#probably gets phantom itches too

[sun-snatcher]

Phantom Pains; Maedhros the Tall ✨

[delusionsofgrandeur13]

pt. 2

you just saw your ex boyfriend, dick grayson, for the first time since he broke up with you.

you ran into him on the street.

no, like, literally ran into him.

you were walking your mom’s dog for her, a german shepherd she got when you moved out. she’d aptly named him trouble. despite his name, trouble was usually a mellow guy, even if he was huge. walking him was just another thing you were doing to try and ignore the thoughts constantly pounding out a beat in your head.

oh, dick would think this is funny! that’s dick’s favorite color, i should buy it! dick and i should go there on our next date!

and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on and-

anyways, you were definitely trying to keep yourself busy.

any time a memory popped up in your brain of him—

laughing at your jokes, holding you close while you fell asleep, kissing your neck while he thrust into you

—you’d empty the dishwasher, paint your nails, (any color but blue) turn on reality tv, read a book, stuff your face, whatever.

anything to stop fucking thinking about him and his stupid blue eyes and his dumb smile.

you’d been been watching the news, sprawled across the couch. just the regular gotham news: don’t use main street, mr. freeze’s ray iced out the pavement. the iceberg lounge had been raided by the police for the third time this month. the justice league defeated yet another extraterrestrial threat to humanity, blah, blah, blah. you weren’t really watching. the news program ended, and the next one started. a gotham gossip show. they were doing a special segment on the wayne family.

of course they fucking were. even your tv was conspiring against you. you had to resist the urge to chuck the remote at it.

you turned it off instead, heading to your room to get ready for a run.

(running for exercise or running from your thoughts?)

your mom had asked you to take trouble right before you’d walked out the door, and so you grabbed him and his leash and headed out. you’d forgotten the bags for his poop, but you didn’t think you would be out that long, so you just kept on going.

you were wearing the leggings dick had bought you, ones he joked should be a specific blue color. you hadn’t understood then, but you more than understood now. it was warmer, and so you just had on an old sports bra on top, and some converse.

you were not the athletic type. that was dick. probably still was. you wouldn’t really know.

you hadn’t talked since it happened, like three or four weeks ago.

time had become a little fuzzy. your mom said you could stay with her as long as you needed, but you were starting to get the itch to move out.

nothing against your mom, it’s just hard to sob really loudly into a pint of ice cream when she’s there.

and she keeps trying to wash the one shirt of dick’s you still have. you know, fully well, how dumb it is, (and a little gross) but you’re still wearing his shirt every night to bed. and maybe it’s all in your head, but it still smells like him. you aren’t ready to wash it. besides, now that you’re sleeping by yourself, you’re pretty sure it’s helping you fall asleep. something that was hard to do the first few nights without your big warm boyfriend next to you in bed.

it probably isn’t good for you, to keep wearing his shirt.

you’d had your hand between your thighs more than once late at night thinking about being enveloped in his scent. your nights were haunted with thoughts of his body over yours, his phantom voice in your ear. calling you angel, asking you if this was heaven, like the last time you’d had sex.

it definitely isn’t good for you.

but neither is life without dick grayson.

you try not to dwell on the fact that dick had given you a sort of non-reason for the breakup. sure, it got lonely sometimes, or you got anxious for your masked boyfriend, so you cried. so what if your patience wore thin after a few too many “i’m sorry, angel, i can’t make it this time”-s.

you were human!

but you’d never, never once complained about his absence or his commitments to his family.

never.

he’d just assumed you were silently suffering and it really irked you if you thought about it for too long. you still weren’t sure if you were mad at him or sad, or whatever. it felt like your brain couldn’t decide on an emotion so you just got twelve at once. but what you did know for sure was that he was 110% worth it to you. you just wish he’d realize that. see that. instead of just the times you were a little emotionally strung out. your ex boyfriend was too willing to sacrifice his own mental health for the sake of yours and you were sick of it. but you didn’t know if you had the courage to say that to him. or even see him, after the way this breakup had hit you.

your friends had managed to get you out of the house, a few times now.

you’d gotten almost too drunk every time, escaping your friends and going outside to get some air. this time, you saw a guy that looked just enough like dick, and it’d all been too much. so you got out of there. you sat yourself down on the curb, looking up at the hazy rooftops. you were always looking up. always.

and since the break up, you’d noticed the vigilantes of your city more often. maybe there was more criminal activity. maybe you were just paying more attention than you used to.

you’d seen spoiler and orphan, pounding the pavement behind you to run after some seedy looking guy holding a briefcase. you think spoiler tried to high five you on the way past, but there was no way. you wrote it off as your memory embellishing things.

you were pretty sure red hood had nodded at you before disappearing down a fire escape on the other side of the building.

your mom had recently gotten a delivery of security cameras for her house. but she hadn’t ordered them. the shipping address had only the address of some warehouse on the dock, the name just, ‘R.R.’ you’d set the cameras up, but you and your mom both were still baffled about it.

and here, sitting on the curb, you were staring at what looked like a dark figure crouched on the rooftop opposite. they’d been there when you’d entered the club, too.

you squinted, trying to make out shoulders and suit colors, when they stood up, and the light bounced off his shiny cowl.

fucking batman?

you shook your head, trying to shake your drunk brain like an etch-a-sketch. there was actually no way.

a smaller figure, one you hadn’t seen behind the shape of batman (!?) pulled a weapon, a gleaming silver sword, and pointed it at you. your head spun. batman (there was no way) shook his head at robin. he sheathed his sword, throwing his hands up in what looked like annoyance. you blinked, and they were gone.

you weren’t really sure if it had happened or not. you’d been trying not to think too hard about the fact that you still hadn’t seen nightwing. you’d really been trying.

so instead, you were walking your mom’s dog.

trouble had, in fact, pooped, and you were frantically looking around for something to pick it up with. gotham was already shitty enough without the addition of, well, literal shit. the streets were busy, but not crowded, and someone down the block whistled for a cab, catching your attention. you turned, and at the same time, trouble jerked your arm, pulling you backwards into someone walking on the sidewalk. the stranger made a choked sound.

“trouble??”

your heart stopped. you held your breath, turning around.

trouble was at attention, looking up at your ex-boyfriend with his head cocked.

dick’s eyes were wide. his hair shorter than you remember. he leaned down to scratch trouble behind the ears, his biceps and shoulder muscles in hard relief. are you dreaming? you didn’t recognize the shirt he had on, but he was wearing your favorite jeans of his, and his matching converse. your mouth felt like a desert.

trouble trails around the two of you, the leash long. he loves your ex-boyfriend, you know he won’t go anywhere.

“did you cut your hair?” you take a step forward. dick does too.

“i-” he clears his throat. “i did. do you like it?” he shifts his eyes, his cheeks bright pink.

you make a show of looking it over. he turns his head so you can see it from all angles. like he always did when he got a haircut.

your chest hurts.

you nod approvingly, flashing him a weak smile.

“it looks really nice. you’re very-” your face heats as you stop yourself. “it looks very handsome.”

that’s an understatement. you would’ve climbed him like a tree the minute he’d come home looking like that. the way his biceps were bulging out of his shirt sleeves could not be good for his circulation. it was great for yours, your heart was beating a mile a minute.

dick smiles down at you, stepping forward again.

“thanks.” he looks down, taking in your outfit. “nice leggings, ang-” he’s cut off when trouble spots a squirrel and darts, barking wildly. the problem is, trouble had been walking his leashed self around you and dick.

you’re now chest to chest with your ex boyfriend in the middle of a sidewalk, tied to him by rope. you vaguely hear trouble whine at the way his collar bit into his neck from the leash pulling taut. you didn’t even have the time to process the fact that he had almost called you angel. which was probably a good thing.

you’re breathing heavily, while dick doesn’t seem to be breathing at all.

he’s put his arms around you on instinct, and you hate the way you feel like you’re home. a shiver runs up your spine at the sudden closeness, and dick peers down at you through half-lids. your mouth dries up again. you suddenly feel indignant.

“you are not allowed to breakup with me and then show up and look at me like that!” you hiss at him.

you would throw up your hands in exasperation if they weren’t basically pinned to dick’s body. a smile breaks across his face, his bright blue eyes telling you everything you need to know. he stares at you, studying you. you wonder if he can feel how hard your heart is beating.

“alfred taught me a new recipe.” he blurts, his hand clutching at your back.

he’s adorable. but you school your face and raise an eyebrow at him.

“..oookay?”

dick blushes, his face sheepish. “i could make it for you, if you wanted.”

“what i want is an apology.” you look him up and down.

your ex boyfriend grimaces, squeezing his eyes shut. “understandable.”

“on your hands and knees. i think this is one of those begging-for-my-forgiveness type situations, don’t you think?”

dick nods, a strand of hair falling across his forehead. his eyes flash.

“you don’t have to worry about getting me on my knees.”

one heartbeat pounds behind your ribs, the other one between your legs. you huff out a weird sort of nervous laugh.

“oh, i’m not joking.” his lips curve up in a smile, one you know very well. he obviously plans to make up on lost time.

you forgot how charming he was. you have to practically force yourself to breathe. you’d do anything to have the real thing over his old t-shirt. you give yourself a mental shake.

he can flirt all he wants, but what about your heart? you look up at him, and his face softens, his pupils huge.

“can you get us untangled?”

dick nods, whistling for trouble. he frees an arm and grabs trouble’s collar, guiding him back around so the leash falls to the sidewalk. you step back, taking a deep breath. you’re cold at the sudden loss of his body heat. it’s a harsh reminder of reality. you grab trouble’s leash, having him sit. you look at your ex boyfriend.

“thanks.” you take another deep breath. “can you promise me something, though?”

he nods, his face serious. “anything. anything at all.”

“promise you won’t break my heart again?” you hold out your pinky finger.

dick coughs, surprised at your words. he looks down, taking a shaky breath. he’s in disbelief, he’s ecstatic, he’s on top of the world, he…has a lot of apologizing to do.

when he looks back up to offer up his own pinky, his eyes are shining. the sight makes your heart melt. you take his finger in yours, beaming up at him.

he gives you a soft smile in return. “i promise.”

you take your hand back, feeling the most hopeful you have in a month.

a breeze picks up, and the whiff you get reminds you of your earlier predicament. you look down. dick looks down too.

shit. literally.

you forgot about the fact that trouble had used the sidewalk as a toilet.

“is that trouble’s?” he asks.

you nod, making a face. “i forgot the poop bags.”

“rookie mistake.” dick shakes his head, smiling. you look him up and down, and then turn, walking back the way you came.

“text me about that recipe!” you lift your hand in a wave.

“but-..uh, the shit?” he calls after you.

“that’s alllll you, baby!” you yell back, practically skipping away. you feel like you’re floating.

[starry-bi-sky]

Clone^2 - graveyard shift

The dinging of the door alerts Sarah of someone walking in, and she barely glances up from her phone to see who it is. It's past midnight and somehow her coworker John managed to convince her to take over his graveyard shift at their convenience store. He owes her one, because she's been standing here for an hour and nobody's come in.

Not a surprise to her - nobody likes to stay out past sundown in Amity Park, even after nearly three years of ghosts appearing all over the place.

But still, it happens sometimes. So she doesn't look up. The dinging bell just lets her know that it's not a ghost, and that's really all she can ask for. The last time she worked late and a ghost came in, she was cleaning the shelves from some weird goo for an hour.

However, the lack of footsteps in the store after a few seconds worries her enough that she forces her head to lift. And a frown weaves its way onto her face when she sees no one at the door, nor anyone in the closet aisles.

...Shit, was there really a ghost here? Can they ring door when they come in? Normally she sees them just phase right through. And normally they glow, bright and jarring that leaves a migraine building behind Sarah's eyes.

Her eyes quickly scan the shelves again, looking for anything out of place -- anyone with too many heads, or too many teeth, or snakes for hair. She's pretty sure a coworker saw that once when they were working graveyard.

But she still sees no one. Apprehension raises the hair on the back of her neck, and she straightens up from her lean against the counter. Fuuuck. Was this one of those... marshmallow ghosts? An animal ghost?

Sarah really does not want to have to fight off a three-eyed raccoon looking-thing with eagle feet. She's heard the horror stories. And there was no way to contact the Phantom or the Red Huntress to come pick it up -- and she wasn't gonna try her luck with the Drs. Fentons.

Her fingers itch for the broom hanging on the wall behind her. It probably won't do much against a mutant raccoon-ghost-monster, but it'll make her feel better.

There's a rustle and crinkle in the candy aisle, and Sarah's hands are curled around the broom before she could blink. Her heart beating in her chest. She walks out from the counter, the bristled end raised like a bat in the air as she creeps apprehensively towards the noise.

There's nothing there when she peers around the side, and the aisle shelves are tall enough that she can't see over them.

She raises the broom higher. Sarah was in softball. She could take out a raccoon-eagle-hybrid.. thing.... easily. She just... needs to pretend its a golf ball. Except golf isn't softball so that's a terrible comparison.

Oh god she was gonna get her face ripped off, wasn't she.

John so owes her one. So much.

Creeping down the aisle, she keeps her ears perked for any new sounds. But all she can really hear is the soft pop music playing on the store speakers -- chosen by yours truly from her own personal playlist -- and the hum of the freezers. Ugh. This was not good for her paranoia. Like, at all.

Sarah's down at the end of the aisle when she feels a quick set of taps on her shoulder. Her nerves are already shot, so she shrieks and whirls around on her foot, swinging the broom blindly.

Only to be met with sudden and blunt resistance. Blinking rapidly, Sarah stares up and sees a black gloved hand gripping the broom handle tightly, small white bandages peeking over the side around five fingers. Following the hand down connects it with an arm, and then a chest, and suddenly she's staring at a black hoodie and black jacket.

When she tilts her head up, Sarah comes face to face with the bone-white mask and the terrifying, unearthly green eyes of their local vigilante, the Phantom.

...Holy fuck. It was the Phantom.

He was taller than she initially thought. Was her jaw on the ground? Probably. It was flapping like a fish out of water. "I- uh, you-- buh--"

Slowly, the Phantom raised his free hand and wrapped it around the handle of the broom. Sarah watches, wide eyed still and stammering as he firmly plucked the broom out of her hands and turned to lean it against the shelves.

Something about him doing that must've kicked her brain back into gear, because the first thing that comes out of her mouth is; "Your eyes are really green."

And she was going to lock herself in the freezer in the back for that one. She feels her face grow hot with embarrassment, and the Phantom only looks at her blankly. Her eyes shift nervously. "Well, it's true."

It was! The green eyes of the Phantom was his most defining feature other than that unsettling mask he wore. Especially considering they were the same color as some of the ghosts. It was one of the many, many creepy things about the guy.

Looking at it gave her the same, faint headache as when she stared at a ghost for too long. So Sarah drops her gaze a little to avoid it.

The Phantom remains silent, but he raises his hands and signs something to her that she doesn't understand. Fuck, that's right. He didn't speak - and Sarah doesn't know any ASL.

Sarah cringes. "Sorry, I don't know ASL."

She can feel his burning green eyes boring into her, and he remains as silent as the grave as he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a phone in a plain black case. She watches him turn it on -- or at least she assumes he does, there's a privacy protector covering the screen -- and type something into.

He holds it up to her face when he's done, and she squints at the screen. In the notes app, a small text reads; 'We're ready to pay.'

..Oh. This wasn't Sarah's night. Embarrassment flashes hot through her and she forces out a laugh in order to try and quell it, Phantom shoves the phone back into his pocket. "Oh! Oh, right! I'm sorry, I'll uh- get up to the front--" She stops in her tracks.

Wait. Did that message say 'we?'

She smiles nervously, tilting her head up at the Phantom as her brows thread together. "Um," she swallows dryly, "we?" Didn't... didn't the Phantom work alone?

As if startled, the Phantom jerks. And for the first time since he showed up, he blinks and turns around. Which personally, doesn't bode that well as the Phantom swivels his head from side to side like he's looking for someone.

Sarah thinks, after the Phantom stalks up to the end of the aisle and looks around, she hears him sigh. And when he walks back, he snatches the broom with an elegant twist and knocks it against the shelves.

Thud, thud, thud!

There's very, very quiet shuffling that Sarah would have missed if she hadn't been looking for it, and then silence for a few seconds, before suddenly there's a small child pushing past her side and over to the Phantom.

And in the process, scaring the shit out of Sarah.

She squeaks and jumps, nearly tripping over her own feet as the child makes a spot next to the Phantom's side. "Where did you come from?!" She says, her heart pounding against her ribcage.

The child says nothing, just stares at her through a creepy bone-white mask reminiscent of the Phantom's. Although unlike the Phantom, he was wearing some... kind of... dark red ninja outfit?

Sarah really wasn't quite sure. It was partially covered by a jacket that clearly belonged to the Phantom and with the sleeves rolled up multiple times to his elbows. The jacket alone nearly obscured the sword attached to his hip.

...Why the hell did the child have a sword.

She looks between Phantom and the child, at a loss for words. Why-- why did the Phantom have a kid with him, why was the kid wearing a mask like his.

"You have a child with you." Sarah says bluntly, her voice flat. It betrays how shocked she feels. The Phantom doesn't say anything, as she should have expected, but he does nod shortly.

The child bristles slightly, but says nothing. Part of his mouth was uncovered, and she watched it twist downward into a scowl at her. Unlike the Phantom, his eyes were not green. She couldn't see his eyes at all, actually. They were shadowed by the mask.

There's the sound of paper thwipping, and like a magician pulling out a card, the Phantom holds out a note card to her. He stares, expectantly, and Sarah reluctantly takes it.

Written in neat writing and bold sharpie are the words; "This is Wraith."

...And that's it. Sarah glances up at Phantom. Then at the supposed 'Wraith'. Then back at Phantom. "You're bringing a child with you to ghost hunt?" She asks, and okay, maybe she's not able to hide all of the judgement leaking into her voice. "And you gave him a sword?"

The Phantom stares at her blankly, or well, probably blankly. All of his expressions are unreadable with the mask he wears. But the kid, Wraith, bristles again like a stray cat. His scowl deepens, he puffs up, and he opens his mouth like he's about to say something.

...Only for the Phantom to immediately snap his hand out and cover his mouth. Wraith makes an angry sound, and Phantom drags the boy into his side, seemingly nonplussed as he twists his wrist and pulls another note card out of nowhere.

"He is perfectly capable of handling himself." The card reads, and then continues; "I would not have been able to stop him anyways. Wraith would have followed me regardless."

Did he have these prepared?

Best not to question it, Sarah decides. The Phantom has always been strange. So she just nods mutely and stuffs the two notecards into her back pocket. "Okay," she says, and moves around the Phantom. "I'll check you out up front."

[oh-no-its-bird]

You know how when you spend a lot of time moving— on a boat, on a plane, in a car. Or doing a repetitive activity— dancing, skating, gymnastics; Later that night you can still feel the pull of movment?

You'll lay there and feel your body sway as it tries to keep it's balance through the remembered lull of tide and turbulance; Or close your eyes and imagine yourself falling into a spin in a way that feels so viscerally real that for a moment you can even feel the vertigo of going that fast. The movement so ingrained into your body and consciousness that you find yourself falling back into it whenever your mind quiets and your body falls still.

So anyways that but for Tobirama and Izuna's fighting. They've fought eachother since they were children, they know eachothers moves moves like the back of their own hands. After so many years it's such a familiar dance that when they go home and close their eyes, they can still feel their bodies being pulled into the well practiced movements. They remain still but can feel the way their hands fly through seals so viscerally that they have to be careful not to accidentally start cycling chakra.

Or they'll feel the familiar push and pull dance of battle so strongly that their muscles twitch as they're tricked into thinking they're still moving. The phantom pains and patterns of the fight they know so well

"I could fight you in my sleep" taken to it's extreme, it's quite possible that they could fall into the familiar and fight eachother in their sleep

Actually running with that, I think one of them should be a sleep walker but like. Instead of just walking around they start to phantom fight the other in familiar movements.

Where's my fic where Izuna sleep fights an imagined Tobirama I need that on my desk immediatley. Madara worriedly watches over his brother but, having read somewhere that its unwise to wake sleepwalking up (especially so when they're activley holding a weapon lmao) he just kinda. Watches over him. And after a couple times of this happening he starts to recognize a pattern in Izuna's movements, and after a little longer still he realizes Izuna is tracing through the same battles

Just a short thing of Madara idly watching his brother sleep fight, piecing together bits and pieces ab thus person he's fighting through the cues of how Izuna defends and attacks against them

Later for whatever reason, probably later in peace time, I need Tobirama and Madara to have a spar. And at first it's going kinda whatever, they're both very talented, but then Madara kinda gets a brain itch and remembers those sleep fights he'd always see Izuna moving through. And without even thinking ab it, he flawlessly replicates one of the moves exactly where Izuna would have (thanks sharingan)

And like. Ok so if this is an Izuna died canon compliant thing, Tobirama instinctivley reacts how he would with Izuna then probably goes dead white and immediatley loses the fight bc hes thrown off so fucking hard he can't compute

And if it's an Izuna lives you get kind of the same reaction but minus the angst. So Tobirama is totally thrown off, and his movment kinda just. Stutters. He mindlessly slides into continuing to try to react like he would to Izuna, this muscle memory that's so ingrained into him that he could quite literally do it in his sleep. But Madara isn't Izuna, so when he flips back into fighting like himself, Tobirama just totally fucks himself over

Madara almost fucking beheads him by going for the head in an easily blockable move when Izuna would have immediatley gone for his side instead, and so Tobirama instinctivley defends his side

He gets yelled at for that one but is too busy laying on his back staring up at the sky with a deeply offended, shocked and confused expression to hear any of it

Tobirama's one true infallible weakness: He's so used to fighting Izuna that if you manage to replicate Izuna's style of fighting in the right way and trick his muscle memory into flipping that switch, you can totally fuck him up and over

Anyways, Madara, who can replicate Izuna's moves bc smthn smthn sharingan and having seen him do that sleep fight against Tobirama so many times, using this as an excuse to drag Tobirama into tons of training matches where he absoloutley beats his ass. And Tobirama letting this happen bc holy shit he needs to be trained out of that bad habit

It goes both ways tho too, if someone does that to Izuna but w Tobirama's moves then he's FUCKED. Luckily no one can replicate the way he fights nearly well enough to do that, and Izuna's also aided by the fact that Tobirama is really tall so the pool of people who might be able to pull it off right is narrowed down even further bc your height and weight absoloutley effects the specific angle of how you fight and their blades might meet

Ohhh actually maybe that could be a thing too. Someone replicates Tobirama's style of fighting and fights Izuna, and Izuna keeps getting tripped up bc these are Tobirama's moves but they aren't coming from the right angle or with the right amount of force

Anyways that's ur word vomit for the day time to clock out 👍

[kissingghouls]

Coming Home // Phantom Club

Phantom x GN!Reader - Fluff, Kissing, No Warnings. 1700 words

Summary: The tour is over and You and Phantom are finally reunited. ( Part 4 in the Phantom Club series. If You Remember This Tomorrow, Little Ghost, A Late Night Call or read on ao3 ♥)

It was almost over. You had an alarm set to the second Phantom was due to arrive back home, but it was pointless. Unable to sleep, you’d been staring at the clock for hours trying to will time to pass. Around two in the morning you finally wander down to the front steps of the Ministry and join a couple of Siblings who are also itching to see their partners. Most of the others had been in relationships with the band members for long enough that this bit was routine. They no longer needed to stay up all night waiting by the front door anymore. Their lovers would return home just as they always did and life could resume as promised.

