She had forgone her usual attire for one of his dark grey shirts tucked haphazardly into a pair of worn out black jeans, her hair piled onto her head and stuck through with what looked to be a thin knife.
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, his eyes as wide as saucers. He leans forward to get a better view, but Crowley yanks him back. 
“They’ll see you!” He whispers fiercely. “We have to be sneaky…”
“Right, of course.” 
*
“Oh, look, the biggest idiots in all of Soho have finally noticed.” Gabriel snorts, setting his hand on the railing beside Beelzebub’s arm, trapping her with his body. 
She hums, sliding her gaze over to them before turning around and looking up at him, giving him a wicked smile. Her slim fingers wind around his tie, effectively wrinkling it. “Shall we give them a show.”
“You drive a hard bargain.” Gabriel teases, just before he’s tugged down sharply into a surprisingly gentle kiss. Beelzebub lifts her free hand, flipping off the pair not-so-secretly watching them.
That ought to get their point across.
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citylightsbooks · 5 years ago
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5 Questions with Megan Fernandes, Author of Good Boys
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Megan Fernandes is a writer and academic living in New York City. She is the author of The Kingdom and After (Tightrope Books 2015) and the new book of poems, Good Boys (published by Tin House). Her work has been published or is forthcoming in the New Yorker, Tin House, Ploughshares, Denver Quarterly, Chicago Review, Boston Review, Rattle, Pank, the Common, Guernica, the Academy of American Poets, and McSweeney's Internet Tendency, among others. She is a poetry reader for The Rumpus and an Assistant Professor of English at Lafayette College. She holds a PhD in English from the University of California, Santa Barbara and an MFA in poetry from Boston University. She reads from her new book Good Boys with special guests at City Lights Bookstore on Tuesday, February 25th.
***
City Lights: If you’ve been to City Lights before, what’s your memory of the visit? If you haven’t been here before, what are you expecting?
Megan Fernandes: Of all the places I’m reading this Spring (and it’s probably not politic to say this), I am most excited to read at City Lights. I’ve never been, but I understood at a very young age that the bookstore symbolized possibility, spontaneity, digression, lostness, community, etc. As a teenager, I read a lot of Beat literature, my favorites being Dharma Bums, In the Night Caf��, and everything Ginsberg. I was compelled by their portraits of America’s expansiveness. And I also just think as an immigrant kid not born in the USA, the Beats gave me some sense of American geography. I went to Colorado for the first time last year and I had this memory of my first impression of Colorado as a place described in On the Road. When traveling across the country, I often have Ferlinghetti’s feverish, twitchy, carnivalesque poetics in my head. I also think in this indirect way, Beat literature shaped some of my thoughts around feminist thinking as I was conscious of my orientation as outside certain privileges of the “male, womanizing adventurer” often romanticized in Beat lit. I had to interrogate what it meant to feel intimacies with Ginsberg and Duncan who were destabilizing masculinities and cultural logics of hate. 
And so what I learned from City Lights and Beat lit is really something about the relationship between myth-making and counter-culture communities. I’m understanding the truly expansive network of the movement in so much more detail right now while reading an advanced copy of a fabulous new book called The Beats: A Literary History by Steven Belletto. 
What are you reading right now?
I’m reading a book called Dapper Dan: Made in Harlem, co-written by Dapper Dan himself and my good friend, Mikael Awake. It’s a history of Dapper Dan’s iconic work in fashion, of course, while being really intimate. And it’s just as much a history of his family’s internal dynamics and, through his family, New York City at large. In particular, 1970’s NYC is so vividly, brilliantly wrought in this book.
There’s this one section where Dap is at Iona College at a lecture on protohistory and the professor, a Czech immigrant, tells the class that “In order for man to have survived during those ancient times… he must have had powers that he doesn’t have now. The only people that could possibly still have these powers today are the black and brown people on the planet” and when Dap hears this, he is transfixed. He says: “This is one of the most esteemed scholars at Iona College telling a packed lecture hall that black and brown people were the only ones on the planet who still had spiritual powers. How come this was my first time hearing about that? I looked around. I was the only black student in the class. I wasn’t tired anymore. He had my full attention… I said to myself, This is what I need to know. This is how I need to formulate myself.” I’m loving how the book captures these intense moments of transformation. I love that word choice: formulate. What poetic agency is modeled in that word? I needed that word the moment I read it. 
Recently, I’ve also read Samiya Bashir’s Field Theories and Edgar Kunz’s Tap Out. Samiya wrote this legitimately weird and imaginative book that feels like it’s made out of the time-space continuum. Some cosmic materiality is really showing up in that book. I remember this line: “A body. A zoo. A lovely savannah. Walls of clear, clean glass” and I’m just on a ride with the musicality of her shifting assonance. Plus, I know that writers like June Jordan and Toni Cade Bambara are operating influences/specters of the book and you can feel that energy. Edgar’s book is more narrative and quieter, but so devastating. I sort of get what makes his speakers tenderize if that makes sense. I think it’s the same phenomena that tenderizes me, too.