There’s a chill in the October air and it wraps around you like a vise, squeezing and choking as your nerves settle in. You run your hands over your arms for warmth, wishing you had a jacket. Wishing you had Phantom draped over you like a blanket once again. The anxiety eats away at you and your stomach spasms as a warning. What if…

No. You weren’t going to do that to yourself. Not now and not about him. And especially not while you were standing outside in the middle of the night waiting for him. The last several hours had been filled with a long, uncomfortable silence while the band traversed an ocean. You smiled at the thought of Swiss having to sit still that long and hoped they had seated him far enough away that the rest of the band was able to get some sleep.

You’d had a short conversation with Phantom before boarding, but it was obvious his mind was elsewhere. Somewhere along the tour he started to fear airports and the constant go, go, go energy they held. He confided in you as soon as he had the words to explain, proudly waving the ring of flash cards Cirrus had helped him update. They added words together as he acclimated more and more to this plane. But while fear and anxiety were things he could now name, part of you wished he never had to. Wished you could have been there to help him understand or soothe him or something. You had no idea that you already gave him a sense of calm that nothing else could.

-x-

Miles away in a crowded van, Phantom rests his head against the window. He’s desperate for sleep, completely exhausted by travel and the constant noise of the other ghouls. They loudly chatter away, keeping him from dozing off even for a second. It’s gone on too long to say anything now, but all he wants—all he needs—is five minutes to himself. They’re all excited to be home; he can feel it buzzing around the van like the electric hum of neon signs in dive bars. But he’s grown tired of the way their emotions feel under his skin, how they’ve wormed their way into his brain when the only thing he wants to think about is you. Your smile. Your skin. The warmth of your body against his own.

It’s been an amazing opportunity and he’s so thankful for his position in the band, but he’s had more than enough in the last few days. He wants nothing more than to curl around you in his bed, to hold you until he feels himself begin to disappear and sink into everything you are. He can’t wait to get lost in the way you make him feel, a way that no one else could ever hope to match. Just a little longer and he’s all yours again.

He's going to tell you. He decided that a while ago when he started trying to find the words. Once he did, he knew it wasn’t something he wanted to say over the phone—even if he finally understood the ins and outs of video calls. A small, purple spark catches the lint on his jeans and the tiny fire rolling over his thigh draws Dew’s attention.

“We’ll be back soon,” the fire ghoul reassures him.

He should probably be embarrassed by these little bursts of magic, clear physical signs that he still can’t always regulate his emotions. But all he really feels is a heavy sleepiness and a deep ache for all things you. Soon needs to be faster.

-x-

Headlights flood the drive and you sit up a little straighter. There’s no use in denying the butterflies in your stomach as the van comes into view and slows to a stop in front of the Ministry. One by one the ghouls slowly emerge, your friends finally returning home with bright if not sleepy smiles, their bodies still on another continent’s schedule. You’re trying so hard to be patient—you’re happy they’re all home safe and sound—but none of them are the ghoul you need.

Phantom is the last one to climb out of the van and he is still the most beautiful being you’ve ever laid eyes on. He’s off-balance, overloaded by the weight of his own backpack and he stumbles a bit as his feet hit the gravel. From your spot on the front steps you can see he’s tired. There are dark circles forming under those pretty, lilac eyes and his body sags as he slowly pushes his way through the crowd.

It’s all gone the second he spots you.

His backpack hits the ground with a heavy thud as he breaks into a run, kicking up gravel in his wake. You’re already halfway down the stairs when the others fall silent and turn to watch the two of you sprint toward each other. You’re crying almost immediately, tears blurring your vision so much you nearly trip, but it doesn’t matter. He’s throwing off sparks of quintessence magic with every step, bits of purple static hanging above him.

He catches you and wraps his arms around your waist. He’s squeezing you so tightly it hurts, but you wouldn’t trade the feeling for anything. Someone lets out a loud wolf whistle as his mouth claims yours for the first time in so, so long. You know he can feel your heart pounding against his chest as you grab ahold of his jacket to keep yourself upright. He kisses you like it’s the end of the world, or maybe it’s just the beginning starting all over again.

“Hi,” he manages to whisper as you break apart to catch your breath. He rests his forehead against yours and cups your face in his hands.

It’s not enough and you’re pulling him back in without a second thought, lips slotting together so perfectly they might have been made for this purpose alone. The ghouls and ghoulettes behind him are shouting and applauding, trying their best to embarrass the two of you. Some of them ooh and ahh, some of them are pretending to make out with each other, but it’s all just white noise.

No one else exists in this moment. You and Phantom are entirely alone in the universe, the last bits of remaining stardust clinging together to form life again. He’s lost complete control of his magic and quintessence radiates off him in thick waves that dissipate into the atmosphere with a loud, thunderous crack.

Swiss yanks him away from you and lets out a small yelp as his fingers are singed by pure energy.

Papa shakes his head and wags a finger at the two of you before waving the others away. “Alright everyone, show’s over. Come on, we still have things to do.” He pauses to give you a pointed look. “You too, Phantom.”

“Shouldn’t take too long,” Swiss whispers to him and wanders away.

Behind the van, the doors for the trailer creak open with a heavy thud. The ghouls begin to shuffle over and collect their gear as it is strategically removed from the professional level Tetris game in the trailer.

“Um, I’ll uh—” Phantom starts, but he’s so flustered he’s blushing the prettiest violet color on his cheeks.

“I’ll wait up for you,” you promise and he grins so brightly it may as well open up the heavens. He steals another kiss before he runs off and grabs his backpack from the ground.

-x-

The wait before was bad, but now, knowing Phantom was just outside made the wait feel like torture. You wanted nothing more than to run back outside and tackle him to the ground and smother him in all the unfinished kisses you still had to give him. You thought about it for a lot longer than you should have. But you didn’t want either of you to get in trouble with Papa, so you patiently planted yourself on top of Phantom’s freshly made bed.

You wanted everything to be perfect when he came back. You’d spent hours doing laundry and cleaning the room, making sure everything was as nice and neat as the way he’d left it. There were a few more traces of you in the room now—that candle he liked and some of your art supplies had made permanent homes on the desk in the corner. Little Ghost was propped up against the pillows with a small gift bag between his stuffed dog paws, just waiting for Phantom’s return. It feels as though the entire room is holding its breath and the lack of oxygen burns in your lungs.

The door swings open and your lover cocks a hip as he swings that heavy backpack from his shoulder and throws it across the room. He kicks the door shut and shuffles toward the bed, his eyes half-closed as he drags that lanky body across the carpet. He drops onto the bed next to you and with his last ounce of strength he pulls you in close and holds you exactly where he’s wanted you for the past few weeks. He covers your face in dozens of soft, sweet kisses before he finally properly catches your lips. He kisses you deeply, trying to contain the smile growing on his face as he throws a leg around you and you both feel like you can finally breathe again.

-x-

Should I do a tag list for these?... There's gonna be more...

-xo Ghouls.

[theharddeck]

talk with my hands, maybe take it real slow (jake seresin x fem!reader)

Pairing: Jake Seresin x fem!reader (no y/n)

Synopsis: Jake's roommate has a new tattoo and can't stop itching at it...what kind of friend would he be, if he didn't help distract her?

Warnings: this fic is 18+, minors please DNI – we go pretty quickly into smut, featuring the usual--explicit oral sex (both receiving, bc we're feminists like that), and then also PiV sex, including but not limited to, condescension, overstimulation (bc what's the point of fiction if we're not wringing multiple orgasms out of our self insert?) and creampies (do not have unprotected, unnegotiated sex pls)

Length: 7.8k

A/N: sorry about the moodboard being lacluster; I couldn't find a tattoo pic that wasn't on a size 0 thigh or white, so we went without

You hadn’t considered yourself to be a person with particularly awful self control, but then again, you’d never had a tattoo healing on your inner thigh, driving you mad with the need to scratch at it. It’d been 3 weeks since the appointment and your ink was probably 95% healed; the redness had faded entirely and a couple raised patches of roughness were all you had to show for the fact that it was new. Which somehow made the incessant need to itch all the more frustrating, because you were pretty sure it was mostly phantom at this point. 

“Listen, honey, you gotta chill.” Jake’s voice interrupted your inner monologue, from his seat on the couch across the living room. 

Your roommate had started in hard on the Southern pet names when he’d seen that they’d flustered you. Honestly, there was precious little the man wouldn’t do, if it meant making you unnerved. You two didn’t have what you’d call a friendship, but the playful Something between the two of you felt safe and fun. Even if it did mean that Jake seemed to take a little more pleasure than he should’ve, in the face of your pain.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you replied drily, “are the literal thousands of abrasions on my skin irritating you?”

Jake rolled his eyes at your melodrama. “I can feel you thinking from over here, and it’s taking up real estate that belongs to Maya Hawke,” he gestured to the TV where the latest season of Stranger Things was playing.  

“It itches,” you mumbled, hearing the complaint in your voice and knowing it was pathetic, but too over it to care. 

Jake cut you a long look, like he also heard it, and was embarrassed for you. “Want me to get you some ice?” he asked, and it was sweet of him to offer, but…

“We’re out of ice,” you sighed. “I went through the last two trays in, like, record time, and they’re refreezing now.”

“We have like fourteen trays,” Jake frowned.

“Yeah, well someone,” you paused meaningfully, “drastically depleted our resources when he decided to have a bourbon tasting over the weekend.”

Jake had the grace to look guilty for a  moment. Then it was his turn to sigh dramatically, lifting his arm to the back of the couch and swatting at the cushion next to him. “Alright, kid, c’mere.”

In retrospect, you probably should’ve asked why, or at least deliberated for half a second before doing what he asked. In reality, you pushed off the settee you’d been lounging on, and flopped ungracefully onto the couch next to Jake. You shared a bathroom with the man and he’d seen you on the second day of your period; dignity was a distant memory. 

Still, it didn’t prepare you for Jake pulling your legs apart with one of his large hands, and spreading his fingers over your tattoo, all while calmly turning up the volume of the TV with the remote in his other hand. 

“Jesus, Jake,” you choked out, telling yourself the goosebumps erupting over your whole body were entirely because of your surprise, and not any other reason. “Buy a girl a drink first.”

Jake chuckled, somehow managing to shake his head at you while not looking away from the TV. “You’re the one who’s always telling me my hands are cold as ice.”

Had you said that?

It sounded like something you’d say.

But Jake’s hand on your leg felt anything but cold. Okay, no, if you separated your brain from—well, from anything—you could recognize that his fingers were quite cold, and it was incredibly soothing having them over you. His thumb was brushing lightly over your skin, while the rest of his hand stayed still, and you knew that ice cubes couldn’t do that, but damn, it would’ve been great if they could. You settled back into the couch, relaxing into the soft material and the relief brought by Jake’s hands.

It was a wonderful two minutes. 

Good to know that that was how long it took for the fourth law of thermodynamics to kick in, and for Jake’s fingers to warm up after extended contact with your skin.  

Then a new problem was presented—you couldn’t scratch at yourself without scratching him. You shifted slightly, to see if you could get any type of friction, but Jake’s touch was light enough that he moved with you. You snuck a glance at Jake’s profile, still fixed on the TV screen, and his expression could best be described as incredibly pleased with himself.

“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” you muttered accusingly.  

“Absolutely,” he said, smugly. “You could fidget up a storm over there, but here you have to just deal with it.”

You pressed your lips together to keep yourself from sticking your tongue out at him petulantly. You folded your hands in your lap, determined to ignore the rising propensity to scratch at yourself. At some point, you’d sunken into the couch until your shoulder was pressed against Jake’s arm, and you shifted so your cheek was resting against him too. His tshirt was soft, and he smelled clean, like a freaking linen candle, which was annoying, because it didn’t help clear the riotous tangle of thoughts rushing through your head.

You did stop fidgeting, though.

“Atta girl,” Jake said quietly, his thumb still moving over your thigh.

Was it hot in here?

It had to be hot in here.

Because this was Jake, your roommate, who’d never shown an ounce of interest in you, being calm as anything with his hand literally on your thigh, and saying things that would’ve sounded like come ons from anyone else.

You tried to focus on the TV, and whatever ridiculous shenanigans the children on it had found themselves in, pulling a deep breath through your nose.

(Immediate mistake, because of said linen candle bullshit). 

On the TV, Nancy’s hair got frizzier, Steve’s life got shittier, and all the while your leg was getting itchier and itchier.

You reached to press a hand over the skin distractedly, forgetting momentarily that Jake’s hand was there until you encountered his fingers instead of your skin. He turned his hand over, his knuckles pressing against your skin while his fingers intercepted your own.

“Where’re you going?” he asked, voice lightly mocking, and you wrinkled your nose. It wasn’t fair that he wasn’t affected, his hands so close to your burning skin, and he still had the wherewithal to tease you for your poor impulse control.

“Jake,” you whined, trying to untangle your fingers, but his grip was unrelenting, “I’m not gonna scratch, okay, I just need to do something.”

He looked down at you, which you had to admit, was a hell of an experience when your head was practically on his shoulder. 

He blinked slowly, looking at you closely before he opened his hands, letting your fingers go. You pulled your hand back, eyes closing in relief when you pressed them against your skin. It wasn’t as good as scratching, but the pressure helped, and you shifted your fingers—and your nail accidentally dragged against your skin. 

Which was pretty much the worst thing that could happen, because it was like a tease and it shouldn’t have felt as good as it did, but you were half a second away from clawing up your thigh when Jake’s hand closed around your wrist again. 

“Seriously?” he asked, amusement coloring his tone. 

“Just let me,” you pleaded, trying to pull your wrist back. “It’ll take like two seconds and then it’ll hurt and I can stop.”

“You could also get infected or mess up the ink placement,” he said, and you stopped pulling for a moment.

“When did you learn so much about tattoo care?” you grumbled, and Jake chuckled again. It sounded different this close to him, deeper. 

“When my roommate decided to mark up the inside of her leg,” he replied easily. “Now don’t you have a lotion or something you can put on this?”

“I do, but it doesn’t help,” you said, annoyed that he was right. 

“Well, let’s at least try it, yeah?” Jake asked, and you rolled your neck, sighing. 

“Fine,” you pushed yourself off the couch. 

You felt Jake’s eyes following you to the bathroom, so you didn’t scratch at your leg, not wanting to hear more of his teasing. You found the jar of lotion, dropping back onto the couch as you unscrewed the lid. 

“It’s just gonna be sticky and leave white marks on the couch,” you groused, looking confusedly over at Jake when he held his hand out. “What?”

“What do you mean, what,” he retorted, like it was obvious. “I’m not gonna let you do this; you have zero impulse control.”

You were too stunned to resist when he plucked the lotion out of your hands, dipping his fingers into the jar. 

Had you said that the worst thing was an accidental nail brush against your tattoo?

That wasn’t true. 

Because the actual worst thing was having to sit there, pretending everything was fine and normal, as your ridiculously hot roommate started spreading Aquaphor on your inner thigh. 

Jake was nothing if not thorough, his long fingers smoothing the cool lotion over your skin, pressing slowly into you and fucking kneading into your thighs, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was that he was entirely serious. Gone was the teasing condescension, the knowing look, and in its place was an unfamiliar gentleness. 

Jake’s head was bent, some of his perfect hair falling in front of his eyes, as he properly tended to your leg like he was a nurse and these were doctor’s orders. Like he wanted to be absolutely careful as he looked after you, like looking after you was even something he did. You swallowed, forcing your breathing to remain even. 

This was fine, this was normal. 

This was absolutely not complicating the tenuous relationship the two of you had, and wasn’t causing you to read into the pet names, the caring, the fact that his big hand was literally between your legs. 

He had to stop, or you had to stop, because now was not the time to be thinking risque things about your roommate, not when he was genuinely being sweet and trying to help.

“I think that’s good,” you said, hoping Jake couldn’t hear the tremor in your voice. 

Jake tipped his head to the side, considering his work, then nodded to himself, satisfied. He rubbed his hands together, wiping the excess lotion on the backs of his knuckles, and screwed the lid of the jar back on. You were readjusting on the couch when he leaned across you to leave the jar on the coffee table and when he shifted back, one of you messed up, because his forearm brushed against your chest. 

“Uh, sorry,” Jake said quickly, “I wasn’t—”

He was interrupted, of course.

Because you could tell yourself you were fine, everything was fine, all day long, but turns out that the slightest, accidental brush of Jake against your breasts had an ungodly whimper spilling out of your mouth before you could stop it. 

He froze. 

Shit. 

“Shit,” you said aloud, hands covering your face in embarrassment, “no, I’m sorry, that wasn’t—uh, we can ignore that—I don’t know what’s going on with me, sorry to make it weird, it’s not your fault—”

You stopped babbling when Jake’s hands closed on your wrists, and, for the upteenth time that night, you let yourself be guided by him. When he pulled your hands away, your breath caught at how close he was, and the unfamiliar expression on his face as he looked between your eyes. 

“I need to know right now,” he said, his voice serious as anything, “if you’re apologizing because you’re embarrassed, or because you didn’t mean it.”

You pressed your lips together, not trusting what sounds would come out of your mouth with Jake’s hands holding your wrists, and his eyes this intense. Whatever he read on your face had Jake’s lips parting, a shaking breath drawn in through them, before they thinned in a lazy smile. 

“And here I thought I was the perv, taking any excuse to get my hands on you, darlin’, when you’ve been wanting me just as bad.”

Your jaw dropped at his blunt words, but what, were you going to say he was wrong? 

Jake’s head cocked sideways when you didn’t say anything, and he guided your hands to the back of his neck, before letting go of them. Your fingers wound around his neck, the ends of his hair brushing your thumbs, and you realized he was waiting for you to say something before this—whatever ‘this’ was—went any further.

“Probably worse,” you admitted, not even trying to hide the breathlessness in your voice, “if I’m honest.”

Jake’s eyes darkened and his grin grew wider. “If that’s how honest sounds, I think I want to hear more of it,” he said.

Fuck, he was going to ruin you.

“Kiss me and find out?” you managed, and Jake huffed out a laugh before reaching for you again. His hands settled on your waist and he lifted to drag you towards him. 

“Yes ma’am,” he whispered before his lips crashed into yours. 

You were still reeling from the title, and how you liked the sound of it a little too much, but Jake’s mouth against yours drove that thought from your head. He kissed you like he’d wanted it for longer than you could’ve expected, his teeth biting at your lower lip, his tongue soothing after it. You shifted to help him as he pulled you towards him, both of you gasping when you settled in his lap. You were thankful his flannel pajamas could stand a bit of residual lotion, just as you were thankful for the pressure of his hands on your waist, fingers pressing into you and pulling you closer. Jake licked at the seam of your lips and you opened for him; when his tongue swept into your mouth, you felt it in your core. And suddenly, or maybe not suddenly, maybe finally, after months of build up, you were desperately needy. 

Your fingers pulled through his hair, and Jake’s hips pressed up when you pulled lightly on the strands. At the motion of his rolling hips, your pajama shorts pressed tightly into your core and the friction felt like building, and Jake broke away from your mouth with a gasp. His hands tightened on your waist, holding you still, and while you appreciated his restraint, you wanted to feel him again. 

You whispered his name as he trailed kisses down your neck, and your breath quickened when he found your pulse point under your jaw. Jake hummed, the vibration echoing over your skin, through you, and you realized he was muttering things against your skin. 

“D’you know how hard these last three weeks have been,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your skin as he pressed kisses to new goosebumps, “with you always in those tiny shorts, saying it’s because you can’t have tight clothes over your tattoo?”

You felt lightheaded at the idea of Jake wanting you this whole time, maybe longer, locking it away and refusing to act on it because he didn’t know what you felt.    

“It’s true,” you managed, and Jake laughed, a puff of warm air over your skin. 

“And if that wasn’t enough,” another kiss, another soft suck, “you’ve been so whiny, haven’t you? Always pouting, always needy, making me wonder how you’d sound…”

Your eyes were closed, your world distilled to the heat of his mouth, the heat of his words. You pulled at him, needing his mouth over yours again, and Jake obliged. He was so much softer than you expected, gentle but firm, and he tasted so damn good. 

With him distracted, you rolled your hips again, rewarded by the friction over your core, and you could feel Jake hardening in his pajama pants. It was addictive, and you sought him out again, pouting when Jake stilled your hips again. 

“Baby,” he murmured, and heat shot through you at the pet name, not one he’d used jokingly before, “what was the point of the lotion if you’re going to grind it off against my flannels?”

“You can reapply it later,” you rationalized, but Jake shook his head, smiling in spite of himself. His lips were swollen, his cheeks reddened, and you loved the look of him like this, almost dazed. 

“C’mon,” he prompted you, and guided you to stand. Your legs felt weak, but you managed, and Jake’s hands smoothed up the outside of your thighs. You were between his spread knees, and his hands played with the hem of your shorts before he pulled them down your legs, taking care to not scrape them over your tattoo. The air felt cold on your exposed skin, and Jake swore quietly as he dropped the shorts, staring at you in your underwear with something that felt dangerously close to adoration. 

He leaned closer, and at first you thought it was so he could be more gentle with your fragile panties, but then he pressed a kiss to the outside of your thigh and you jumped, pushing him away, embarrassed again. 

“You don’t—” you started, pursing your lips, “um, you don’t have to…do that. We can—”

Jake’s hands smoothed over your thighs, coming around to cup under your ass. Had you said his hands were cold earlier? You were sure they were burning, leaving trails of heat wherever he touched. 

“Nah, baby,” he whispered against your thighs, his nose brushing the soft skin there, as his hands squeezed you, “nothing ‘have to’ about something I’ve been dreaming ‘bout for months.”

Well, fuck, when he put it like that…

“Okay, then,” you said quietly, weaving your hand into his hair again, and Jake flashed a smile up at you. 

“Okay, then,” he echoed, and his fingers pulled your underwear over your hips. He scooted to the front of the couch, a motion that should’ve been cute for his enthusiasm, but instead was simply devastating. He looked so good like this, eager and hungry, and your breath caught when he licked his lips, your hips canting towards him. 

He didn’t look away from you. 

His green eyes locked on yours as he leaned closer, not pausing when his tongue crept past his lips and you were the one to break, your head tipping back when he licked you. His tongue was flat against you, like the first taste of ice cream, and your head spun at the shamelessness of it. You whimpered when he pulled away, and Jake’s breath was warm as he leaned back again. 

“There’s that sound I was after,” he murmured, his soft words a cutting juxtaposition to his filthy tongue. 

He teased you with soft licks, lapping at your arousal that’d only grown since he’d first touched your thighs earlier tonight. His hands snuck around to pull you apart, spread you on his fingers like he needed his tongue closer, tasting you and drinking you. He was unhurried and it was maddening, and you pulled at his tshirt distractedly, needing to feel his skin.  

“Ah, honey,” Jake muttered as he pulled back. “You taste so good, fucking unbelievable.”

You opened your eyes to find his chest heaving, his eyes dilated and your slick smeared across his chin. He looked so good like this, drunk on you, and you imagined you looked nearly as wrecked. He leaned back to pull his tshirt over his head, and your fingers smoothed over broad shoulders, sun-kissed skin, as it was bared to you. 

He tossed the shirt aside and a moment later he was leaning back into your cunt, nuzzling your clit with his nose as his tongue lapped at you. Your knees nearly buckled at the sensation, and Jake groaned, the vibrations only increasing the intensity of the feelings flooding you. His strong hands held you up, spread before him, and he lifted his mouth to tease at your clit. You whined when his tongue rolled around you, alternating tight circles and slow, and your eyes rolled back when he closed his lips and sucked. 

“Jake, oh my god,” you gasped, feeling your stomach tighten. It was too soon, you knew it, but you also couldn’t fight it, and it was practically crashing over you—

Jake pulled back. 

You whined in confusion, looking down to find him looking up at you, a familiar expression of smug awareness on his face. He turned his head to press a gentle kiss to your thigh, amusement sparkling in his dark eyes. 

“Told you I’ve been waiting on this for months, honey,” he teased, another wet kiss slightly higher on your thigh. “You didn’t think I’d let you off that easy, did you?”

Nothing about this felt easy. Not the way he had your body primed for release, every nerve wound tight, not the way you felt it slipping away, and your desperation only climbing. 

You whimpered his name, too gone to be embarrassed by how fucked out you sounded. 

“Aw, baby…” Jake cooed, and you saw his shoulders shift as he repositioned. Before you could anticipate his next move, a broad finger was stroking through your folds, and you cried out, your hands flying to his shoulder to steady yourself. 

“So pretty like this,” Jake soothed, pulling his finger through you, stroking back over you, the pressure perfect, but not enough, “needy. Desperate.”

“Jake, please,” you cried, appalled to find real tears were pushing behind your eyes. After being so close to release, then being denied, then held steady wherever his fingers pulled you, you couldn’t be responsible for the way your body was shaking.

“Bet you’d beg me for it, wouldn’t you?” Jake said, voice even and unbothered. He added another finger, still not entering you, just teasing over you, languid. “You’re all proud when you’re strutting around in those shorts, cute when you ask for help, but not like this, huh? Like this, you know who’s in charge.”

Any response you had was cut off when he plunged both fingers into you. 

No warning, no easing, just sudden pressure and thickness and your body tightened around the sudden intrusion, unrelenting and unexpected and fucking perfect, and you couldn’t stop your orgasm as it ripped through you.

“Oh, fuck,” Jake groaned, as he recognized your walls tightening around his fingers. “Thatta girl, come on, give it to me.”

You moaned, your core clenching as your denied release rolled over you, scalding and strong and you felt it in your toes. You didn’t know how you were still standing, you knew the sounds pouring out of you were unbridled, and Jake was proudly talking you through it. 

“So beautiful, baby, you’re doing so good,” he said, his other hand stroking up your neck to support your head. You turned your head desperately, pulling his thumb into your mouth and sucking on it, needing to be grounded. 

“Fuck, baby,” Jake moaned, and his fingers kept their pace inside you. You felt the edges of your orgasm soften as he worked you through it, and as the fingers not in your mouth brushed against your cheek, you realized he was wiping away tears. You were shaking, it was perfect, but his fingers inside you were pressing deeper and if he wasn’t careful, he was going to push you higher again. 

“How we doing, honey?” Jake asked, and you lifted your head to meet his eyes. He was watching you carefully, and he pulled his thumb from your mouth so you could answer him.

“Good,” you whispered, through the clearing haze, “really, really, good.”

Jake hummed, tilting his head as he considered you. His fingers scissored inside of you, and you clenched down on him, hands grasping his shoulders. 

“Then I think you should give me another,” he said, smile growing as your eyes widened. 

“Jake, wait—” you protested, but you went without opposition when he pulled you back to the couch. His fingers paused their exploration but he didn’t pull out of you as he guided you onto your back, propping your knees up carefully. 

“Have to be gentle with that thigh,” he said, his voice growing husky as he settled between your legs. He stroked his fingers again, and your core clamped down on them, still not fully returned from your first high. Any other protest you had died when he bent down again, his mouth returning to your cunt. 

You’d had his tongue, you’d had his fingers, and they’d made you cum like you hadn’t in months. And now suddenly you had both at once, and you were pretty sure it was going to cost you your mind. 

“Jake, fuck,” you keened, your back arching off the couch.

Jake didn’t respond, too busy lapping up your release and thrusting into you. His tongue traced a maddening pattern over your clit as his fingers pressed deeper into you, stretching you.  

“You taste even sweeter like this, baby,” he mumbled into you, and you moaned as you felt his words. His fingers brushed something deep inside of you and you couldn’t breathe; you reached for Jake’s hair, pulling desperately, hoping he could read how impossibly taut you were. 

“You know something,” he mused, like it was the calmest thing in the world, “you came so quick, didn’t you? Came once you had something fucking you, and it was so beautiful, honey…but I never got to hear you beg.” 

“Jake,” you whispered, his name the only word you could manage, the only thing you could say with his fingers brushing that spot and his mouth just a breath away from you. 

“Nah,” he said, his voice low, “I know you could do it so prettily. Won’t you do it for me, sweetheart, won’t you let me hear it? Let me make you cum again?”

He kissed you again, his mouth light and teasing, brushing caresses over your mound but not where you were aching, throbbing, for him. His fingers slowed, torturously, pushing you closer but not fast enough, and you felt your eyes filling again. What was he asking for?

What was anything, what did he need?

“Jake, please,” you gasped, your voice thick. “Please, please—”

“Please what, baby?” Jake asked, another soft kiss. “What do you need?”

“I need to cum,” you practically sobbed. “Please, need it so bad, please, Jake—need you so bad, need you to—”

“That’s right,” Jake practically growled, his voice lower than you’d ever heard it. “You need me. And I’ve got you, honey, so you can let you go, since you asked so nicely, and I’m gonna take care of you…”

His forearm was banded across your waist, holding you still as his fingers found that spot inside of you, pressed up against it, and your thighs shook as your second orgasm bowled over you. Jake’s tongue was over your clit, then his lips closed, and when you thought you might be ready to let go of the high, he sucked, and you fully shattered. You could feel your nails raking into his back, feel his responding groans through the mouth still pressed to your cunt, as your world dissolved into white heat. It swept over you and you stopped trying to ride it, just let yourself be thrown, buffeted by Jake’s mouth, Jake’s fingers, Jake’s soft words.  

“Fucking gorgeous, baby, you did so good,” Jake was murmuring into the skin of your stomach. His fingers were still inside of you, gently rocking but no longer trying to stimulate you. It would’ve brought tears to your eyes, if they weren’t already streaming, how tender he was being with you. The whiplash was incredible—how quickly he’d brought you to orgasm, how easily he’d denied you, how thoroughly fucked out you were, now that he’d given it to you. 

God, and you hadn’t even had him yet. 

“Jake,” you croaked, your throat hoarse, and he lifted his head to look up at you. 

“What is it, honey?” he asked, voice soft. He was propped up on his elbows, and he shifted slightly, pulling his fingers out of you. You pressed your lips together to stop a whimper from escaping and trying to ignore how empty you felt, and watching quietly as he wiped his hands absently on his pajama pants before looking back up at you. 

You lifted a hand to brush away some of his hair that’d fallen into his face. You shifted slightly, pulling the hem of your tshirt down to wipe at his chin, clean him up a little. It was rough, not the intended purpose of the garment, and Jake laughed a little at the clumsiness of the action, pressing his jaw into your cotton-covered hand, to help you as you wiped at his face. 

You bit your lip, more to stop yourself from smiling so wide it made you hurt, looking down at him, propped up on his elbows 

He looked proud. 

He looked content, and it made your heart swell uncomfortably in your chest, that he’d look like that after taking care of you. But the longer you looked at him, something like doubt flickered behind his eyes and he cleared his throat, looking away. 

“If…” he started, and he shook his head, like he was clearing the fog after a night out. “Uh, you know, if that’s too much…or not what you wanted, or something, we can just say it was a distraction. You know, to get your mind off the tattoo.”

You hadn’t thought about the thing in what felt like a lifetime.

More importantly, you saw Jake still wasn’t meeting your eyes, like he expected you to say that that’s all this was, and he was worried you’d see too much if you were looking at him when you said it. It broke your heart, that he would push away his own repressed feelings, if it meant protecting yours. 

Although, to be fair, you’d both been more honest in the last thirty minutes than you’d been in the months before, so it was probably on you, as well as him. 

You carded your fingers through his hair again, waiting.

It took another couple seconds, but Jake steeled himself and looked back at you. 

You hadn’t realized you’d missed the green of them. 

In the height of everything, they’d been hooded and dark, the bright color nearly lost in his blown pupils. But like this, clear and sweet, you thought you might like this better. 

“It wasn’t too much,” you said, simply.

Jake’s shoulders dropped, just slightly, and you saw him wanting to contest it, and so you shook your head. 

“I think that’s a conversation for later,” you said gently, “when we’re both a little more clothed, hmm?”

“Oh,” Jake said, his head turning quickly as he looked around for your pajama shorts. “I can reach—”

You wanted to roll your eyes and you wanted to pinch him, just a little, to get him to listen to you. “That’s not what I meant,” you corrected. “I’m not…I’m not ready to be done. Besides, we han’t gotten you off yet.”

“Oh, that’s okay, that’s not what this was about,” Jake said quickly and you tilted your head, pushing yourself up to sitting. 

Jake was still between your spread knees, your faces close together now, and you pressed a kiss to his cheek, a quick reassurance before you reached between the two of you. 

Jake jumped when your hand slid over the front of his pajama pants, and you felt like cooing. Even through the thick cotton, you felt him respond to your touch. The fabric had to be adding to the illusion, because he felt enormous under the flannel. 

And it was very gentlemanly that this was for you, that he didn’t want this to be a thing about reciprocity, but in a much more tangible way, he’d made you feel infinite, just a few minutes ago. If you could do the same for him, you imagined you’d probably feel just as proud as he had, to see you come undone.

“What’d you say,” you asked innocently, your fingers trailing up the length of him, “about distracting me?”

When you looked back up at Jake, his eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling slowly, deliberate, like he was holding his breath. 

Sweet man. 

You leaned back up to kiss him gently, waiting for him to kiss you back. It took only a moment, and you bit back a moan at the taste of yourself on his lips. You kissed him softly for a minute, gentle lips, gentle tastes, coaxing. When you pulled back, Jake’s lashes fluttered before he opened his eyes to look at you. 

“I don’t know,” you lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I think I’d be pretty distracted if I were choking on your dick, Jake.”

“Jesus,” Jake whispered, and his hips bucked into your touch. “I just don’t want you to feel like you have to–”

You licked your lips, his words from earlier coming back to you. “Nothing ‘have to’ about something I’ve been dreaming about for months.”

Jake surged forward, his hand wrapping around the back of your neck to pull you to him. You tasted his longing in this kiss, the tight reins he held himself in check with, and how desperately he wanted to give them to you, if only for a moment. You wanted that, and maybe for a little longer. So you kissed him for a moment more, then slid off the couch, settling between his knees like before, but this time, he stayed with his back against the back of the couch, and you were on the ground. 

“Wait,” he said, leaning over to grab a pillow, and gesturing for you to use it under your knees.  

Forget rolling your eyes or pinching him, did you want to marry him?

You shook the thought out of your head, settling on the cushion and reaching up to help Jake slide the pajama pants down. He hooked his boxer briefs along with them, and once they slid past his hips, his cock sprang free. 

“Holy fuck, Seresin,” you whispered, looking up at his face. Jake shrugged, a kind of bashful you hadn’t seen him before. One of his hands fisted his cock loosely, like he needed something to do, and you reached up to pry his fingers away. 

No wonder he walked around like he did. 

As you wrapped your hands around him, replacing his fingers, you couldn’t deny a fresh wave of arousal washed over you. His wasn’t the longest dick you’d seen, but he was thick, a dusty rose color that you’d kill for a lipstick match of—which just made you think of why you were waiting so long to get him in your mouth. 

But he’d teased you, and when you glanced up at Jake, his hands clenched at his sides, his stomach tight, you figured he was due for a taste of his own medicine. 

You kissed up his thighs slowly, loving the contrast of wiry hair over smooth skin, and when you got to his cock, you let out a warm breath over the tip. As you watched, a smooth drop of precum appeared at the edge of his cock, and you frowned in mock sympathy, knowing how worked up he must’ve been from finishing you, while denying himself. 

“Bet you’d beg something pretty yourself, Jake,” you teased softly, licking at the drop of moisture and pulling his salty taste back into your mouth. You hummed, immediately salivating for more, but Jake’s hips jerked up as he choked in a breath.

“Darlin’...” he said, his voice low, and you had mercy on him, not needing to hear the words to know how badly he wanted this. 

“Good thing I’m nicer than you, hmm?” you asked, before you licked at him again. 

Jake’s head fell back limply as you tongued his tip, teasing the sensitive head before you licked up the length of him. This was supposed to be for him, but as you were here, you were lost in the exploration of him—the gorgeous weight of him, the musky scent of him, the rich taste, and the sounds he was making. 

You kind of loved how quiet he was being, when it was clearly costing him dearly. 

It meant that when he did burst, it was going to be loud, and you wanted that break. You kissed your way lightly back to his tip, before opening your mouth and pulling him in. 

You’d been joking earlier, about it being distracting, but fuck. The ache to your jaw was immediate, your mouth open as wide as it could to accommodate his thickness. But it felt so good, deeply satisfying, to be able to hold him like this. Warm and thick in your mouth, stretching you—you moaned around him, imagining him filling you. You hollowed your cheeks lightly, sucking, and Jake groaned above you. 

There it was. 

You pushed yourself deeper onto him, holding your breath and fighting your gag reflex, and Jake’s hands shot out to hold the back of your head, his breath a low moan that was the most beautiful sound you’d ever heard. 

You clenched your thighs together, the sound of him and the weight of him had you feeling so empty, while you knew you were physically stretching to your limits. You pulled off of him, a trail of saliva falling from between your lips and his tip, and Jake swore softly at the sight. 

“That mouth, baby,” he groaned, and you felt his thumb trace your lips, smearing your spit across it. You opened your mouth, holding out your tongue and Jake groaned again, feeding his cock back into your mouth.

You felt like he could see straight through you.

That was how it felt, his eyes boring into you as his cock stretched your jaw and his hips pressed slowly deeper. Your nostrils flared and your eyes were streaming again, but you wanted this, wanted him, wanted him to find his release in you, as you had in him. You couldn’t take him all the way down your throat, not now, although you relished the idea of training, so you found a rhythm that seemed to work for both of you. 

Jake’s hips rose slightly to meet you, as you bobbed your head up and down his length, alternating sucking and swirling your tongue over his tip. Your other hands stroked the part of him that you couldn’t fit, squeezing and pulling and you heard Jake’s breathing getting heavier. You were lightheaded, overwhelmed by him, but you couldn’t stop, not for something as simple as air. 

The stretch of him was so good, unrelenting and perfect, and the steadiness with which he held himself in check, it felt like a promise. It made your core ache, throbbing and empty, but you reached up to play with his balls. One of your hands cupped him lightly and then Jake was pulling you off of him. 

You choked at the sudden influx of air as Jake set you back on your thighs, his hands smoothing over your face as he checked you were okay. You couldn’t remember a time you’d felt better, lightheaded and dreamy, but you nodded obediently in answer to the unspoken question, and Jake pulled you to standing. You weren’t sure where he was taking you, but you knew with absolute certainty that you’d follow him.

Mercifully, it was just around the couch, and when you understood his plan, you whimpered slightly, hoping you could take it. You braced your forearms on the armrest of the coach, rocking back on your hips, presenting your ass to him, and Jake was already behind you, covering you. His long arms draped over yours, pressing you into the couch, even as his knee worked between your thighs, spreading your legs. You moaned when you felt his cock slap against your thighs, and one of Jake’s hands fell to between your legs to cup your cunt. 

“Oh, baby,” he whispered, voice somehow both rough and awed. “Is this new? You work yourself up, getting me off?”

You meant to say ‘obviously, asshole’, or ‘as if you didn’t know it’, but what came out was a truly pathetic, “Jake, please…”

He chuckled, his body stretched over yours, and the sound broke off when he guided his cock towards your core. 

“Honey, you’re so wet and warm, fuck. Need to be in you, baby, need to feel this tight cunt—”

“Do it already,” you cried, rewarded by another deep laugh from Jake, and then you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, because that thick cock was pushing into you. 

It was a good thing he was holding you up. 

Your body was shaking to accommodate him, already loosened from your orgasms and his fingers, but the stretch still bordered on painful, and you dropped your head to your forearms as he pushed into you. You weren’t doing anything, you were simply there, letting him fuck into you slowly, and you couldn’t think of anywhere better to be. 

“Fuck, honey, you’re so tight,” Jake groaned, and you knew he was trying to go slow, but that didn’t make the stretch any more attainable.

“Need you,” you managed. “Please, Jake, want to be full—”

His hips slammed forward and you cried out as he bottomed out into you. 

You felt impaled, you felt him in your throat, you felt like this was everything you could want and you trembled but held him in you. You felt full, and it was so, so good.  

“Honey,” Jake gritted, “I’ve got to move, but I need to know you’re okay.”

“I’m good,” you whispered, “let me feel you.”

He groaned, another gorgeous iteration of that sound, and when he pulled back, you clawed at the edge of the couch. It was like he was shifting your center of gravity, but the pull was re-orienting. You had no choice but to surrender to it. 

Your whole universe was balanced on the edge of the sofa. 

Jake’s thick cock, stuffing you. Jake’s strong chest, pressed against your back, his arms holding you up, pulling you to him. Jake’s sweat, dripping off of him and onto you, sweet and sticky and heady. The pull and push of him, overwhelming and deep, remaking you. 

You weren’t going to cum from this; it was too much, but it was too good to stop. You’d already had yours, and you could hear how good it was for Jake, could feel it in the tight clench of his hands and the short length of his thrusts. 

Jake groaned, a throaty sound that jolted through you as he pulled you back onto his dick.

“Sweetheart you feel so good…is this what we’ve been missing out on? This tight as fuck cunt, that I can just feel clenching around me? Touch yourself, honey, I need to feel you come again, want to feel you come on my cock.”

You couldn’t be sure if you were crying or babbling, but when Jake told you to play with yourself, you summoned your boneless limbs to do as he asked. 

When your fingers brushed your clit, you immediately pulled back; it was too much. 

“I can’t,” you gasped, hands falling back to brace against the couch. “It’s too much, Jake, I can’t–”

“Poor baby,” Jake gritted, and one of his hands smoothed down your back before dipping around to your stomach and finding his way to your clit. Your knees buckled and your hips jerked away from his hand, but a moment later you were pressing into him, needing the perfect pain of his touch. 

“Honey, you’re doing so good,” Jake’s voice was tight. “God, you feel unreal, clenching down on me like that. Are you gonna cum again? Is this pussy going to cum for me?” 

“Jake,” you sobbed, his name the only prayer you could manage.

“That’s it, baby,” he soothed, his touch gentling, even as his hips sped up. “I’m almost there; I know you are too. Where can I come, honey, where do you want me–”

“Jake,” you moaned, your head thrashing from side to side. It was too much, it wasn’t enough, but you knew you needed him. “In me…please..Jake...”

“Holy fuck,” Jake groaned. “Baby, are you sure I–”

You bucked back into him, the thought of losing his heat and his presence nearly unbearable. “Need you,” you whimpered. “Jake, please–”

“I’m right here,” Jake’s hips pistoned impossibly faster. “Fuck, I’m here, I’ve got you. Shit, honey, you feel so good, you’re gonna make me cum, baby, please–”

He ground his hips deep into you and rolled his fingers over your clit once, twice, and you shattered. Your legs gave out and you felt Jake grunt as he caught you, his hips pounding into you a couple more times and he stilled with another beautiful moan as he pumped his release into you. You felt him, hot and pulsing inside of you, and you wanted to curl up into that feeling forever—warm, full, safe. 

Jake summoned some kind of strength as he turned the both of you, him settling onto the ground and you on his lap, your cunt clenching around him, like you still couldn’t bear the thought of him leaving. You turned into his chest, and Jake wrapped his arms around you, cradling you, somehow knowing how intense that had been and that you needed the warmth of his chest before you could come back down. 

You were shaking, incredibly exhausted but deeply satisfied. And as you drifted back, you became aware of the tangible things around you—Jake’s chest hair prickling your face. Stranger Things still playing, on the TV. The cool air in the room around you, the sticky remains between your thighs. 

You lifted your head to find Jake looking down at you, his expression careful, like he was worried what he’d see. Your eyes closed again, and you managed a smile before you turned your face into his chest again, pressing a kiss to whatever was closest. His hands were locked around your back, but you could feel his thumb brushing over your skin, lightly. And it was wild, that that was what had started this all, and if you’d had the energy for it, you would’ve laughed. 

You could deal with the repercussions later, what this meant for your roommate situation, if your thigh was any worse for wear, any of that. Because that motion, that comforting gesture that Jake didn’t even seem to be aware he was doing—that meant that this was always where you were gonna end up. 