Some of my favorite novels of recent years includes A Questionable Shape by Bennett Sims, The Small Backs of Children by Lidia Yuknavitch, Sonora by Hannah Lillith Assadi, and very recently, The Nickel Boys by Colson Whitehead.
What book or writer do you always find yourself recommending?
I think Jean Toomer’s Cane is the most beautiful book of the 20th century. I remember just being blown away by its call and response, the repeating imagery of sun and smoke and pines. That book is so stunning. Other astounding work that I always recommend includes Mebvh McGuckian’s Captain Lavender, Anne Carson’s The Autobiography of Red, Evie Shockley’s The New Black, Franz Wright’s Walking to Martha’s Vineyard, Eleni Sikelianos’ Body Clock, Jorie Graham’s The Errancy, Bhanu Kapil’s The Vertical Interrogation of Strangers, The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats, and Galway Kinnell and Hannah Liebmann’s translations of Rilke. Those are my hard-hitters. Those books are why I became a poet. 
What writers/artists/people do you find the most influential to the writing of this book and/or your writing in general?
You know, I collected poems while I was writing and editing this book. And I think those specific poems created a kind of constellation around me, almost protective, that kept me writing. Some of those poems include “The Long Recovery” by Ellen Bass, “A Matter of Balance,” by Evie Shockley, “What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why” by Edna St. Vincent Millay, “I am Not Seaworthy” by Toni Morrison, “Becoming Regardless” by Jack Spicer, “A New Bride Almost Visible in Latin” by Jack Gilbert, “To the Young Who Want to Die” by Gwendolyn Brooks and many, many others. Definitely O’Hara as well. He never leaves me. The most important poem of that little self-curated archive is Frank Bidart’s “Visions at 74” where he writes: “To love existence / is to love what is indifferent to you.” I remember reading that line and just losing it. I have been guided by so much of Bidart. And maybe my book is a little bit about how to sustain rage in the face of that which is indifferent to you, what cannot love you (both personally and abstractly). How do you sustain rage so as to not fall into despair?
I also listened to a variety of music while writing and editing. A mix between contemporary sad kid hip-hop, old school jazz and blues, gospel, 80’s bands, pop culture queens, 1970’s hypnotic modal vamp, classical Spanish guitar, electronic pop, really pretty varied. A few names that come to mind: KOTA the Friend, NoName, Vince Staples, Travis Scott, Miles Davis Quintet, Bessie Smith, Sam Cooke, The Knocks, Solange, Archie Shepp, Pharoah Sanders, Alice Coltrane, Big Mama Thornton, Miriam Makeba, Kamasi Washington, Thompson Twins, Misfits, Bowie, Talking Heads, Tears for Fears, Cher, Whitney Houston, Portishead, Goldfrapp, Memphis Slim, Dinah Washington, Alberto Iglesias, Gustavo Santaolalla, Holychild, Blood Orange, etc.
If you opened a bookstore, where would it be located, what would it be called, and what would your bestseller be?
My grandpa played violin on a ship that sailed between Tanga, Tanzania and Goa, India. I never had the chance to meet him. He died when my dad was sixteen, but I always thought about what that journey might have looked and felt like, its many hardships, but also the wonder of gazing out at the sea playing strings. For that reason, I’d love to open a bookstore that focused specifically on Indian Ocean diaspora and sold books exclusively by authors working, uncovering, or investigating the literature of that oceanic rim. I think there is something rich in thinking about books not necessarily focused on nation-statehood but thinking more about a kind of social-imaginary with a literature that is messy in its conceptualization and crosses, migrates, misses, and mythologizes across many cultures over generations. You could have sections on food, underwater exploration, piracy, long-distance intimacy, trade routes, empire, transnational feminism. I like the idea of a bookstore that is anti-genre and instead, organized by associative thinking and imagination. It would be a logistical nightmare. You would never find what you were looking for, but you might find something you didn’t know existed.
So yes, I’d vote for a little homegrown network of bookstores in India, East Africa, and actually, maybe one of them in Lisbon which is a city that has a long (and problematic) history with the Indian Ocean. I’ve spent a lot of time in Lisbon the past eight years of my life, spending time visiting family and researching the history of the Portuguese empire especially as it relates to my family history (my folks are third generation East African Portuguese colonized Indians). I have a lot of conflicting homelands which is a way of saying that there are times when I feel like I have nothing but a rootless present. That’s something I investigate in my work, that weird (a)temporality. And I’m drawn to the particular light of Lisbon which is quite unusual. I’d call the bookstore “Malaika” which means “Angel” in Swahili and is the favorite folk song of my parents who grew up in Tanzania. I like the idea of a bookstore in Lisbon with the name in Swahili run by a Goan-Canadian-American woman. That’s the world I grew up in… one of multiplicities. 
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