//

tagging: @bradshawsbitch @callsign-fangirl @laracrofted @datemephoenix @mandylove1000 @withahappyrefrain @gigisimsonmars @babyonboardfloyd @blue-aconite @mxgyver @hangmanbrainrot @lt-bradshaw @wildbornsiren @fuckyeahhangman @double-j @sebsxphia @javihoney @jadore-andor @teacupsandtopgun @thedroneranger

[novasillies]

wip (not) wednesday

in honour of hitting 100k words (WHAT THE FUCK) of this fic I am gonna drop a wee little snippet I suppoossseeeeeeAAAAAAAAAGAGHG

This is from the beginning (ish) of the 6th and final chapter of Third Time's The Charm season 1: 'Promises, Fools'. i only have a handful of scenes left in this chapter and then I'm DONE!!! (she says as if it's not already like 20k words long (FREE MEEEE))

“I need you,” were the first words he whispered into the soft rustling of sheets as Derek began to stir behind him. A real answer to the question he’d asked earlier. Derek probably didn’t hear. Or maybe he was too close to asleep to answer properly. Or to understand. Or maybe he just didn’t want to. He could almost hear the bullshit answer Derek would give him back if he gave one at all. ‘I’m right here,’ he’d say. ‘You already have me.’ “I don’t wanna be Him,” were the next words he said, an eternity of silence later. Derek’s hand stopped where it had been tracing back and forth right beside the concave scar tissue left over from that night at the mall. It was the only one of his scars that made him nauseous to touch. It had hurt, when the grimoire was out of his skin. It ached and burned if he strained too much. It itched. But then he’d touch it and that phantom sensation of touching his own internal organs made his stomach lurch. That and couldn’t sleep on his front or back anymore.  “Who?”  “Him,” Stiles answered, “Me. The Other Me.” After a moment, Derek answered into his skin, “I know.” Stiles took in a shaky breath, “I don’t want to. I don’t… I…” His brows met in the middle. Derek’s fingertips started to move again, more conscious in their comfort. “I don’t understand you.” He could feel the way Derek’s brows moved, just as his did, against the back of his neck, “What do you mean?” “I burned your house down,” Stiles answered mildly.  Derek’s breath caught against him, “You didn’t–” “I did,” Stiles said, “I burned it down with you and Peter inside. And you carried me to the hospital.” He turned around, unflinching with the unwanted power of his spark muting any pain from his scars once again, to stare straight into Derek’s eyes. Into the horribly familiar way his jaw tightened and his green eyes sharpened. He waited for Derek to adjust his arms around his waist before he went on, “And when I left to try and go back in time, you even went to Scott to help find me.” He blinked slowly at the just as slow downturn of Derek’s brows, “I don’t understand how you could react like that.” Those green eyes darted down for just a fraction of a second before they rose again, “It’s complicated.” “Well,” Stiles said, “I didn’t think it would be simple.” Derek’s left eye twitched, and he licked his lips, “It’s not–” He huffed a little, shifting where he lay, “It felt like it was my fault you lost control like that.” Stiles said nothing.  “The Other Stiles didn’t…” Derek’s eyes shifted away slightly, “He didn’t have to say much to convince me to keep you busy at the formal. I…” He frowned, “I guess I felt like I was…”  Stiles got sick of waiting for him to finish that sentence awfully fast, “You know He’s not gonna be better than what we saw of Him just because you love me, right?” Derek met his gaze, steadfast, “You know he’s not another you, right?” Stiles’ stomach turned.  “I said last night you don’t have a choice,” Derek nodded, “and I meant it. I love you, Stiles. And that means I love you even when you think you’re at your worst.” “You shouldn’t,” Stiles spat with narrowed eyes, “My worst is deadly, Derek. My worst is getting possessed and stringing together elaborate plots to kill and terrorise as many as possible. It’s wrecking my car. It’s shattering mirrors and vomiting and snapping necks and burning down houses.” The words flowed out of him like molten lava, “Blind faith is the killer of devotion, you remember that?”

Oh boy, oh boy. what a joyful conversation. yikes!! anyway. i am having a whale of a time writing this (how in the world is that actually a saying. are whales well known for their recreational fun???) and cannot wait for the like two people that r gonna read it wowowww

ofc no-pressure tag to the og gangster @patolemus (and anyone else who so wishes to share. please do!! love love love)

read the prequel (or the original fic i guess?), Twice And For All, here <3

[colormepurplex2]

Did It Hurt? | Flicker of Hope

↳ FallenAngel!Taehyung x LostSoul!f.Reader ⤜ Fallen Angel AU, Strangers to Lovers ⤜ Rating: MA 🔞 ⤜ WC: 15,057 ⚠️ Crass language, unwanted drunken advances, being drugged, blackmail, descriptions of past sexual acts, hidden desires, criminal activity, alluded to SA & potential human trafficking/disappearances, Tae has feelings he’s trying to suppress, scars/vulnerability over past incidents

Next Chapter⇾ ⇽Previous Chapter ◅ Back to series masterlist

Taehyung, 100 years into exile, somewhere in Los Angeles

“Did it hurt?”

The words barely carry over the clamor of the nightclub. But, to Taehyung, they’re as clear as if they were spoken right into his ear. It makes his lips twist in disgust. Because who actually uses that line anymore?

Taehyung flicks his eyes over the scene in front of him. It’s a Friday night, and the place is filled with gyrating bodies and thumping bass. Some frat-boy wannabe is practically crawling into the lap of the goddess—and that’s thought with the utmost respect because it’s precisely what she looks like in her sleek black minidress, vibrant auburn curls, smokey makeup, and red-bottomed heels—sitting at the bar, trying to enjoy her fruity cocktail.

The way she angles her body away from the guy and pointedly stabs the little plastic red saber from her drink into a chunk of pineapple floating on top should be sign enough for the douchebag to clearly see she’s not interested.

“Idiot,” Taehyung murmurs under his breath before bringing his whisky on the rocks to his lips and taking a measured sip. He drums his fingers on the lacquered tabletop where he’s seated at one of the hightops a few feet away. This is one of his usual haunts, a place with the perfect blend of class and an underlying taste of debauchery. It should be the ideal hunting ground, however it remains to be fruitful. Though, perhaps his luck is about to change.

“Come on, baby, don’t be like that. Humor me. Did it hurt?”

There is a moment of hesitation with how the woman’s shoulders hitch up, and Taehyung watches as varying emotions flick across her face before she trains it back to a neutral expression. He can read her like an open book; too bad Douchebag can’t seem to. She’ll entertain him simply to avoid confrontation and make a scene. It's supposedly a polite way to try and thwart unwanted male attention; he’s seen it far too many times before.

“Did what hurt?” comes the exasperated reply. Her lips twitch into a strained smile that’s more of a grimace which Douchebag probably mistakes for being coy. The way her body curls in on itself, and she leans away from his pawing hands, makes Taehyung grind his molars. Human men are stupid; it's no wonder he’s had such a hard time finding any redeeming opportunities in the world.

“When you fell from heaven, angel.”

And there it is. Taehyung rolls his eyes, finishing his drink. “Insipid fool, of course it hurts to fall from Heaven,” he grumbles. A burning, phantom itch crawls up his spine, a reminder of just how much it hurts. It’s a moment in time that he relives every time he closes his eyes. Which, perhaps, can be blamed for why he’s grown so callous and flippant over the years. Nightmares will do that to someone, Seraphim or not.

“Does that really work?” the woman bites out before downing the rest of her drink and shoving the empty glass away. She’s out of her seat and trying to give Douchebag a wide berth before his snail brain can even catch up with her words.

It’s comical watching him finally get it. He throws his head back and guffaws loudly before stumbling in her direction. She goes to sidestep around him but is stopped short when she bumps into a barstool someone just slid back as they stood. Douchebag crowds her against the bar, and Taehyung is tempted to intervene, but something niggles at the back of his mind; he’s curious about what she’ll do.

“You tell me, is it working, angel?”

A saccharine smile curves her lips, baring her teeth in a mockery of flirtation. Taehyung wishes he could read her as easily as he did earlier, but somehow, she’s masking her emotions and intentions to the point her form nearly blurs across his vision.

“That remains to be seen. How about you let me try?” Her words are light and airy, intentionally being falsely sweet. Douchebag’s alcohol-soaked brain doesn’t pick up on the trap he’s about to fall into. Taehyung is thrilled. “Did it hurt?” she asks, batting her eyelashes at him. “Did what hurt?” Douchebag asks, teeth sinking into his bottom lip in what he surely believes is a sexy manner, but Taehyung thinks it comes off more like he’s constipated. “Me kneeing you in the balls.”

The words accompany the action. Her right knee comes up, and all Taehyung can see from this angle is the sudden doubling over of Douchebag. He sways heavily to the side, unsteady on his feet, as the woman pushes by him, a triumphant smile half-hidden behind a hand as she disappears into the crowd.

“How clever,” Taehyung muses to himself. He spares one last glance at the man still cupping the front of his jeans before following the tug of intrigue that’s swiftly escaping on 6-inch heels. He catches sight of the woman just as she slips out the front entrance of the bar.

It’s easy to pick her out on the sidewalk. Even if it weren’t for the distinct click-clack of her shoes on the pavement, he’d be able to follow her by sheer feeling alone. It’s been decades since he’s felt someone so clearly, so viscerally. Taehyung can’t stop until his curiosity has been satiated.

The woman doesn’t hail a taxi or head toward a railway station. She only goes a few city blocks down before she cuts across the street, her eyes flicking both ways as she crosses to the luxury apartment building on the corner.

Taehyung catches the flash of a sleek black and red card as she passes the porter. “Evening, ma’am.” The guard gives her a nod before bringing his attention back to the sidewalk.

There can only be one place that card gains her access to—the top floor penthouse. Taehyung gives the surrounding block a cursory glance, looking for the perfect vantage point. He appraises the angle of the top floor windows before skirting around the back of the building and quickly vaulting over the security fence. If his presence raises an alarm, he’s unaware of it as no one appears to question him.

It’s typical of these kinds of places. There is plenty of security on the front side, with no open windows and no direct buildings across that will allow someone to peep in on the residence. But, on the backside, past all the lavish greenery and the immaculate tennis and basketball courts? Taehyung glances up at the zigzag of the fire escape on the building directly behind the condominium highrise. Just as he expected, all it will take is him climbing the iron platforms, and he’ll have the perfect view through the backside of the penthouse.

He begins his ascent, easily pulling himself up and over the railing of the fire escape and making quick work of the several stories until he lines himself with the one he needs. The condominium is a few floors shorter than the building he’s scaling, making it even more comical that there is so little thought put into the security back here. Anyone worth their merit could do precisely what he’s doing. It’s laughable…and alarming.

Settling in on the fire escape platform of the eighth floor, he glances around to be sure whoever is attached to this particular landing won’t stumble across him somehow. The curtains over the windows are drawn, with no lights coming from within. Taking a calming breath of the tepid night air, he dangles his feet over the edge of the platform and rests his arms on one of the support bars of the railing.

Unsurprisingly, he made it up here faster than the woman, who he presumes must have taken the elevator. He’s always been known for his speed, even more so when he’s on the prowl for something. He might have lost his wings, but he’s kept nearly everything else: speed, heightened senses, and a penchant for picking up on the emotions of others. It’s insufferable, being neither mortal nor fully immortal, but a mockery of something in between.

From his vantage point, he can only see the penthouse’s elaborate sprawl of patio, the pool, and the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the entire back wall. The inside is dark save for the soft blue LED lights from the sleek kitchen appliances and an under-glow along the bottom of what he assumes is a flatscreen TV on the wall.

A few minutes pass, and then Taehyung watches as the light from the upper elevator lobby spills into the space, illuminating a sliver of the grossly opulent penthouse. The woman flicks a switch on a panel on the wall by the entry, and the living space floods with bright, white light. Everything is modern, with sleek lines and glaring metal.

Confusion makes Taehyung tuck his bottom lip between his teeth as he tries to connect the decadent, vivacious creature that the woman is with such a jarring and emotionless space. It doesn’t make sense. Unless…

Taehyung smiles as he watches the woman pull out a black leather billfold from where it is hidden in her cleavage. She flips it open, briefly thumbing through the thick wad of cash and the pockets dense with credit cards. Even from this distance, with his heightened vision, he can clearly make out the license behind the plastic pocket. The smiling face belongs to none other than Douchebag from the bar. She picked his pocket. Taehyung can’t help but laugh with delight.

And now Taehyung is almost sure he knows why the penthouse doesn’t look like it belongs to her. It excites him to consider the prospect of finally getting an inkling of the mysterious puzzle that this goddess has become for him. In fact, he’s reasonably certain if he waits just a little bit longer, it will be confirmed.

A noise Taehyung can’t hear must draw her attention because she shoves the wallet back into her cleavage before spinning around. The door to the penthouse swings open, revealing a well-dressed businessman with a slimy grin on his face. Taehyung hopes all the more that he’s right about his guess.

The familiarity the man has with the place says it all. He tosses a set of keys onto the table by the entryway and toes off his brown leather brogues while undoing the buttons of his brown and cream tweed jacket. The jacket gets hung up in a closet, though the man’s eyes never leave the woman standing in the open living space. Her back is to Taehyung, so he can only guess that she’s speaking to the man with how he reacts and how attentive he’s being.

A predatory smile slowly forms on the man’s face as he advances on the woman. She stands her ground, her shoulders rolling slightly back as her chin tilts up. Before the man can grab her, she deftly moves to the side and pointedly directs herself to a wet bar across the living room. The man laughs, though it is silent to Taehyung’s ears, the thick double-paned glass proving to be more than even his hearing can work through.

It plays out like a silent comedy before Taehyung: the man gabs on, gesturing animatedly with his hands, probably boasting about his latest business conquest. At the same time, the woman remains silent, pouring him a finger of scotch. What the man doesn’t notice, for all his attention being focused mainly on himself, is the small packet of powder the woman produces that ends up tipped into the scotch glass.

She turns with a false smile on her face, offering the drink to the man. He takes it with a flourish and downs all the contents in one gulp. Carelessly tossing the glass to the side, where it lands on the leather sofa, he reaches for her again, only to come up short as he stumbles. He’s on his knees before he can right himself, a look of pure bewildered confusion on his face before his eyes roll into the back of his head, and he pitches forward in a heavy heap.

Taehyung smiles, his curiosity doubling as he tries to piece together what might happen next. What started as a bit of entertainment at the bar has come full circle into a spectacular show that Taehyung is grateful he has a front-row seat to. Maybe he’s finally getting a break after nearly one hundred years of searching. Perhaps this is his path back into the Arms of Grace…or the failure that will seal his fate in the 9th Circle. He sighs, resting his chin on his forearm where it’s draped over the support bar of the railing, and waits patiently.

🤍🤍🤍

Roy Simmons is an arrogant pig; there’s no doubt about that. Even passed out the way he is with his mouth open and drool beginning to drip from the corner of his lips, he still looks every bit like an asshole, which is precisely why you’re doing what you’re doing. He’s just the next rung on a long ladder of revenge.

This is your third time coming to Roy’s place. The first was to establish contact, the second was simply to dig your claws into him a little more, and now you’re ready for the grand finale. But, it’s not like you want to be here, not really. It’s just a means to an end. Well, multiple endings. It puts a stop to creeps like Roy from hurting innocent people, but it also puts you one step closer, the final step really, to him—Lorren Bianchi, the man responsible for the death of your best friend, Danika.

She died two years ago at the hands of Bianchi. It was supposed to be a routine night, just something to earn a little extra money as Danika put herself through nursing school. She had become an escort; nothing serious, just being arm candy for rich men. But, it went sideways…really sideways when she met Lorren Bianchi. The man put a leash around Danika’s neck and never let her go. It still pains you to think about it. The only balm to ease the ache is the prospect of watching him suffer the way she did.

Roy works for Bianchi. As have all the other losers you’ve sunk your teeth into over the last two years. They’re all part of the same end game. You’re climbing your own corporate ladder of sorts; one built from blackmail and seething hate. Speaking of which, you turn back to Roy, shoving his shoulder with your heel until he rolls over onto his back.

Grabbing his wrists, you heave and jerk until you manage to drag him across the floor and into the adjoining main bedroom. This penthouse is the one he uses when he wants a night away from his wife, which is more often than not. You know he gave her an excuse tonight of working late so he’d just crash at his downtown place before coming home tomorrow morning for the weekend.

It makes you feel bad thinking about the woman who attached herself to such a despicable man and how you’ve knowingly slept with her husband. But, it’s honestly the leverage you need to take Roy down. You know they signed a hefty prenup, required by her father when they got married. The perks of coming from another well-to-do business family, you suppose. If something happens, she walks away with over half his money and holdings in the business. He would go from being in the top ten wealthiest men in the city to just another blip on the radar. Which is why you know he’ll crack; he’ll give you exactly what you want.

Maneuvering him onto the bed is nearly as tricky as it is to strip off his clothing. You think maybe you should have waited to drug him until he was already naked and on the bed, but hindsight is twenty-twenty. Finally, once you’ve gotten him positioned into the middle of the bed, his pasty, fleshy body spread eagle, you dig for the restraints you know he has installed in the posts. You tighten them around his ankles and wrists, perhaps a little tighter than they should go, but you can’t find it in you to care; let him hurt.

Because he’s a sick fuck, you know there is also video recording equipment in the closet. The asshole has an entire box full of discs labeled with not names, no, but features. Big tits, round ass, blue eyes, braids, chin dimple…the list goes on, each DVD with their own scrawl in permanent marker. You stumbled across them the second time you were here when you managed to put him into a drunken stupor to the point he passed out in the shower, leaving you to snoop.

You were looking for anything that might hold a list of his personal contacts. In the end, you found that and so much more, which is why you bumped up your finale for Mr. Simmons. The sooner you take him down, the quicker his grubby hands stay to himself, and he can’t lure in any more unsuspecting women.

Grabbing the tripod from the closet, you position your phone on the contraption, angling it to get a full view of the bed. As you stand there, assessing your work, you get a weird tingling sensation between your shoulder blades. Oddly, you feel like you’re being watched. Though, you know, being in the penthouse, that should be impossible. There is no building directly behind the condominium.

No matter how much you twitch your shoulders and tell yourself to ignore the sensation, it won't disappear. So, to humor yourself, you turn and peer out the floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the back wall of the bedroom. The glass stretches across the entire backside, broken up only by the backdoor and the vertical supports between each giant pane.

All you can see is the back patio. The lip of the pool is just barely visible, highlighted by the twinkling fairy lights strung around the garden. The closest building is easily a city block and a half away, with enough room for tennis and basketball courts to separate the condominium property and the next building. It would only be possible for someone to be watching you if they had some sort of telephoto lens or something. 

But that would mean Roy knew, or someone else figured it out and had been following you. Which, at this point, let them watch. You have enough evidence to bury half the city as it is. What you’re doing might be illegal; blackmailing someone is never smiled upon, you don’t think. However, you’re confident you’d get a clap on the back for a job well done instead of a clap on the wrist with a bit of metal.

Roy begins to groan and shift around on the bed. Which means it’s showtime.

You click the button to record as soon as he utters, “What the fuck?” Only it comes out half coherent and accompanied by a generous dribble of saliva down his chin. It would be just like him to look like a blubbering man-baby as he comes to. He’s whimpering between mutters, finally gaining enough coherency to realize what’s happening.

“Hello, Roy,” you say, drawing his attention to where you stand behind the tripod holding your phone.

“Ginger,” Roy sighs what he believes is your name, in relief. “Ginger, baby, what are you up to? Is this some new kink you want to try out? I have to say, I don’t know if I’m a fan.” He chuckles nervously, tugging at the restraints. “Loosen these for me, will you, baby?”

“What’s the matter, Roy, don’t like being the helpless one?”

He smirks, tugging more, trying to sit up. The ties are tight, leaving little slack for him to move much other than his central bulk. His hips flex, the flabby meat of his stomach jiggling as he wiggles around. “Okay, baby, I’ll bite. What do I gotta do to get you to take these off?”

“Do you remember what we did last weekend?” you muse softly, laying the first layer of the trap.

Roy gives you an appreciative up and down. “You mean when I shoved your face in the pillow and pounded your sassy little tail until you screamed? Or how about when I shoved my cock so far down your throat that you gagged?”

You internally roll your eyes, not wanting to break character just yet. “Sure, Roy, what else?”

“Let’s see. Oh, can’t forget how I sprayed my cum all over those pretty tits of yours before I made you rub it into your skin.” The flaccid appendage between his thighs gives a jerk. “That was probably my favorite part.”

Your skin crawls at the memory. You nearly scalded yourself in the shower once you got home, turning the water so hot it made you cry out, and the heat lingered long after. “I’m not the first, though, am I? The first you’ve done all that with, I mean.”

“Awe, Ginger, baby, all those other women meant nothing to me. You’re my favorite. Now, let me show you just how much I love that tight body of yours. Untie me.”

You step to the side of the tripod, and Roy’s eyes light up in triumph. “Hmm...I don’t think I will. Not until you give me what I want, at least.”

Roy wiggles his hips. “Come take what you want, baby.”

You can’t help but laugh, the peeling litany echoing through the room as you give in to the dark humor of the situation. “Oh, Roy, that’s hilarious. You could be a comedian.”

The smile slowly leeches from his face, and lines appear between his brows as he narrows them. “What the hell are you going on about? Untie me. Now.”

“It’s simple, Roy. The last thing I want is your wimpy dick. Once was enough and quite pitiful, I might add. Though, while we’re on the subject of sticking your dick in places, why don’t you say ‘hello’ to Miriam and explain to her why we’re even having this particular conversation?” You nod at the phone on the tripod.

He pales, sweat popping up along his receding hairline. “You’re lying.”

“Oh, how I wish I were,” you say, reciting off Miriam’s phone number to prove how much you’re not. “All I have to do is hit send, Roy, and you can kiss seventy-five percent of your assets goodbye. Prenups are a bitch, huh? If I’m not mistaken, part of it specifically says no affairs or adultery of any kind. Hell, with that, she might even try to take more than that for simply being the disgusting asshole that you are.”

His struggle stops, and you can audibly hear him swallow. “What do you want from me?” he asks, licking his trembling lips.

You reach back and turn off the recording, quickly sending it off to several different places, so you have copies just in case. You tell Roy just as much, giving him a pointed look when he tries to open his mouth to protest. “What I want is very simple, Roy,” you begin before laying it all out for him. His eyes grow wide as you explain, shaking his head in protest with each additional request until you’re almost sure tears are gathering in his eyes.

“That’s impossible,” he whispers thickly.

“You better hope it’s not, for your own sake.” You grab your phone and turn to leave, knowing the maid will find him when she comes by to clean in the morning. “Oh, and Roy?” You glance back over your shoulder at him, “Don’t do anything stupid, like trying to find a way out of this. You deliver, or I do.” You shake your phone, waving it at him as a reminder of what you have.

🤍🤍🤍

Taehyung

In all his years among mortals, he’s never found himself so wholly and utterly intrigued. There have been instances, especially in the early years of his exile, where he found himself hounding after anyone who even remotely seemed like a redemption opportunity. He salivated at the prospect of serving his time and swiftly regaining his wings.

Heavens Above, there was even a time when Taehyung thought perhaps if he could find a damned soul and deliver them as soon as possible, it would curry favor with his Brothers, and they would welcome him back sooner than his one-hundred prospected years. He gave up that pipe dream around the twenty-year mark.

It’s not that he’s grown to enjoy the mortal plane, not exactly. There’s just something freeing about being able to live a little and breathe deeper without worrying about stepping on toes or crossing some divine line drawn in the sand. These thoughts are kept personal, of course.

Taehyung knows if his Brothers ever caught wind of his musings and the way he’s grown to resent them over the years, they’d slam the Pearly Gates and throw away the key along with his wings, which are probably covered in dust and molting away in a corner somewhere. That phantom itch comes alive once more, lingering heat and pain web across his shoulders before he can stop it.

Directing his focus back on the woman, he watches as she saunters from the room, all haughty confidence and severity. It’s not until she’s out of sight of the pitiful man on the bed that her shoulders droop like there’s a heavy weight bearing down on them. He can see it now, something he was distracted from before; there is a haggardness around her bright eyes and a tightness around the curve of her lips.

A sensation he hasn’t felt since—well, since one hundred years ago—twists in his chest as he watches her dig through the coat closet by the door. Taehyung’s brows draw down as she pulls out a backpack and stands there staring down at it. The fact she’s lingering in the penthouse worries him. He’s unsure what she’s doing or what the bag is for. She didn’t come in with anything that he could see, no purse or clutch. Spinning on her heel, she marches back to the bedroom, startling the man on the bed. He starts to yell at her, Taehyung thinks, based on how wide his mouth opens and how red he grows in the face.

It’s comical, watching the man cut off whatever he’s saying and nearly swallow his tongue when the woman holds up her phone threateningly. Taehyung wasn’t sure what was going on at first, but he’s slowly been putting together the pieces, he believes.

She moves to the closet, stooping down to the point Taehyung can only see the red bottoms of her heels and the barest hint of the curve of her ass. He swallows hard, tucking away the tempting thought that springs up with that appraisal. Sexual deviance is what landed him where he is. It’s a fine line to walk, which he’s mostly avoided for the last hundred years.

A few moments later, she emerges from the closet, the backpack bulging. The man closes his eyes, his lips pressed into a trembling line as she moves back across the room and exits once again. This time, she doesn’t stop, swiftly making her escape through the front door. 

Taehyung looks down, contemplating how long it’ll take him to descend and make it back to the front side of the building in time to catch the woman coming out. He stands up, lightly brushing his hands along his slacks, and absently smoothes his white dress shirt. He might have dressed a little more appropriately if he had known he was going on such an adventure tonight. As it is, the suede Tom Ford loafers on his feet have acquired some scuffs and unsightly stains.

Before he can lament over his shoes anymore, he quickly makes his way down the zig-zag of the fire escape. Taking his time, he traverses the condominium grounds and easily climbs back over the fence before leisurely strolling down the service alley and onto the sidewalk just as the front door swings open and the porter bids a good evening to the goddess. If the porter finds it odd she is leaving with a bag she didn’t go in with, he doesn’t mention it.

Following a dozen feet behind, Taehyung watches as the woman slings the backpack over a shoulder and takes off at a brisk pace down the sidewalk. Again, she doesn’t hail a taxi or head toward a railway station. She either lives nearby or perhaps has an ulterior motive to avoiding those places in particular.

Considering his long legs and stride, it doesn’t take much to keep up with her. The heels slow her down considerably as well, but Taehyung also realizes that she’s on the slighter side, height mostly being attributed to said shoes, it seems. It’s hard not to watch her body bounce and sway because of them, too. They cause an exaggerated sway to her hips, which already seem quite daring on their own.

Clearing his throat, he forces himself to think of something other than her hips, like what’s in that bag that was so important she chose to go back into that bedroom. Taehyung’s curiosity doesn’t need to last long as she turns down the next cross street and approaches a nondescript apartment building. There is no porter out front, just a simple iron gate in front of a quaint garden that she gains access through with a keycode.

If he were anyone else, he would miss the code completely, being several yards behind her. But he’s not anyone else; he’s Taehyung—a fallen angel complete with heightened senses, including eyesight. 1306, and he has just as much access as she does. Perhaps it should feel like a violation of her privacy, but considering what he witnessed her doing earlier, he feels it’s mildly justified. Now, to just get a little closer.

“Hello? Excuse me?” Taehyung calls out, shoving his hand in his pocket and grabbing whatever his fingers close around. He glances at his hand, noting the two rumpled one hundred dollar bills now pinched in his fingers. “I believe you dropped these just a moment ago as you crossed the street.”

Cool, calculating eyes flick over him before landing on the proffered bills. She didn’t drop them, but if anything he’s observed proves helpful, he’s reasonably sure she’ll take the bills–the bait–anyway.

Her appraising gaze settles on his eyes for a moment as if she’s trying to gauge whether or not he’s a threat before they dip to the money again. She hesitates only a second, long enough that Taehyung knows she’s far more competent than he gave her credit for. She’s cautious, which is good.

“Hm,” she softly hums. “So I did. Thank you.”

The touch of her skin against his is electric, a zing that he’s experienced a few times over the last century. It’s the feel of a soul on the brink of disaster, a subtle taste of darkness lingering around her edges. Taehyung doesn’t immediately release the bills, wanting to brand the feel of her fingers brushing alongside his for as long as possible.

“You’re welcome…” he trails off, raising his brows and tilting his chin in question.

“Ginger,” she offers, a fake smile straining her lips as she gives a sharp tug to the money, pulling it from his fingers.

The name grates, sliding over his mind like razors. A lie; of course she would give a false name. It’s poised on the tip of his tongue to call her bluff, to implore for her real name, but he knows he needs to tread lightly with this one.

“Ginger,” he repeats, the name pinching his tongue with the lie. “Charmed. I’m Taehyung, Kim,” he tacks on to see if the name might trigger something for her.

Her eyes flick over him once more, what might be mistaken as recognition flashing in their depths. “Yeah, okay. Thanks again, Taehyung. Have a good evening.”

It’s a dismissal. He knows that and can sense the unease that’s thrumming from her body, so he relents. Stepping back, he nods his head and makes to go back down the sidewalk from the direction he approached. “You, too,” he calls over his shoulder to the already empty sidewalk.

Taehyung stops just shy of the next building, listening to the telltale signs that she’s gone in. The soft snick of metal, the hushed tap of her heels over the front welcome mat, the equally quiet click of the door opening, and her murmured “fucking hell” before she steals away beyond it.

It’s easy to follow, punching in the four-digit code he observed. “Seventh floor,” Taehyung murmurs to himself as he watches the digital display above the elevator stop. It’s fitting, he thinks, considering she was just on the seventh floor of that highrise, binding that businessman to the bed. Maybe seven is her lucky number. He hopes so; he’s partial to it himself.

🤍🤍🤍

Tonight could have gone much better, but it wasn’t a complete disaster either. An easy smirk slides onto your face when you toss the two hundred dollars on the dining table. “What a fucking idiot,” you muse to yourself, proceeding to drop off your other winnings for the night. Douchebag’s wallet makes a satisfying thud on the glass surface, thick with cash and untold possibilities. “If you wanted to give up two just to say ‘hi’, I won’t complain.” Though there is something you feel you should know, something about his name almost seemed familiar.

You shrug and turn your attention to everything else. Fingering the zipper on the backpack sobers you quickly, the random encounter downstairs disappearing from your thoughts completely. The DVD collection is far less enjoyable of a prize tonight. It’s daunting to think about how long it will take to try and track down the victims. Because that’s what they are to you. Even if they knew about the recordings, which you’re certain most didn’t, it still feels like a gross violation that Roy hoarded them like sick treasures.

“So itchy,” you grump, grabbing a fistful of the stark auburn curls atop your head. With achingly slow movements, you ease the wig away. The tape and glue tug, but with a practiced hand, you finally get it off with minimal irritation. It joins the pile on the table, to be dealt with when you have more energy. Right now, all you want is a shower and your bed.

You don’t bother turning on any of the lights, intimately comfortable in your own space that you can navigate it with your eyes closed. Abandoning your heels by the table, you shrug out of the body-hugging dress, leaving it in a puddle somewhere between the living room and your bedroom, and make your way to the bathroom.

All you want to do is take a shower and fall into a near-comatose state for the next twenty-four hours while you wait for Roy to deliver. The shower part goes well; the hot water helps to relax the anxiety and tension that seem to reside permanently in your shoulders. 

However, once you slip beneath the duvet and close your eyes for sleep, your body feels like it’s high-strung with electricity. Restlessness hums beneath your skin. Not wanting to spend the next several hours trying to convince your body it needs sleep, you feel around in the side drawer of your nightstand until you find what you want.

The sleeping pills go down dry; you don’t have the energy to get up and grab a glass of water. Now, to just wait for them to take effect. You fuss with the edge of the duvet, folding the fabric and rubbing it between your fingers over and over. The goosedown and satin set is one of the only luxuries you’ve allowed yourself over the last two years. It’s not that you’re punishing yourself. You just don’t want to waste extra time or energy on creature comforts when so much still needs to be done.

Your chest aches every time you stop to think about Danika. She would berate you for spending so much time focused on her rather than going out there and living your life. You just can’t help it; in many ways, you feel responsible for what happened. Sure, you didn’t make Lorren Bianchi kill her, but you might as well have delivered her right into his murderous hands.

It was your idea to sign up for the escort service, swearing it was just for fun and extra money; that surely all those movies and shows were just being dramatic for cinematic reasons. Oh, how you wish that were the case.

Not a single day goes by that you don’t think about how much you wish it were just an exaggeration. The icing on the cake, though? Lorren was supposed to be your client. But you got your schedule mixed up and overbooked yourself that night. Danika said she could use the extra cash and volunteered to take the commitment.

Everything changed after that. Lorren poured thousands of dollars into wining and dining Danika over the next few months. She slowly started to pull away, spending time with him even outside the allotted dates scheduled with the service.

Then, one day, you woke up, and she hadn’t returned to your shared apartment. It was excruciating waiting an entire twenty-four hours before calling the cops and an even worse week waiting for them to do something. They never did. It wasn’t until a month after you first reported her missing that something happened. Her body was found, floating down the Los Angeles River just outside Burbank. Strangled, tossed out with the trash.

You’ll never forget being called in to identify her remains. Danika had no family, just you. Her parents moved to the States from Russia when she was just a few years old. They both passed the summer before sophomore year in high school, putting her in the foster system. You met her freshman year of college. She was your dorm mate and started off so quiet and reserved. Little did you know she was just trying not to fall apart on the inside.

One night, you came in late from a cram session in the library to find her crying, sitting in the middle of the floor with faded family photos arrayed around her. She tried to apologize and beg off talking, but you slowly coaxed her into opening up. You had been inseparable ever since.

It’s not fair. She was far too young and had so much more to give in life. Graduation was just around the corner when it all came crumbling down. You try to summon the memory of her laugh, just to have something to cling to, but it’s muted as your thoughts grow fuzzy. The memories fade, and the pain and ache from the loss of Danika washed away on a pill-laden sleep.

🤍🤍🤍

Taehyung

It’s been two hours since you–his goddess–disappeared upstairs. He doesn’t stop to think about how he’s already considering you to be his; it just feels right. And who is he to question that? Taehyung has long since stopped sending up prayers; they are never answered anyway. However, for some reason, he finds himself taking a moment to center himself, which consists of a quick mutterance of peace. It’ll have to do.

There are four units on the seventh floor. But it’s easy enough to guess which belongs to you. Two of the doors are decorated in full-blown holiday decor, bright colors and themed welcome mats. He doesn’t have to know you deeply to understand that’s not your style. The last two are more similar. Though, the closer he looks, the more evident it is which unit is yours, considering the ‘BYOB, bring your own babes’ welcome mat situated in front of one. For some reason, he doesn’t think that’s quite your style, either. The far more plain, yet inviting, ‘welcome’ is his guess.

The lock on the door is easy to pick. There is no security, no cameras or electronic keypads, which would ruffle his feathers—if he still had them. He’ll have to address that later, once he’s established himself within your life somehow.

The door to your apartment opens on silent hinges once he slides the small set of tools back into his wallet. They’re something he took to carrying around after locking himself out of his own place one too many times. A key is so easily lost, such a small, tedious, and fumbly little thing; even tucked in his wallet, it would often fall out.

Taehyung doesn’t have friends, per se, so it’s not like he can let someone hang on to a spare for him. He used to luxuriate in the solitude, spending countless hours sequestered behind closed doors as a means to reflect on his actions and seek repentance. Now, though, he realizes he’s grown quite lonely—no time like the present to change that.

Closing the door just as softly behind him, he toes off his shoes and takes in the space around him. He can tell instantly that he was right in this being your place, it smells of you. It’s not as lavish or garishly expensive as the penthouse was, but it’s also relatively devoid of personality. There is no permanence to the place. Very minimal, and as if you could easily pick up one moment and be gone without a thought of much effort.

So, you’re a runner. Or some close equivalent. That could prove troublesome for him if you decide to pick up and move off now that whatever game you were playing with the sleazeball from the penthouse seems to be done. He’s not sure how easy it would be for him to track you. So, he now wonders, is there anything else keeping you here? He hopes to find the answer to that somewhere among your scant things.

It doesn’t take long to browse through the kitchen and the living room. There are only a few dishes in the cabinets, nothing fancy, just the basics. There is a sofa in the living room and a small flatscreen TV sitting on the floor. The thin layer of dust sitting on the remote lets him know you don’t spend your free time keeping up with the latest TV drama.

The space is minimally furnished, but there is still a class to it. It’s a newer building, and the living area is expansive compared to most places in the city proper. The dining table sits between the kitchen and living room, holding the only items that seem to be remotely interesting.

Taehyung recognizes the backpack and the billfold. Derrek Lanier, a fitting name for Douchebag. He sets the wallet back down, going for the bag next. It’s filled with DVD cases; the matte covers all sporting white stickers with handwritten titles. However, titles are a loose interpretation of what these seem to be. The labels all just list physical features instead of proper names. Taehyung almost wishes he had visited the penthouse after you left. This isn’t painting a pretty picture for the guy.

Before his anger can get the best of him and make him abandon this in favor of doing just that, his eye catches on a pile of red fluffy curls sitting behind the backpack. He fingers a ringlet, holding back a chuckle when he realizes it’s a wig. It's a very fine, quality wig. He’s pleasantly surprised. What other astounding things do you have waiting for him? He’s even more eager to get to your bedroom now.

The hardwood floor is cold under his socked feet as they whisper down the hall. There are three doors, two closed and one ajar. Peeking into the open door, he gives the bathroom a once over. It’s clean, smelling lightly of floral body wash with an underlying burn of bleach.

Taking his chance on the first closed door, he slowly turns the knob and pushes it open. The room beyond is empty, completely devoid of furniture or belongings. The air feels stale, like the room is never used, perhaps even forgotten. He’s just about to turn and close the door when he notices that the closet door of the room is not closed all the way.

Perhaps it's his curiosity about why the door is open when no one is clearly using this room, or maybe it’s a sixth sense Taehyung has that draws him to it. But he gnaws his bottom lip for a moment before stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. He approaches the closet tentatively, readying himself for disappointment.

The click of the light switch sounds muted in comparison to the gasp he emits when light floods the small space of the closet. If he weren’t so distracted, he might have cursed himself for being so careless like that.

“Hells Fire,” he whispers, taking in the four walls completely covered in pictures, sticky notes, and sheets of paper.

It’s like something straight out of a crime show. He’s wiled away enough hours consuming that kind of brain rot to know. The only thing missing is the red yarn stretching between push pins connecting the scatter of photos.

It’s a murder board. That much is clear, though. Some of the images have red Xs drawn on them. Looking close enough, he recognizes some of the faces—well-to-do businessmen, just like the one from tonight. There are a few scanner copies of autopsy reports and some X-ray photos, though none look masculine. As far as he’s aware, none of these men have died. They’re all still very much alive and still very wealthy.

So, maybe not a murder board…but what?

Pulling out his phone, Taehyung takes a few photos of the display, hoping to be able to spend more time deciphering it when he’s not sneaking around your apartment with the risk of getting caught.

A small cardboard box sits in a corner. Taehyung peels back one of the flaps, peeking inside. There are two pictures, both in frames, a small wooden jewelry box, and a deflated Valentine balloon still attached to the plastic stick.

Grabbing one of the frames, Taehyung squints at the grainy, dated photo. It’s of a man and a woman, the sepia tones indicating its age. There is some water damage along the edges, as if the image were saved from a damp space before being put into the simple black frame.

The other frame is more stylish, reminiscent of the 90s, with rainbow flowers and smiley faces around the rim. He recognizes one of the two girls in the picture. At least, he believes it’s a younger version of you. The girl has the same eyes, if more full of life, and the same mouth, just less severe.

The girls are laughing, arms wrapped around each other as they face the camera. Taehyung can’t help but smile as he looks at it. Their joy infectious even through a snapshot like this. He brushes a finger over your smile before letting his digit swipe over the platinum blond hair of the other girl. Her twinkling blue eyes pour into the camera, holding a vibrancy that speaks of a careless and loving attitude.

A line forms between Taehyung's brows. The longer he looks at the photo, the more it sparks a recollection. Straightening from where he was crouching down beside the box, he holds up the picture and looks from it to the wall and back again–searching.

Dread, a cold trickle, seeps down his spine when he realizes why the girl looks familiar. Looking closer, he compares the black and white photocopy from the autopsy report to the smiling blonde in the frame. It’s easier to connect the dots now. Clearly, something happened to this girl—Danika Petrov, according to the report—and you’re out for revenge of some sort.

Shaking his head, Taehyung takes a quick shot of the photo in his hand before returning it to the box and turning out the light. He’s learned a lot, far more than he thought he would. There’s a lot to mull over. But first, he has one more place he wishes to explore before he leaves.

Taehyung is extra quiet as he eases the door open to your bedroom. It’s just as devoid of things as everywhere else. Your bed sits against one wall, centered between two heavily curtained windows. The mound in the middle of the bed calls to him. But, first things first, a look around so he doesn’t miss anything with the distraction.

There is no bathroom attached, just a walk-in closet that holds scant clothing and shoes. The single bedside table has a phone, lamp, and a white pill bottle sitting on it. Upon closer inspection, Taehyung sees that the bottle is sleeping pills. It makes him curious about what kind of nightmares you have in order to need assistance sleeping. With everything he’s seen so far, he doesn’t have to imagine much.

Easing open the small drawer on the nightstand, he smiles in triumph. Peeking out under the corner of some miscellaneous items, a blank notepad, pen, hair ties, tweezers, and a tube of lip balm, he sees the edge of a passport. Delicately extracting the tiny book, he flips it open and beholds the most coveted information he could have hoped to find.

There, displayed before him, is all your information. Your legal name–well, that is unless this is a fake, and at which, if it is, then Taehyung has to admit it’s a damn good fake–date of birth, birthplace, it’s all the basics he needs.

Movement on the bed beside him makes him freeze, not even daring to breathe as you roll over and unconsciously push the duvet down around your waist. You sleep in the nude. Of course you do. Taehyung swallows thickly, eyes glued to your sleeping form. It’s like you’re begging him to screw this up, to make a mistake.

Biting his tongue until he tastes the tang of blood, he tears his gaze away from your pebbling nipples and deftly replaces the passport, making his escape back into your living room. He’s breathing hard, heart beating erratically in his chest. The front of his trousers is tight, uncomfortable, as he battles against his baser desires.

You’d think being a holy being would mean he had better control over these things. Apparently, Angels–even fallen ones–are just as culpable of unholy thoughts as humans—guilt twists in his chest. It’s things like this that are what landed him here, to begin with.

Shoving aside the intruding thoughts and feelings, he smoothes a hand down the front of his dress shirt before shoving his feet back into his shoes. Now, he has an idea of who you are and what your game is. He just needs to figure out how to make himself a part of it—starting with finding out more about Danika; she seems to be central to your motivations, and now she’s part of his.

🤍🤍🤍

It’s disconcerting to wake up and feel like someone has invaded your space. Yet, nothing is amiss no matter where you look or how hard you try to find something. It’s similar to what you felt last night in Roy’s penthouse, that itch between your shoulder blades like someone had eyes on you, except now it feels like they’re beneath your skin; just a breath away.

Chalking it up to a bad trip with the sleeping pills, you carry on with your day. You have a lot to do and little time to accomplish it.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite vigilante. To what do I owe this pleasure, Ging?” Ryan’s sleep-rough voice crackles through the line of the burner phone you’re using.

“Morning, Ry. Put the pot on. I’ll be over in a few. Got something for you to sink your teeth into.”

Before he can respond, you disconnect the call, knowing he’ll be far too curious to turn you away when you show up at his door. Ryan Weller is as close to a friend as you’ve got these days. He’s been a good guy to you over the years, always treated you like a little sister, the same as he treated Danika. They were fostered together after her parents passed. When she died, you were all each other had left of her, a sort of pseudo lifeline to Danika—you both refuse to let go.

It only takes twenty minutes to walk to Ryan’s place. You pull on some jeans and a t-shirt, grab the backpack and wallet, and lock up on your way out. As your key slides out of the knob, you can’t help but stop and brush your thumb over the smooth brass handle. It looks the same as it always has…except, does it feel looser? You jiggle the knob and then shake your head, puffing out your cheeks. Your paranoia must be getting the best of you.

Slinging the backpack over your shoulder, you hit the call button for the elevator. The street is bustling, just a typical Saturday morning for this area. It wasn’t your first choice of places to live, but after Danika, you needed to get away from the apartment you shared but also wanted to situate yourself closer to the wolves you’d be hunting.

Ryan lives in the area by choice, having moved there almost a year before Danika was lost. He’s not the typical well-to-do-business guy, but he makes plenty of money as a private investigator. Or, at least, that’s what the placard on his door says he is. Considering what he does for you, you know it’s not all on the books or legal, which is just fine by you.

You don’t bother knocking, knowing Ryan will have unlocked the door for you already. His space is open-concept, all the rooms–sans the bath and bedrooms–bleeding together. The windows along the back wall are open, letting in a flood of daylight that dapples the space in warmth. He’s waiting for you in the kitchen, cup of coffee in hand. “What do we have this time?”

Dropping the backpack on the floor beside the dining table, you gesture at his laptop that’s already sitting open on the surface and set the wallet beside it. “Some money for you, for starters. And this,” you nudge the bag with your foot, “has videos of about a dozen girls I’d like you to try and track down using your magic machine.”

“Magic machine?” he asks, raising a bright strawberry-blond eyebrow.

Ryan is conventionally attractive, with natural russet highlights feathered through his wheat-colored hair and charming moss-green eyes, with a straight aristocratic nose sitting above perfect bow-shaped lips. If he were anyone other than who he is, he might have been someone you’d pursue. As it is, though, the thought of Ryan like that gives you the ick. He looks like a model; his grey sweats and a crimson jersey knit top belong in some Abercrombie ad for loungewear.

“Coffee first,” you whine, making grabby hands toward the cup he’s holding. “Then I’ll explain.”

Ryan laughs, handing off the cup and grabbing another for himself. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the only reason you ever come by to visit is for my coffee and to ask favors.” His tone is light, joking…but it hits a little too close to an uncomfortable truth. You can’t remember the last time you bothered to ask Ryan about something not Danika-related.

“I know,” you whisper, letting the guilt wash over you. “I’m sorry. It’s just, we’re so close…I’m so close to Bianchi, Ry. I’m so close I can’t stop now. I can’t risk losing momentum. I have to strike while it’s hot, and right now, it’s like the surface of the sun.”

That sobers him, his easy smile slipping from his face—you hate to see it go, the guilt festering even further in your heart, but you can’t let it show, not when it’s imperative you don’t crumble yet.

“Tell me what you need,” he implores, settling at the table where his laptop sits. “Where do we start?”

“Facial recognition is probably best,” you explain, thankful for the transition into more comfortable territory; the one without messy emotions.

Several hours and cups of coffee later, Ryan gets his first break. He sits back in his chair, fingers laced together on top of his head, his green eyes looking bleaker. “It’s not good, Ging, not good at all.” Even though he knows your real name, he still humors you with the persona you’ve adopted for your revenge plan.

“Tell me.”

Ryan sighs, dropping his hands into his lap. “I ran some cross-references just to be sure, but all these girls”—he nods toward the backpack now sitting on the table, disc cases spilling from the opening—“are missing. Every single one. Some of these are a decade old, cold cases at the bottom of some detective's desk at this point.”

The fact Roy Simmons is a monster isn’t a surprise to you. But the news still makes your blood boil. It makes you want to return to Roy’s penthouse and get a little creative with a knife instead of just holding blackmail over his head.

You swallow past the bile in your throat. “Send it. Let him rot.”

Ryan has a contact at the FBI, someone he trusts implicitly—someone who doesn’t know about you and doesn’t ask questions when Ryan dumps some evidence in his lap, either.

“Are you sure?” Ryan asks. “Simmons needs to get his, sure. But aren’t you worried it might alert Bianchi to the fact someone is getting close to him? Especially after what happened with Hurst.”

Sazi Hurst was your target before Roy. He found himself in FBI handcuffs after you told Ryan he could send all the information you scrounged up on him, and it almost cost you your first date with Roy; he was so paranoid after one of his biggest business venture partners ended up in custody, singing like a canary.

You hate the conflicting feelings waging war in your mind right now. The desire to see justice served and give these girls’ families peace weighs heavily against your own need to see this whole thing through to the end, with no mistakes made.

Finally, you relent, “You’re right. Fuck. Okay, give me until the end of next week.”

“You think you’ll get to him that soon?” Ryan gives you a wide-eyed stare, lips parting in surprise.

“As long as Roy gives me what I need. He has until midnight tonight,” you say, glancing at your phone for the time. Just a handful of hours to go. “Oh, did you get my little surprise last night?”

Ryan’s nose wrinkles as he makes a disgusted sound in his throat. “You mean the gross video of the naked pig on the bed? Yeah. I got it alright.”

You nod, satisfied for now. You stand from the table, drop your empty mug off in the sink, and head toward the door. “I’m going to go take care of some stuff.” By that, you mean wallow in a little bit of self-pity before the other shoe drops tonight. “If I don’t get what I need, you’ll take care of it?”

That sweet smile flashes on Ryan’s face once again. “Of course, I will. We’re in this together, Ging. And not even just because of Dani, but because I care about you, too, okay? Be careful out there. Call me if you need me.”

You let that linger between you, choosing not to respond to his kindness. It could be the nerves and how high-strung you are right now, but you know it’s deeper than that. It’s far too dangerous to get so close to someone again, even if it’s Ryan. Keeping him at arms-length when it comes to things of the heart is easier, safer…better that way.

Back on the sidewalk, you decide to stop by your apartment before going on the prowl. Pulling out your phone, you check one of the many fake social media profiles you’ve created to keep tabs on your targets. If you’re lucky, you’ll have a few precious hours to prepare before initiating phase number one of your final mission.

You move on autopilot, letting yourself be swept away by the normalcy of everything around you. The rest of your day is a blur. You’re not even sure what you spent your time doing. It doesn’t matter now; however, all you’re focused on is what’s before you: a closet full of things that will make the perfect disguise tonight. 

Two hours later, you find yourself dressed to the nines, wig firmly in place, and a forced smile on your face as you approach the frosted glass door to Liquid Inferno, the city's hottest, most exclusive nightclub. Pulling out the fake golden access card that Ryan made for you, you flash it at the bouncer. The door swings open without so much as a questioning word.

Thumping bass vibrates through the soles of your heels as you zig-zag your way through the pulsing crowd—strobes of different colors flash, the whole place coated in thick neons thanks to the overhead blacklights. The coral mini dress you decided to wear takes on the brightness of a pink highlighter.

What you really want to do right now is head to the bar and order a drink, but you know that’s just the nerves setting in. Instead, you angle your path toward the darkened VIP area on the second floor.

A set of brutish-looking men stand at the bottom of the stairs. The one closest to you gives you a once-over before asking, “Looking to climb into the lap of a king, princess?”

You grit your teeth to keep from snarling at him in response. “Something like that,” you say, letting your words dripping saccharine sweetness as you bat your lashes.

“Sorry, sweetheart, no one is allowed up without a pass.” The other bouncer leers at you, blatantly eyeing your cleavage and the curve of your ass.

You fish into the top of your dress, intentionally shifting around your tits. “Oh, you mean one of these?” you ask, pinching the black VIP card, that you’re glad you had the forethought to nab from Roy’s place, between your thumb and forefinger.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the second guy whistles appreciatively. “Looks like she’s good to go, Mike.”

Mike turns his glare on his counterpart. “I know all VIPs, and she isn’t one.” His focus swings back to you, looking slightly more murderous this time. “Where’d you get it?”

One false move or misspoken word, and you can kiss this chance goodbye, you know that. So, treading carefully, you choose your words in hopes they’ll believe the semi-lie, “Roy Simmons. He gave me his card and told me to meet him here.” You turn the card so the thick, black lettering of Roy’s last name can be seen on the back.

“Roy didn’t mention giving his card to a floozy,” Mike grunts.

You hold up your hands, the card's shiny surface catching in the strobing lights. “I’m just trying to do as I was told.” You enunciate the word ‘told’, layering on extra meaning to it. 

A knowing smile curves on the nameless douchebag's lips. “Sounds like Roy to me,” he chuckles, elbowing Mike lightly in the ribs. “Let her up so she doesn’t get in trouble, huh, Mike? Wouldn’t want a pretty little thing like her getting spanked for being a bad girl.”

Mike doesn’t laugh with his partner. He just stares at you with a challenging gleam in his eyes. Finally, he relents, stepping back and snatching the hook that’s holding the velvet rope across the bottom of the stairs.

“First sign of trouble from you, princess, and you’re out on your ass. Got me?”

You give him a subtle nod, demurely dropping your chin as you pass and hurry up the stairs. Cold sweat beads along the nape of your neck, and you feel like you might pass out. There is a small alcove at the top of the stairs, just before the floor opens up to the VIP lounge, and you duck inside to catch your breath.

The side seam of your dress buzzes. You nearly bust the stitching in your haste to pull out your phone. A message from Ryan flashes on the screen.

Let’s have bacon in the morning.

It’s code. Roy Simmons quickly earned the moniker ‘The Pig’, and Ryan has been joking about wanting to eat bacon ever since you put that leg of the plan into motion. Having bacon in the morning means Roy has provided you with what you wanted. Which is perfect; one more loop in the rope you hope to have Bianchi with.

Being here tonight might be a mistake, now that you’re taking a moment to think it through. What you should really be doing is going home and digging through everything Simmons gave up. Yet—you peek out from the alcove, scanning the VIP area—you’re far too close to give up this chance.

You’re generally not so reckless. Getting this close is making you sloppy, you decide, and you can’t have that. Taking a deep breath, you roll your shoulders back and remind yourself why you’re doing this and that you can’t make a mistake—not now, before stepping out of the alcove and into the den of wolves.

Testing the waters tonight can’t hurt…much.

🤍🤍🤍

Taehyung

Following you has been all too easy for Taehyung. His body doesn’t need sleep, so instead of retreating back to his own apartment, he stationed himself outside of yours. It was a surprise to see you leaving so early this morning but an even bigger surprise to see you looking so decidedly normal. You weren’t wearing any fancy clothes, the wig, or painted up with rouge like you had been the night before—yet, you’re still the image of a goddess to him.

Taehyung has decided he likes you more when you’re just being you, not when you’re playing what is obviously a character part. It’s a clever rouse. He’ll grant you that. You’re good; he would have been none the wiser had he not let himself into your space last night.

You were moving fast, and Taehyung nearly lost you a few times as you worked your way toward another apartment building. It was like striking gold when Taehyung could repeat his trick from the night before, scaling the backside of the adjacent building. Only this time, the windows were open, and he could hear everything you and Ryan were discussing.

It’s been a long time since Taehyung tasted the bitter tang of jealousy. It’s a very unbecoming emotion for someone of his stature. Yet, watching how that blond Adonis fawned over you and how comfortable you seemed around him made Taehyung want to chew through the metal railing of the fire escape he was on. He hated seeing you together.

Now, though, you’re alone. Or as alone as someone can be in a packed VIP area of a nightclub. Taehyung can taste the nervousness coming off of you in waves. He can feel the erratic thump of your heart from where he’s standing in the shadows a few feet away.

Getting past Dumb and Dumber at the bottom of the stairs was comical; all it took was a whispered name, and they let him up without even asking for a card. He might not have any friends, but Taehyung has plenty of connections in this city. It would be wild if he didn’t, considering he’s been prowling these same streets for a hundred years now. Not many people know his face, but plenty know his name.

You look like a newborn fawn tiptoeing through a pack of wild, rabid wolves, eyes wide and lush lips parted as you edge yourself closer to the back of the space. He knows where you’re going; he’s just not sure why. The conversation he overheard between you and Ryan was enough to fill in some of the puzzle pieces concerning your venture. He also spent the majority of the night surfing the web on his phone and scrounging up everything he could on you, Danika, and whatever connection you might have to the man you’re now fast approaching.

Lorren Bianchi—world renowned flesh and drug trader kingpin—is sitting in a dimly lit booth, surrounded by a few scantily clad women holding champagne glasses and half a dozen muscle-thick bodyguards who aren’t bothering to cover up the pistols hooked to their belts.

Taehyung knows who Bianchi is and has spoken with him a handful of times as well. He’s never liked the oily fucker, far too pretentious and corrupt for Taehyung. It clicks then, and Taehyung curses himself for being a fool and not seeing it sooner. The box with the sentimental items you have tossed into the closet of the spare room, the smiling, beautiful blond girl with you in the photo—Danika. It all makes sense now, and if Taehyung doesn’t do something, you’re going to find yourself in someone else's cherished box in a closet.

🤍🤍🤍

You’re so focused on picking your way through the crowd, eyes honed in on the one man you’ve been gnashing at the bit to draw blood from, that you miss the man closing in through your periphery until you walk solidly into his chest. You blink a few times, dragging your focus up a narrow chest covered in a white button-up until you meet familiar golden-brown eyes.

“Ginger, what a surprise.”

A surprise is one way to describe it. However, surprises are far too close to being coincidences to you, and you stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago. Consider it a product of the deep distrust you’ve developed over the years. Running into the same man twice in less than twenty-four hours should be immediate alarm bells for you…yet, surprisingly, they remain silent.

“Sorry, can’t talk right now,” you mumble, intending to skirt around the guy and be on your way without further interaction. But he follows your step, blocking your way yet again. It’s hard to tell if it’s intentional or if he was stepping aside at the same time as you were.

He laughs, a warm, rumbling note that makes you look up just to make sure it’s really coming from him. “I’m sorry.” He moves to the side, gesturing with his arm toward the darkened back corner. The look in his eye is unreadable, making it hard to judge his intentions, but you’re not going to balk at the opportunity to get away, paranoia a thick collar slipping around your throat.

If you weren’t so on edge, you might give up your endeavor for the night and take the opportunity to slip a hook into this odd man. It would be easy enough, another chance to practice before the big take down. You’d be honest in saying you could use a bit more practice, if the way your hands shake is any indication.

But, no matter how hard you contemplate that idea, it won’t stick. There’s something about the man that screams innocent, which is also probably why your alarm bells refuse to ring. A man like that doesn’t deserve your torment, so you continue, not sparing him another glance.

“Thanks,” you say, stepping past him.

A hand on your arm brings you up short, though. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Your gaze cuts to the man—Taehyung—before flicking down to the slender fingers wrapped around your upper arm. His palm is warm against your skin, contrasting with the chill from the AC blasting overhead.

“What?”

Taehyung flicks his eyes toward where Lorren is sitting. “He’s a dangerous man.”

“All men are dangerous,” you snap.

Taehyung searches your eyes, for what you’re not sure, but whatever he sees there must disappoint him because his lips form a thin line, and he gives a subtle shake of his head. “I hate that that’s your reality.” He glances back toward the table where Bianchi is sitting. “Come on,” he murmurs, tugging you along to an empty seat a few feet away.

“What are you—Oh!” Your protest cuts off as Taehyung slumps into the vacant seat and drags you onto his lap. “What the hell!?”

“Calm down, or you’re going to draw attention to us.” Taehyung pulls you back against his chest, angling his head around yours so his words ghost over your ear, “Humor me a little, won’t you? Tell me what you see.”

“What I see?”

Slender fingers graze underneath your chin before hooking against it and tilting your head. For anyone else, it must look like Taehyung is whispering sweet nothings in your ear, plying you with his big hands. Every part of him that touches you is warm and inviting. But, you can’t let yourself get caught up in that.

Your eyes catch on the far table once more. Bianchi is laughing at something, his head thrown back and his mouth hanging open, though the sound doesn’t carry to you. You’re here for a reason, and you’re not going to let some bozo you ran into last night stop you.

Shifting around on his lap, you try to brace your heels on the floor to gain leverage, but Taehyung bands an arm around your hips and clears his throat. “Stop that, and before you ask, yes, I know him, and no, I don’t care for him. Now, look closely. Tell me what you perceive about the people around him. Tell me why if you would have approached that table tonight, it would have been short-lived and you’d be sorely disappointed that you wasted your chance.”

You lick your lips, willing your racing heart to calm down so you can focus. You know you should be scrambling off his lap, yelling obscenities, and cursing him for being a creep. Only, he’s, in fact, not being one. The only thing that’s disturbing is the fact that he somehow knows you’re here for Bianchi. A man who is nothing more than a stranger who gave up two hundred dollars last night is now acting like he knows all your dirty little secrets.

“How do you know that’s what I was going to do? Maybe I’m just here trying to have a good time, and you’ve gone and ruined it.”

“You’re easier to read than you think. Now, tell me.”

Taking a deep breath, you refocus on the table. Lorren is sitting in the middle, two girls on one side and one on the other. All blond, very young, petite with large eyes and lips. They could be triplets for all you can discern between the three of them. Everything you know about Bianchi flashes through your mind as you try to connect the dots. Of course, you should have seen it before. “Blond. He likes blondes. Fuck,” you mutter. There is a soft sound of approval from Taehyung, a low hum that vibrates through his chest. “Now, should I let you go make a fool of yourself, or would you like to hear what I have to offer?”

“Why are you even here? Have you been following me?”

Taehyung grunts as you begin to wiggle in earnest in his lap. “It’s not like that,” he says.

Now, the alarm bells do start to ring because that’s as good as saying ‘yes’. “Let me go.”

“I will, on one condition.” You twist in his lap, ready to lash out at him, but he catches your upraised palm and urges, “Let me help you with whatever you’re trying to do.”

“No, fuck you, jackass,” you hiss, trying to jerk your hand from his grip. “Let me go, or I’ll scream.”

Taehyung’s eyes narrow, and a smirk crooks up the corner of his mouth. It’s the first time his angelic demeanor has taken on a dark note, and you’re not sure if you like it or not. “Do you really think screaming will make any of these snakes come running to your aid?”

You swallow hard against the truth of that. A woman screaming is probably as common as a millionaire snorting coke in this place. Which judging by the tray covered in lines of white powder you can see on a table to your left, you’d wager the odds aren’t in your favor.

“Please,” you try for your best impression of desperation. “Please, let me go. You don’t understand.”

“I understand more than you know,” Taehyung whispers in response before standing, bringing you up with him, and dragging you toward the top of the stairs. You try to twist and protest, but his hand is like a vice around your wrist, and your pleas go unanswered.

It takes little time for Taehyung to haul you through the crowd. It’s like the surge of bodies part around him, making the escape smooth and seamless. The air outside is light and crisp compared to how suffocating it was inside; you hadn’t even noticed until now that you can take your first real, deep breath since you went in.

“Who the fuck even are you?” you snarl, finally jerking yourself free from Taehyung’s grip, though that might have more to do with him letting you pull yourself free than anything.

The look on his face is unreadable for a moment before a placating smile spreads across his lips. “I’m just someone with your best interest in mind and who is trying to help.”

“I already said I don’t need your help.” You make to step around him and head back inside. Even if your chances of introducing yourself to Bianchi tonight won’t go as planned, you can still do some more recon, and gather more information—but those slender fingers find themselves cuffing your wrist all over again. He drops his grip on you when it seems he’s certain you’re not going to try and run again.

“Look, just hear me out, and if you don’t like what I have to say, then I’ll provide you with the proper look and introduce you to Lorren Bianchi myself.” That earns him a narrow look filled with suspicion.

You look around, contemplating whether or not this man is full of shit or not. If you agree to hear him out, you might miss out on your opportunity to get closer to Bianchi tonight. But if he’s telling the truth, you might not need to do all the legwork anyway.

Taehyung looks hopeful as he waits for your response, bouncing ever so lightly on his toes, hands clasped in front of him. There is still that unmistakable sense of innocence about him, even though he just bodily dragged you from inside the club and somehow has a personal connection to Bianchi.

Ryan would urge you not to move so quickly tonight. He might also balk at the idea of you entertaining a stranger who seems to sneakily know more than he should…but which would earn you the most ire? Ryan would definitely find out about your attempt with Bianchi tonight, but he might not necessarily have to find out about Taehyung. Maybe you can play both fields.

You tug your phone from the inner seam on your dress and shoot off a text to Ryan, asking him to send you everything he can on Taehyung Kim and how he might be connected to Bianchi and to be quick about it. You add please to the end of your text, hoping you seem less demanding in your request.

“You have thirty minutes. If I’m not impressed, you introduce me, or I’ll make you wish you’d kept your two hundred dollars.” You give him a pointed look, the ruse from last night taking on a whole new meaning now. Clearly he was trying to make a connection to you and is now taking it a step further.

Taehyung holds up his hands, palms out. “Okay, okay. Deal. Follow me.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to ask any more questions. You have to skip a few steps, your heels clicking against the sidewalk, to catch up with him as his long strides carry him away from the club.

You’re taken aback, thinking he’d surely lead you to some apartment or a hotel, somewhere there is a mild bit of privacy. Though an empty park wasn’t exactly what you had in mind, it does afford you the privacy.

“Start talking,” you insist, crossing your arms over your chest. You set a thirty-minute timer on your phone already and have it clutched in your hand so you can feel it vibrating either from time running out or with any messages from Ryan.

Taehyung’s back is to you, his attention directed somewhere overhead. “It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

“What?” you ask, confused, feeling like you’re being whiplashed by the sudden change in conversation.

He glances at you over his shoulder, and you’re stuck by just how gorgeous he is, bathed in the soft glow from the lamps lining the walkway through the park. “The sky, it’s beautiful.”

“Um, yeah, sure.” You’re honestly not certain of the last time you took the time to actually look up at the sky and admire it. Living in the city, the light pollution and dirty air doesn’t really have an appeal anyway.

“Look,” he says, nodding back in the direction he was looking in before.

You sigh, irritated, but if he wants to waste part of his thirty minutes looking up at the smog-filled sky, who are you to—your thoughts trail off as you finally gaze up. The moon hangs full and low in the sky. You can see a smattering of stars as if they’re demanding to be seen despite the blazing city lights. It takes your breath away for a moment, grounding you in a different reality, one not filled with plots of revenge and loneliness.

Dragging your attention away from the sight and to the man so nonchalantly standing there, wasting his time, you say. “Your time is running out.”

“I’m not from here.” His words come as a whisper, barely carrying to you from over his shoulder. “The view is so different here, no matter how many times I look up, it’s never the same.”

“So, you’re from some other city. What’s that got to do with any of this? Is that how you know Bianchi?”

Taehyung turns, giving you his full attention. You feel bared to him, somehow. As if his eyes are taking stock of your every sin and folly. “I’m not from some other city. I’m not from here,” he emphasizes the word, drawing it out intentionally slow.

“I don’t have time for riddles,” you grunt, growing more irritated by the second. You should have known this was a waste of time. Your phone buzzes in your hand, and a wash of relief swells inside you. Ryan is just in time to confirm this is a complete waste.

Why are you asking about him?

Please don’t tell me you’re wanting to target him. Don’t be an idiot, Ging.

Seriously? You’re not going to answer me? Fine.

There are a few texts that are several minutes old. You must have been so distracted you missed your phone vibrating with them. A flood of new texts come in as you’re reading.

He’s one of the good ones. There’s a link to a website attached. You click on it and scan the opening page. ‘Kim Taehyung, Billionaire With No Billions’ is the headline. The article is filled with statistics and data showing that every cent Taehyung earns with any of his business ventures goes toward charity or medical research.

He’s a literal saint. Like, there isn’t a single mark against this guy. Targeting him would be doing the devil’s work. His connection to Bianchi seems to be one of rivalry. He’s the one who stopped Bianchi from opening up that one casino, you know, the one that was going to serve as an underground skin trade, but the evidence magically disappeared before his court hearing?

So that’s why Taehyung is familiar to you. You didn’t pay much attention to the casino thing, just kept tabs on it in passing in hopes it could lead you to gathering another connection to Bianchi.

Thanks. You hit send, thumb out of the timer you set, and tuck your phone away back into your dress.

“Ready to hear what I have to say now?”

You can feel heat crawling up your neck. Mild embarrassment is a bitter taste in the back of your throat as you feel thoroughly chastised even though he’s not speaking to you in a demeaning way.

“I’m listening.”

“Perhaps where I’m from is not important, not that you’d believe me anyway. So, perhaps the best place to start is acknowledging that I know what you’re going through. I’ve experienced what you’re experiencing, the pain and grief of losing someone you love.”

It’s like a white-hot dagger to the heart, a mix of indignation and sympathy. “You might think you do, but I don’t know.”

“I was punished for loving someone, they were taken from me, and I was… ostracized. I’ll never be the same. I still”—he rolls his shoulders and winces—”ache.”

His words are cryptic, but you’re fairly certain they’re only the surface of his experience, as there is evident pain laced within his whispered confession.

Slowly, his slender fingers nimbly work at the ivory buttons along the front of his shirt. One by one, they reveal the subtlest hint of flesh. The lighting that wreathed him in a halo glow just a moment ago now casts his features in stark relief as he moves closer to you.

“What are you doing?”

“Making myself vulnerable to you, in hopes of earning some of your trust.” With painfully slow movements, Taehyung turns and shrugs down the top of his dress shirt. It’s confusing, at first, trying to decipher what you’re seeing in the dim lighting. Ripples and bumps form two narrow swaths to either side of his spine, just within his shoulder blades; scars, jagged ones, made of tight, shiny ridges. The placement, the mirrored precision…it almost, almost looks like he had wings ripped from his back. “Not ripped,” he murmurs and you realize you spoke your thought aloud. “They were shorn from my body by my Brother Michael.”

“Your brother did this to you?!” you ask incredulously.

“Brothers,” he emphasizes. “But, only one wielded the blade.”

You balk at him, unable to comprehend how someone could do this to another human being. Before you can think better of it, you brush a light finger over one of the ridges. Taehyung shudders so intensely under your touch, that you’re afraid you might have hurt him. “I’m so sorry,” you whisper, snatching your hand back.

He clears his throat. “Nothing to apologize for. It’s just that, well, I haven’t been touched by another being in a very, very long time. I had almost forgotten what it felt like, a tender touch like that.”

“You shouldn’t have suffered at the hands of your brothers.”

“Water under the bridge at this point,” Taehyung sighs, pulling his shirt back up and redoing the buttons as he turns to face you once more. “I know what you’re trying to do with Bianchi, and even if you manage to get close enough to him, you’re not going to be able to go through with it. You can’t kill him.”

“I can and I will,” you state fiercely. “I have to.”

Taehyung gives you a sad smile. “There’s too much good in your heart. You’ll hesitate, and then he’ll turn the tables. He’ll give you the same fate as your friend.”

“You don’t know anything about her!” you shout, wincing at your own outburst as your words echo through the park and startle some birds out of a nearby tree.

“I know that you love her. I know that you’re on a path of revenge for her. A path that is going to lead you to an eternity of damnation even if you do succeed. Please, let me help you. I promise Bianchi will suffer for what he has done, but we have to do it the right way.”

“And what exactly would you consider the right way?” Anger eats at your eyes, making them burn with tears you refuse to shed.

Looking deep into your eyes, Taehyung explains, “If you kill him, that’s the end of it. But, if you tear down his empire, make him lose everything, brick by brick…he’ll endure a lifetime of suffering, which, to a man like him, is far crueler of a punishment than bringing his miserable life to an end. He’ll probably do it himself by the time we’re done with him.”

“Why is it, exactly, that you want to help me again?”

“I’ve dealt with Bianchi on a few occasions. Unfortunately, he rubs elbows with a lot of the same people that I do. I suppose money doesn’t care if someone is a good person or not.” Taehyung fits his hands into his pockets, leaning back on one heel in a relaxed manner as his eyes flick over your features. “I’ve never had the right justification for bringing him down. He’s always managed to slip between my fingers. Now, though, you’re presenting me with the perfect opportunity, the perfect justified means to take him down once and for all...and well, if it means I can save you, then I’ll take that, too.”

The fact this man seems to care about you, care about Danika, doesn’t seem all that unusual. His eyes are open and full of warmth, so welcoming and completely unalarming in their charm and sincerity. You can’t help but accept. “What do you propose we do? Where do we start?”

That seems to put a little pep back into Taehyung’s demeanor. “Simple, of course. We start where it will hurt him most, his bank account.”

Next Chapter⇾ ⇽Previous Chapter ◅ Back to series masterlist

◅ Back to Main Master List ©️ 2024-01-28 ColorMePurplex2

[roydkill]

I really liked your drawing about the idea of Maxime having his cockroach body restored (by the AVL?) once he got into prison but still having phantom sensation and pain, could you expand more on that? How does he deal with it? Does he ask for help or is he too prideful to and stomachs it? (FYI if he has more phantom pain than phantom sensation bless his soul because he’s going to snap eventually, that sh$t attacks you out of nowhere and it would be interesting to see how he would react) 👏

Thank you so much for the ask!

I think when the issues first start he’d tell the AVL about it but they definitely wouldn’t be sympathetic - giving him some weak pain medication and telling him to suck it up

I doubt the AVL would manage to completely debug (ha!) him, as he seems to be more cockroach than those hit with the cockroach ray. Instead, they’d probably come up with some sort of treatment to be taken regularly to keep his abilities in line. (Perhaps a procedure of some sort, or a drug, and who knows if the process itself is painful) At first, Maxime would just be annoyed about it, complaining and cursing, but the physical side effects would hit soon as the symptoms, both the pain and itchiness would worsen as the next treatment draws near.

There’s a certain restlessness and a tightness under his skin, something that would get unbearable as the next treatment dose approaches. The itching he’d feel on his skin and phantom bug parts would range from annoying to unbearable; sometimes he scratches himself until he draws blood, and sometimes he can simply tune it out. The physical need to spread his wings is overwhelming, and he’d do anything to be able to do it

The pain first hits him out of nowhere one day when he’s sitting in the prison cafeteria - quick, stinging pain unlike anything he’s felt before. He definitely wouldn’t be able to hide the worst pains, as he’d freeze in place with his face full of terror, but a lesser pain flare would only be noticed by a twitch in his eye or by general fidgeting

I think at first he’d struggle to tell others about the full extent of the situation, instead handling it by being angry, easily irritated and jumpy and perhaps acting out, rebelling against the AVL to somehow try and ease his utter disdain for them and what they’re doing to him. as a punishment the AVL starts ”forgetting” to give him any pain medication from time to time.

Val would quickly notice even the slightest changes in his behaviour and will try to help him the best she can, whether it be massaging his back or keeping him from hurting himself. I like to think of Val, Maxime and Bratt as this trio in prison, so once Maxime’s warmed up to Bratt he’d eventually have both of them taking care of him when need be. I doubt he’d still ask for help, instead relying on them to realize when shit hits the fan. He’s so thankful though, and will try to make it up by doing favors in return

(when night falls and everyone’s locked in their cells, they can sometimes hear soft sobbing from Maxime’s cell - unable to go comfort him through the pain)

On a lighter note… Maxime instinctively watches out to not hurt Valentina or Balthazar with the sharp spines of his cockroach appendages, still forgetting they’re no longer part of him

Huge thanks to @roachroost for bouncing some of these ideas around with me! Obligatory mention of english not being my first language + I’m very new to writing my thoughts down, i hope these made sense! I’d love hear anyone else’s thoughts

[olliebee66]

Some HCs

TW: mentions of alcohol, smoking, death, suicidal thoughts

König doesn't think he's a good guy, doesn't think too highly of himself, all despite his rank. He doesn't like when people look up to him on account of what he does and tries to advise those who do look up to him (not literally) to be better and do better.

Graves hates himself for listening to Shepherd, hates that he can't forgive himself. He hurt people who trusted him and he was raised better than that.

Price does everything he can to keep from blowing up. He holds a lot of anger in him from every time he was shot, stabbed, tortured, etc. He holds a lot of resentment at those who have made him question who he trusts and every day is an internal battle for him, so he smoked and drinks to cope.

Ghost overthinks. A lot. He can't help it. Having gone through some traumatic shit will do that to a person, on top of having ADHD. He keeps himself occupied as much as possible, but if he has nothing to do. he tends to disassociate and people who don't know him think he's zoned out and has a staring problem. Very few people can ground him when he's like that and he does feel guilt for the people who have tried and who he's stabbed or punched for trying to pull him out of that headspace.

Alex gets phantom pains and itches so bad in his leg where the rest of it should be that sometimes he scratches his thigh and hip raw until he's in tears. There have been a few occasions where he's contemplated using a knife to dig deep in, times where he's thought about putting a bullet in his brain just so it'll all stop, but he remembers that Farah would not be okay if he did that. He does his best to ground himself when he gets too uncomfortable and in his head, but sometimes it's all too overwhelming for him and he just breaks down.

Alejandro has nightmares about when Graves betrayed them, nightmares about rescuing Rodolfo from the fire and how bad things could have been if it hadn't been for 141. He lashes out sometimes, haunted by the loss of his friends, the other vaqueros. He begs for forgiveness even though he didn't kill them, he wasn't the one to pull the trigger. More often than not, he sits with Rodolfo and does his best not to drink too much because when he does, he babbles his apologies in Spanish to the other man, begging him to help him forget about what happened, telling him he wants to run away from it all.

Soap contemplates quitting. He's young, he's got many many years ahead of himself is what he tells himself. He doesn't want his sisters, his ma, to have to mourn when he dies however that may be, doesn't want for Price and Ghost to have to be bearers of bad news for them. He's seen his ma break down quite a few times, the image burned in his mind. He knows if something was to happen to him, her baby boy, she probably wouldn't live too much longer. He hates to think about it, but he should bury her, she shouldn't have to bury him.

[avvail-whumps]

‘guns for hire’ — last chance #36

previous · masterlist · next

content warnings: whumpee referred to as “kid” but they’re an adult, conditioned whumpee, mentioned past character death, whipping scars, stockholm syndrome

Leo should probably stop picking at his fingers, but he couldn’t help himself.

The room he’d been taken into was cold, and dim, not providing much colour apart from the dark grey and blue paint on the walls. He could sometimes see his reflection in the mirror when he glanced up, but for the most part, his eyes were trained solely on his lap.

He couldn’t even begin to piece his thoughts together right now. It felt as though everything had come crumbling down on him, and he could only think about the fact that Roy was somewhere in the building that wasn’t next to him.

His hands were trembling, itching to see him again. It gave him that same anxiety as to when the other mercenaries were still wandering around, and he needed to be close to Roy just to ease the fear in his heart. Like he was always there to protect him.

Leo could already feel the burning sting of humiliation lingering in his chest.

The phantom touches of their hands on his body, examining each and every scar on his skin, as well as the sharp click of the camera’s under stark white light. Tears threatened to burn his eyes from the violating memories, the comfort of a long jacket drawled over his shoulders.

He was worried about Roy. He was worried about being separated for any longer. He was worried about what was going to happen to him. There was nobody in the room, and there hadn’t been for a while. Leo didn’t bother to look at the clock, too agitated by himself, only occupied by the nervous picking of his hangnails to think about anything else.

The opening of the door startled him more than it should have, and his puffy eyes snapped up to the entrance with a jolt. His eyeslashes were still clumped, the damp wetness evident with tears tracks down his cheeks. The man that entered was the one he vaguely recognised when he was sitting in the backseat of the car. Leo had been so out of it at the time, that he barely remembered anything from being dragged out of the house to the journey to the station.

The man looked intimidating. He reminded him of the bearded mercenary a little bit, with the stone cold expression and dark facial hair. He quietly took a seat at the opposite end of the table, but Leo kept his eyes in his lap instead.

He hated this. Every single second of being here; he just wished he could go back to his home, and cook something for him and Roy, and they could just lounge on the sofa eating dinner until they fell asleep. It was all Leo wanted right now.

“Do you need another glass of water?” The man finally spoke. Leo abandoned his hangnail to look at the glass. It was still full. “I can get you something else if you’d like.”

He weakly shrugged his shoulders. “I’m okay.”

The man nodded slowly his head, but by then, Leo was occupied by his lap again. The rapid thumping was heavy in his chest, unable to stop himself from fidgeting every few seconds. The sound of paper being slid along the table almost broke him from his nervousness. His sore eyes flickered up for a moment as the man began to speak again.

“I’m Detective Sharpe,” he spoke, his voice calm and smooth. “I’m here to ask you a few questions, alright, kid? We can go at your pace.”

Leo jerkily nodded his head. The man, Sharpe, tapped his finger on the table to draw his attention to the various photos. His eyes bounced along each one, swallowing the dry lump in his throat. One of them was Roy, and he felt like his heart was constricting painfully on the spot.

“In your own time, can you identify the man who took you from these photographs?” Sharpe asked quietly, his voice softened around the edges. For such an intimidating looking man, he didn’t feel so scared in his presence. Still, Leo knew he wouldn’t get his life back with Roy if he wasn’t careful. His fingers wound through the dark, navy blue sweatpants he’d been given, the emblem of the police department on the side.

“There was, uh,” he let out a shuddering breath, wiping the back of his hand on his clammy forehead. Most of the photos were of people he didn’t recognise, bar three of them. Roy, Bran, and Beard. There was a clear absence of Joey, or even Rafi. “There was more than one.”

Sharpe’s eyes darted up, pinned to his grimacing face. His stomach churned under his gaze, gripping so tightly onto the sweatpants that his knuckles had gone white.

“More than one?” The detective echoed, his face stoic. “Are they here?”

Leo nodded. Tears burned his eyes he let out a shuddering breath, trembling finger coming up to point at the picture of Bran. Just seeing his face made his cells burn with a wanton anger.

“He...He’s the one who killed Jacob,” he whispered quietly, taking a second to pause and keep his wobbling voice under control. “I-I saw his face, and he...that’s when he took me.”

Sharpe’s eyes darkened a little bit, and he quickly looked away. A long, drawn out sigh escaped his lips, and he pulled out a small notepad and pen from his breast pocket, opening it up. Despite showing clear signs of annoyance, his voice was awfully quiet and gentle as he continued to press him.

“Take your time,” he hummed. Leo kept his eyes on the photos, constantly flickering back to the one of Roy with a sinking heart.

He moved onto the one of Beard quickly enough. “There was two others. Him, a-and someone else.”

Sharpe scanned the pictures. “And that third person isn’t pictured here?”

The secretary rapidly shook his head. “No. No, he’s not.”

The detective tapped the back of the pen on the paper, before leaning forward and moving away the photos of the unfamiliar suspects. That only left Bran, Roy and Beard in front of him. The mercenary had told him to leave Joey out of it. If there was anyone Leo would be happy not throwing under the bus, it would be him. The cigerette burned brightly on his shoulder, but he wasn’t going to disobey Roy. At least Joey had never been as cruel.

Roy’s photo was still there, Leo noted. Clearly, Sharpe wasn’t completely convinced just yet. The door opened once more, and other detective stepped in. It was a woman this time, but her presence didn’t stop Sharpe from keeping his focused concentration on the task at hand.

“Okay, kid. I get that this is going to be hard, but we’re going to need you to describe some things for us,” the man spoke, leaning forward on the table. Leo bit his lip softly, drawing the jacket closer to himself. “Could you give us some details, please? Did you know where you were being kept?”

Leo desperately shook his head. The woman took a seat beside Sharpe, placing a plastic wallet with multiple pages and photos inside on the table. His eyes shot to the door, feeling uncomfortableness creeping under his skin.

“I don’t know,” he choked, swallowing uneasily. His mind went straight back to the basement. The horrible terror he felt just at the very thought of being down there for as long as he was stirred in his brain, clamping down on his lungs. “They kept me in some...some dark room. They would come down and they would...”

Leo choked on a gasp, pressing his hands into his eyes. “God, I don’t, I can’t—”

The woman finally stepped in, and he felt a hand on his shoulder, flinching violently away like he’d been burnt. He felt a little guilty when remorse flashed across her face, and she moved back once more.

“Hey, Leo,” she murmured, blinking him out of the memories. The crack of the whip, the seizing pain from the shock collar around his neck. He tried to ignore Roy’s taunting words, instead reminding himself of the time alone with the mercenaries. Because whatever Roy did, he did because Leo broke the rules. At least that was fair. Right?

“I know this is hard,” the woman sighed, her voice dripping with raw sympathy. “You’re safe now. You’re away from them. Nothing is going to happen.”

Leo scrubbed away the tears, wiping his face with shaking hands. He managed a nod, keeping his eyes on the photos instead. She and Sharpe exchanged brief looks with each other that Leo couldn’t quite decipher in time. As he was talking, the woman slid the plastic file over to the Sharpe, who plucked it up.

“I just...” He pressed his hands to his mouth, squeezing them tightly. The table was cold against his elbows. “I don’t want to—”

“That’s fine,” Sharpe cut in, his eyes fixated on the various photos he’d pulled out. He was flicking through them, narrowed eyes seemingly scanning every single detail. Leo pried his aching eyes open, wiping his nose. “We know. You don’t have to go into any details.”

Leo groaned, letting his head fall back into his hands. It was so humiliating.

“Leo, do you mind showing me your wrist, please?”

He swallowed, keeping his eyes pinched shut. “What?”

Sharpe’s eyes turned cold all of a sudden, and he placed the photos he’d been looking at flat on the table. He caught a glimpse of one of them, showing the long, deep scars from the whip along his back.

“Let us see your wrist,” the detective repeated, this time a lot firmer.

“Steven,” the woman quietly warned, but she was promptly ignored.

“I’m asking you to corporate.”

Leo hiccuped softly, his eyes falling back down to his lap. His fingers itched, the scar from Roy’s knife suddenly flaring against his skin. He hesitantly began peeling the jacket back, before showing it to the detectives. His lips stayed permanently curved into a frown, feeling shame prick the back of his neck after a while. He quickly hid it away again.

Sharpe nodded his head, flicking one of the photos on the table. The one of the initial on his wrist.

“R for Roy, am I right?” The detective pressed, making Leo wince. “Look, kid. I don’t know your reasoning for protecting him, but you’re safe. There’s no way he can hurt you again.”

The secretary’s voice was frustratingly quiet, unable to find the strength in his voice to speak any louder.

“It wasn’t him,” he quietly whispered. Sharpe sighed heavily, leaning back in his seat.

“Come on, kid...”

“The R, it was for...” His throat closed up, shivering. “It was for...Rafi.”

The detective stared at him.

“Rafi,” he repeated slowly, shaking his head. “And, what? Was that the perpetrator that isn’t on these photos?”

Leo nodded hastily.

“Right,” the man scoffed, shaking his head as he gathered the photo up and popped it back into the plastic wallet. A long sigh escaped his lips once more as he turned towards the woman, who hadn’t taken her eyes off him.

“Could you identity the names of the men in these photos, Leo?” She asked, much softer than the other, motioning towards Bran and Beard. Leo did, to the best of his ability, considering Beard’s name was still a complete mystery to him. It wasn’t like that mattered much anyway. She nodded once he was done, eyes flickering over to Sharpe. There was a hint of annoyance in them.

“Okay, kid,” the man coughed, gaining his attention once again. “Tell us about Roy Gatlin. Why were you at his house if he didn’t have anything to do with your kidnapping? Tell us slowly and carefully.”

Leo bit the inside of his cheek, trying to scramble his thoughts together. The story before had at least been mostly the truth. The pain he’d suffered at their hands wasn’t so easy to forget, or even fake. But his heartbeat was starting to rise out of nervousness now. Because this was really what could separate the two of them permanently, and he didn’t want that.

“They told me that they weren’t planning on keeping me alive,” he whispered softly, clearing his throat. “I...I got out and I ran.”

“Ran?” Sharpe parroted. “Did you see the place you were being held?”

“No,” the secretary choked. “It was too dark. There was just trees for so far out and I didn’t think twice about running. I-I just panicked...”

He shifted uncomfortably, remembering the anxiety of the chase when he’d made it into the forest. The burning desire to make it home, even if it wasn’t in one piece. He swallowed that down for the sake of finding his voice once again.

“I found a road, and...and someone was—”

Leo cut himself off. The screeching of tires and the smack of the boot crippling against the tree stirred in his mind, and his fingers dug into his disheveled hair in horror. Burning tears slipped down his cheeks as he recalled Michael’s face.

“It was my fault,” he sobbed. “Oh, god. I-I...I got him killed...”

The woman was at his side in a second, and she tentatively placed her hand on his back. Leo was shaking visibly under her palm, and he quickly pressed his hands into his face to hide his shame.

“Who, Leo?” Sharpe asked softly. He choked on a breath, his chest rattling.

“He said his name was Michael,” he sniffled, pain stabbing at his lungs. “I-I asked him for help. He was driving me away, but...but Bran he—” The jarring smash of glass. Blood running down the wheel. He sobbed quietly. “Bran shot him.”

The detective’s eyes both snapped up towards each other.

“Michael Bardin?” The woman murmured, and Sharpe grimly nodded his head.

“Shit. I think so.”

Leo clenched his jaw, sucking in a sharp breath through his cheeks, and leaning away from the woman’s touch. She let him go without any resistance, her expression morphing into deep sympathy once again.

“That wasn’t your fault, Leo,” she assured, but the words didn’t reach him at all. He frantically shook his head, murmuring incoherently under his breath. It was his fault Michael had died. He’d been the one to kill him, whether he pulled the trigger or not. Roy had said so; Leo believed it. If it wasn’t for him, Michael would have returned home and lived his life how he should have. It was his fault.

“It was,” he croaked. “I killed him.”

The detective seemed to tap his pen harshly against the notepad, his beady eyes staring at the notes he had taken earlier. Leo wasn’t quite sure if he had already spoken to Roy, but judging from his unhappy expression, then the secretary was more than likely doing a good job at making their stories match so far. With that thought spurring him on, he managed to swallow the shaking nerves and continue.

“After the car crashed, I followed these lights for...for ages,” he sniffled, slowly blinking away the tears in his eyes. “I made it to his house, and he...he helped me out. I was scared asking him for help was going to get him killed too, but I was so desperate...”

The woman nodded her head, and turned back towards Sharpe. The man was staring at the notepad in discontent, before she caught his disgruntled attention.

“Steven, can I have a word outside?”

Despite her smile, even Leo could hear the obvious anger in her voice. She didn’t wait for him to follow her out, and instead promptly left the room. When she was gone, Sharpe slowly rose to his feet. The secretary’s puffy eyes met his, and the man leaned forward as if in confidentiality.

“I know it was Roy who took you,” he murmured, and Leo’s heart palpitated. “I know he’s cooked up an elaborate story for you to follow, and I know these other people were most likely involved too. But, listen, kid.”

Despite the fear creeping up his spine, Leo did.

“If you don’t tell us the truth, then he’s going to walk free,” Sharpe told him, firm and concise, completely to the point. “I need you to tell me, kid. Identify that it was Roy who kidnapped you the night he murdered Jacob. You can put him away for good. Please, kid.”

Leo opened his mouth to protest, but something caught in his throat. The man’s eyes were piercing so deeply into his, that he felt like he couldn’t breathe. His mind was tossing all that information over in his head with brutal force. I know it was Roy who took you.

There was no doubt in his voice.

And he was right. Because Roy had taken him, and all he had to do was admit that. Then everything would unravel. Roy would be behind bars.

Some part of Leo lunged at the very opportunity.

“It...” His voice dried up, glossy eyes staring deeply within Sharpe’s. The man had this determined, encouraging look on his face. He could feel his resolve crumbling. One leap was all it would take. Just one leap.

“It wasn’t him.”

The words came out of his mouth before he could think. His eyes lowered to his lap, slumping in the seat.

“It was Bran,” he whispered, picking at his fingers anxiously. “I swear.”

The detective’s eyes closed shut, and a long, disappointed sigh escaped him. He moved himself away from the desk without a word, and left the room. Once the door clicked shut, Leo felt a tear slip down his cheek, and hastily wiped it away.

Just a little bit longer, and he could finally see Roy. That made it all worth it.

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[dawn-moths]

“Scarlet & Serenity”

Tomura Shigaraki x Female Reader

word count: 11,800+

(Tomura’s never been one to celebrate birthdays, especially his own. But you’re insistent on making sure he has a good day, wanting to do a few things for him that could mark the occasion as special. Although he’s resistant to the idea at first, he slowly begins to come around, and at the end of the day, whether he’ll admit it out loud or not, it’s a birthday that he’ll always remember.)

disclaimer/content warning: 18+ content! minors dni! mostly fluff with some smut at the end, aftercare, soft Tomura, established relationship, reference to past sexual harassment in the workplace, mentions of stealing to survive.

*ao3 mirror*

***

Serenity.

Like feeling the gentle weight of sleep settle over you after a long day, body swaddled in warm blankets and mind sated by the slow drip of oncoming unconsciousness.

Like laying under a sky full of stars and suddenly feeling so insignificant, like, as a tiny spec in the universe, maybe the problems you thought you had weren’t so bad after all.

That’s what you felt like to him.

Or rather, that’s how he felt being around you.

It was your quirk, not you, you were constantly reminding yourself of whenever the two of you got a little too close for a little too long. Serenity was the name of your quirk, and it did just as its title implied.

For anyone within a five foot range of you, no matter how they were feeling or what they were going through, if they stayed within your invisible bubble, all they would feel was a sense of overwhelming calm.

Some people had told you it felt a little like being high, easy to become addicted to if you didn’t set boundaries with certain individuals, while others compared it to the safest sensation they’ve ever known, reminded of how they remember being held and comforted by their mothers if they’d been lucky to have a good enough relationship with them.

Tomura had cued into your quirk almost instantly, back when you two had first crossed paths. For someone that was always on edge, whether from the itching or the intense, paranoid focus he needed to carry out the League’s plans, the moment he passed you on the street and felt that weight lift, it had almost brought him to his knees, exhausted by the phantom that clung to him, unable to shake it off no matter how hard he tried.

Until you.

Things had moved pretty quickly after that and, in some ways, over the past couple years you’d convinced yourself that it was all probably meant to be. You’d been pretty down on your luck right before you encountered him, so when he’d invited you to join the League— to belong to a family of misfits who’d been forgotten or cast out by society just like you— well…

It hadn’t been a hard decision to make.

And you fit in here, with the League. You fit in with the mishmash of personalities and tragic pasts and quirks that, in another life or different hands, might’ve been deemed good instead of evil.

Your quirk, of course, was a lot easier to lend itself to the heroes who romped like celebrities about the streets and, while you might not’ve been able to go pro with it, at one point in your life you’d seriously considered using it to help people, like going to work for a hospital in the ICU, sitting bedside by the floor’s worst patients, subduing their agony even if only temporarily.

But that had all changed when you’d lost your job, your boss firing you after you’d rejected his rather forward attempts to get a little closer to your quirk.

But, surprisingly, that time it hadn’t even really been about your quirk, you’d later come to find. He’d just been a creep who wanted to get close to you or any of the other young new interns, as if he wasn’t already handsy with most of the women in the company.

Part of you was glad to leave that place, but after he’d made a false report that you’d used your quirk on him to get yourself a raise— the very same raise he’d tried to use as the trade off for letting him sleep with you— comparing what you were capable of to mind control, there was a black mark on your reputation and your resume for any other job you’d tried to apply for after.

You’d lost your nice apartment on the safer side of the city, but even after your move to a cheaper, dingier place, month after month passed with no way to pay the bills. Eventually, when you started receiving notices threatening to turn off your heating and water, you’d been forced to turn to your last resort.

If they wanted to paint you as a villain, then you’d become one.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t used your quirk’s effect on people to get what you wanted before, though it was still a far cry from “mind control” as your previous boss had testified, so convincing night shift cashiers at local convenience stores to let you walk out with arms full of food and supplies you’d sweet talked them into believing you didn’t need to pay for became your regular method of survival.

What you’d been guilty of before joining the League was kindergarten compared to pretty much all of the other members, and Tomura had tried to keep you away from the brunt of the violence and the bloodshed. He liked to make sure you were kept safe and ready to help ease his mind the moment he returned to the hideout, falling into your arms battered and bruised and not getting up until you either convinced him to let you clean his wounds or he fell asleep and you carefully shifted him onto his back on the mattress you two shared more nights than not. You’d go clean yourself up, sometimes tending to a few of his more minor injuries while he slept before curling into his side and letting your energy invade his dreams.

Though, Tomura had told you before, when he slept next to you he didn’t dream. It was the best he could hope for, as most nights before you he’d been plagued by vicious, gruesome nightmares. Horrible memories that repeated themselves over and over and over again in a tortuous loop. He would be awoken by them with a sudden, panicked jolt, though usually he couldn’t even recall the dreams until he was plunged back into them again.

So, yeah. You’d become a regular occurrence in all the members’ lives. But everyone knew that you did far more for Tomura than you did for anyone else. No one would say it, but everyone knew that you might be the only weakness their leader had, a crutch that, if taken away, could spell catastrophe for all of them. Meanwhile, it was a theory that you and Tomura tried to ignore, acting like there was nothing special between you two and just living day by day.

***

“Hey…” You greeted Tomura with a crooked smile as he walked into the bar. It was past noon, but he was usually a late sleeper. Especially since he tended to stay up till the early hours of the morning, whether by getting sucked into some new game or tossing and turning through the night. Most times you slept in with him, slowly but surely having fallen into his sleeping schedule the more time you spent together, but today you’d risen early (as in an hour ago, just moments before AM switched to PM) in order to begin preparations for a very special surprise.

“Hey…” Tomura returned the greeting, his voice a little raspier than usual. He cleared his throat and gave his neck a few light scratches, trying to pull his hoodie higher to hide the deeper, redder tracks that he’d etched into his skin when he’d woken up to find the space in bed next to him empty. “What’re you doing?”

You tried to hide the beaming grin you felt your face wanting to make. You were never a great liar, but even so you replied with a slightly lilting, “Nothing…” as he approached you, letting out a quiet hum when his hands took careful purchase on your hips and pulled you closer to him, nuzzling his face in your hair and allowing himself to linger in your calmness until the anxiousness that crawled beneath his skin subsided.

You let him hold you like that for as long as he wanted. Always. You knew how much he needed it, and for someone who felt like you did the least for the League as a whole, you took how much you knew you did for Tomura individually as your consolation for that fact. Besides, without the leader, what was the League?

Tomura mumbled something into your hair, and you looked up at him and asked through a breathy chuckle, “What?”

“I said, what’s all this?” He repeated, only putting enough distance between you two so he could look you in the eyes, his arms still encircling your waist. He nodded his head towards the back counter of the bar, glancing at the opaque plastic bags that sat there.

“Oh…” you rolled your eyes, cracking a wider smile, “That…” Then you narrowed your gaze at him, mischievous. “That’s a secret.”

Tomura’s chapped lips curved up into his own brand of mischief, his three fingered grip flexing slightly on your hips. “C’mon,” he tried to pry, giving you a light shake, more of a sway, really. “You know I hate surprises.”

Now it was your turn to eye the bags, knowing full well what was inside. You’d worked hard to steal each and every one of the items over the past few weeks, after all.

“It’s not a surprise,” you corrected, nuzzling your head back into his chest, taking in the familiar scent of him— the scent that had slowly become your own. “At least, not if you know what day it is today.”

Tomura’s sparse brows pinched slightly as he tried to decipher your words. He couldn’t remember the last time he looked at a calendar or even bothered to check the date on his phone. He was pretty sure it was about to be April. Or, wait, maybe it already was…

He let out a sigh caught halfway between despondency and annoyance, shifting to lean his back against one of the counters, pulling you along with him and nearly causing you to stumble. “Shit…” he droned, throwing his head back a little while wearing a look that was blatantly unamused. “Don’t tell me this is about—”

“It’s about doing something nice for you,” you cut him off, already having gotten the sense Tomura wouldn’t be very receptive to anyone— even if it was you— celebrating his birthday. Hell, he didn’t even want the day acknowledged. 

You knew this, and yet, you couldn’t help but try.

“How’d you find out?” he asked, staying still and letting you clasp your hands behind his neck, shifting some of your weight back onto your heels and tugging him forward an inch or two.

It was Toga. Obviously, it was Toga, though you had no idea the method she’d used to discover the birthday of the most feared villain in Japan. On second thought, for all you knew, it might’ve been just as easy as Googling it.

“Not telling,” you sung out, voice still low and playful, raising yourself onto your tippy toes for a second to plant a quick peck on his cheek before parting from his grasp and circling back around to the bags on the bar counter, peeking inside to make sure you hadn’t forgotten anything. “But I do have a few little things planned for you, so stop sulking and just humor me, alright.”

When you turned to face him once more, Tomura stood with his arms crossed, staring you down with silent interrogation.

“Oh, come on,” you rolled your eyes, crossing your arms to mirror him. “It’s only one day out of the entire year. It’ll be fun.” You flashed another one of those quick, fleeting smirks, still trying to contain your excitement, despite the fact that it wasn’t rubbing off on Tomura the same way your Serenity did. “Trust me.”

“Whatever you say…” he sighed, pushing off from where he was leaning and beginning to pad out the way he came with bare feet against the cold, unswept floor. “But this is just another day for me. Birthdays are a pointless tradition anyway. I never even liked them, so don’t expect me to start caring now.”

“Tomura—” He was already halfway to the doorway.

Cutting you off and swiveling on one heel, pointing a finger at you, he accusingly ordered, “And no singing. No cake either.”

You were captured in a moment of shock, but then found yourself again as you placed your hands on your hips and smirked, cynically joking in a deadpan tone, “Oh, but what do I tell the barbershop quartet that’s delivering the three tier cake in an hour? They’ll be so disappointed.”

Tomura turned the corner, disappearing out of sight, but called back from down the hall. “No singing! I mean it!”

In response, all you called back was, “Ok! But I’ll be coming to find you in an hour regardless! So don’t come out here until then, alright!” He didn’t respond, but when you heard the click of the bathroom door shutting and the hiss of the shower turning on, you figured you better get to work.

He’d come around, eventually. Because, sure, there wasn’t a cake to eat or presents to open, but you were still determined to gift Tomura a day that was above average, at the very least.

You hauled the bags off the counter and around the corner into the tiny side kitchen, dumping one of them over and catching the ingredients that almost rolled off the table before setting everything out and taking stock of your supply. There had only been one spice you hadn’t been able to procure, but it wasn’t make or break when it came to preparing the dish you had in mind.

Honestly, you just hoped you remembered how to make it. It had been your childhood favorite, something your mom used to make you every year on your birthday. You hoped Tomura would like it too. It wasn’t very often he— or really any of you, for that matter— got to enjoy a nice, home cooked meal. If there ended up being enough, you’d leave some for the other League members to pick at or fight over. But for now, you had to see if you could find anything that resembled a measuring cup. If you couldn’t, this whole thing could end up turning into a disaster.

***

Two years ago, while walking home late at night from your latest convenience store run (read: robbery), you’d noticed a little too late that a strange shadow had fallen in step with your own.

Throughout your life, you’d often found it ironic that, while your quirk gave those around you a sense of calm, the aura didn’t extend to yourself.

You wished it would, especially in times like these when your heart began to race and anxiety began to creep in, slowly flooding you to the point you’d be drowning in it. It wasn’t like that was the first time some weirdo had tried to follow you, but there was something about the wary atmosphere that time that had struck you as different from the others.

You were used to people wanting to use your quirk for their own benefit, not so much regard for you as a person so long as they could feel the high of relief that came from being in your proximity. There was usually a lot of convincing and pressuring and guilt tripping when people tried to request your quirk’s services, as if you owed them somehow despite most of them not even knowing your first name. But that time, it felt more dire. Like, if whoever was trailing you didn’t reach you fast enough they might die. So you did what you always did when something like that happened.

You used your secret weapon.

Used to traveling through the maze of back alleys, you knew the twists and turns by heart. You knew which ones were shortcuts and which ones held dead ends and which ones you’d stashed weapons down.

You also knew which ones would greet you with escape routes.

So you took a sharp left turn, then a right, and then, standing amidst a brick barrier on three sides, the fourth now blocked by a lanky, hooded silhouette, you turned to face him.

The first time you’d seen Tomura, you hadn’t felt threatened, weirdly enough. And maybe it was because you didn’t yet know the real danger he posed, or who he really was. Or maybe it was the fact that you could see pain and desperation shining in his eyes, pleading for even just one more second of ease from what it felt like to live in his skin on the daily that he’d been granted for the fleeting moment you two had crossed paths on the street.

“What do you want?” you’d asked, and, if he hadn’t been so distracted from chasing that feeling of peace, he might’ve found it a little odd that your voice was void of any trembling trepidation. You’d sounded sure of yourself, like, despite your odds, you held the upper hand here.

And you did, you knew. Because behind the rusted old dumpster pushed against the wall a few feet behind you, there was a perfectly you-sized hole that led into the abandoned shopping center that composed part of this maze. You’d be able to slip through and disappear within a matter of seconds. Y’know, so long as the guy standing before you didn’t have some kind of teleportation quirk.

Tomura hadn’t quite known what to say, honestly. He’d honed in on you and now that he nearly had you, for once he didn’t know what to do with himself. He could take you by force, he figured, but the closer he got to you the more he started to think maybe that wouldn’t be the best approach.

Just barely skirting on the edge of your quirk’s five foot range, he felt his hammering heartbeat begin to slow and his uneven breathing smooth out. He felt his shoulders sag and the usual race-around skin crawling that ate away at him endlessly from the inside out subside.

He looked straight into your eyes and asked, “Who are you?”

With your posture now rigid and ready to run, you replied with hostility, too confident for your own good, “More trouble than I’m worth, if you try anything.”

Tomura took another shuffling step forward which caused you to take two steps back, like a magnet pushed away by a similar pole.

“Wait—” His raspy voice cut through the cold, quiet night air, giving you pause as you prepared to whirl on your heel and dart into the escape route. “This feeling… It’s your quirk, isn’t it?” You remained silent that time, half of you intrigued by him, catching a glimpse of those big, red eyes from between all that pale, fluffy hair that was half illuminated by the silvery moonlight. Meanwhile, the rest of your better judgment just screamed at you to run, run, run.

“And what if it is?” you answered, a disgruntled tightness to your tone, tired of being used by strangers for something that you had no control over and couldn’t even reap the benefits from. You felt like your body belonged to everyone else but you sometimes. You weren’t about to let another person— especially someone who’d been brazen enough to stalk you— take what they wanted for free.

Tomura took one more cautious step forward, putting himself back into the radius of your aura, and tugged down his hood, giving you a better look at him, at the scars and the scaly, dry patches around his eyes and forehead, the angry red scratch tracks scored into his neck. He said, “How much?” and for a moment you’d thought you hadn’t heard him right.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“For your quirk,” he clarified. “How much for you to…” he chose his next words very carefully. “How much for you to lend it to me?”

You shot him a scowl and a skeptical squint. “Lend it to you?” you repeated, sounding almost offended. “Look, buddy, I’m not for sale. So why don’t you just hurry along before—”

“I saw you rob that store,” he leveraged, threatened, somewhere between the two. “You’re down on cash, yeah? Well, maybe we can reach some kind of…” His hands fidgeted from where they were tucked inside his hoodie pocket, putting you on higher alert and causing you to flinch closer towards the hole in the wall. Then he sighed, seeming to grow frustrated with himself, and simply stated, “Just give me five minutes. Name your price, and I’ll pay it. Only five minutes, that’s all I’m asking.”

Similar to being followed, this also wasn’t the first time someone had tried to hire you for your quirk. If you really needed the money and the stranger didn’t seem too sketchy, you’d usually take the offer. But those deals were made by daylight, in public, usually sitting beside them on a park bench or walking with them through the city where, if they tried anything, there would be witnesses.

Here, in the middle of the night alone in a vacant alley, you thought to accept the deal would be a poor business decision. Besides, money wouldn’t be worth very much to you if you were dead.

But he was right. You needed money. You knew each store you robbed would only let it go unnoticed for so long, and even as the night-shifter manning the register would inevitably fall for the lull of Serenity and your meticulously practiced sweet-talking, once the effect wore off and their boss chewed them out for letting some random girl walk out without paying time after time, well…

Previous mishaps had made you make a rule that you’d only hit each store twice before moving onto a new one for a reason.

You were running out of chances and out of local konbinis to steal from, so you figured it was now or never. Plus, it’s not like you couldn’t pull the knife you kept on you and bolt if this guy tried to get a little too handsy. His blood would hardly be the first the blade had tasted and you were faster than you looked.

“Forty-thousand,” you said, part of you thinking there was no way this guy had that kind of money while the other half of you hoped against hope that somehow he did. “Forty-thousand yen for five minutes and you have yourself a deal.”

The mysterious stranger then said he had to step away to make a quick phone call, not even attempting to negotiate a lower price, which made you wish you’d asked for more, and within the minute he was back, rounding the corner with a duffle bag in hand.

Tomura dropped it with a satisfying thud on the pavement before you and it was then you couldn’t hide your shock and confusion any longer. You told him to step back while you checked it, and upon kneeling down to unzip the bag, you were met with the colorful array of bundles and bundles of yen notes.

You didn’t bother counting it. Even if this wasn’t forty-thousand, it was still more than enough for you to live on for the next couple of months. It even made you consider letting this guy be a repeat customer, if he came searching for your services again. But, on the other hand, you doubted anyone who could fork over this much cash at a moment’s notice could be the upstanding citizen type.

It’s not like you were either. You were just trying to convince yourself that stealing to survive and stealing for luxury were on two different planes. But cash was cash. And everything cost money. And it turned out it was true when they said that everyone has a price.

“Just stay back,” you ordered, Tomura beginning to reapproach once you’d slung the heavy bag over your shoulder. “You can just stay right there and the effect will be the same. I’m going to keep time. And after five minutes if you try anything I’ll—”

“Be more trouble than you’re worth,” he repeated your earlier warning, a slight, dare you call it charming smirk appearing at the corner of his cracked lips for a moment. “Don’t worry. I got it the first time.”

And so, as the most wanted villain in Japan stood five feet away from you, your eyes darted from the timer on your phone back to his face over and over again until his five minutes were up.

“That’s it,” you announced once the countdown reached zero. “Time’s up.”

And, just as promised, Tomura abided by the deal that had been made. However reluctantly, he stepped back and out of your quirk’s range, the weight of his crumbling world visibly settling heavily back on his shoulders with the way he flinched and tensed and began to scrape at his scabbed-over neck again lightly. The biggest surprise was that he didn’t demand more from you.

After that, you bid him farewell, wanting to make sure he exited the alley before you slipped in through the secret tunnel, and the only thing he said to you before leaving was an almost prideful, “Next time, ask for more.”

You must’ve stood at the end of that alley for ten more minutes, staring down into the darkness until the weight of the bag slung over your shoulder began to ache and you blinked out of your trance.

Finally, you just whispered a perplexed, “What the fuck…?” to yourself and then slipped in through the hole in the wall, clutching the duffle bag the entire way home.

***

“So this is the special surprise, huh?” Tomura said after you instructed him to take a seat at the tiny, two person table. He was trying to lay the mockery on thick, you noticed. Deep down though, you knew he was, at the very least, extremely curious as to what you’d managed to make. And, if the smell coming from the biggest cooking pot you could find over the rusty old stove was anything to go by, it was going to be good.

“Your food will be ready momentarily, Sir,” you said in an overly-sweet, fake waitressing voice, procuring two mismatching bowls and spoons from the limited kitchen supplies and scooping a serving for each of you. Then, back to your normal tone as you turned to face him, a bowl in each hand, you said with only slight disappointment, “There’s supposed to be this really good homemade bread, too, but I didn’t have time to bake it…”

Setting the soup in front of him before taking your seat across with your own food cradled between your hands, palms warmed by the bowl and heart warmed from good childhood memories, you watched and anticipated what you hoped would be a good reaction once Tomura tasted the first bite.

He knew you were eagerly waiting, taking this moment of suspense to tease you a little bit. “I dunno about this…” he said, grimacing a little as he poked around the contents with the edge of the spoon. “It looks kinda…”

Your eyes widened, suddenly horrified, thinking you’d already fucked up somehow. “What?” You stood from the table, tried to lean in to see over his bowl. “What is it? Is there—?” When you caught the prideful mischief on his face, you plopped back down into your rickety chair and gave a sarcastic, “Oh, ha ha…”

Then you took up your own spoon and had a taste for yourself. It was exactly as you remembered, aside from that little hint of spice it was missing and that crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside home baked bread. If you closed your eyes, you could almost imagine you were back in your mom’s kitchen, dappled sunlight streaming in and dancing across the hardwood floor.

Your satisfaction with your hard work must’ve shown on your face, because Tomura scoffed out an almost disbelieving, “That good, huh?” before finally trying the soup for himself. “Damn…” he muttered under his breath, all previous derision faded to the soft contentment that usually filled him when snuggled up close to your quirk. He met your eyes for only a moment, but that was all you needed to tell. The gratitude was there, no matter how hard he wanted to hide it.

“Told you it was gonna be special,” you said, intertwining your ankles with his under the table.

Tomura let out a quiet chuckle, swallowing the next spoonful before saying, “You shouldn’t have let me know you could cook like this. Now I’m gonna want it all the time.”

“Well maybe next year if you don’t put up such a fight then you’ll even get to try the bread too,” you joked, smiling at him with the spoon still in your mouth. He nudged your calf with his foot and you knew that was as close as you were going to get for a thank you from him. But it was enough. It was enough.

“So…” Tomura began again, trying to keep himself from wolfing the whole bowl down in one go, though as you two traded some banter and chatter between bites you’d made sure to remind him there was plenty left if he wanted more. “What about you?” he asked. “I’m guessing your birthday’s were pretty good, if this is what you got, huh?”

“I have a few I can still remember pretty well,” you admitted, searching your mind for the memories of your old life, of a little girl who didn’t yet know of hardship or pain. “But the older I got, I dunno…” You gave him a guilty look, concluding with a slightly shaky, “I guess I can’t fault you for looking at it as just another day. Especially if you’re spending that day alone.”

The narrow room fell silent for a while then, the pair of you finishing the soup with only the sound of slurping and the spoons clinking against the bowls as you both tried to catch every last drop that gathered at the bottom. Then Tomura said, “I’m gonna get you back for this you know,” which caused you to give him a confused and maybe even slightly startled look from across the small table.

“What…?” You asked when his smile— one you couldn’t tell if it was cruel or teasing— didn’t falter.

“When your special day comes around,” he clarified with a sly raise of his eyebrows. “I’m gonna get you back for this.” Now you wore a real smile. You couldn’t help but become curious about what kinds of surprises he’d plan for you, and suddenly you were looking forward to your next birthday more than you had in years.

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” you remarked, playfully pointing your spoon at him. He told you not to expect any home cooked meals though. In return, you pointed out that he could barely make a piece of toast on his own, forget about pulling off something with multiple ingredients.

“Shut up,” he chuckled, standing from the table and heading over to the pot on the stove, serving himself another full bowl before peering over his shoulder and asking if you wanted more as well. You held out your bowl for him to take and let him scoop some more in for you, every bite even better than the last somehow.

And so the two of you sat there and talked and ate until you were both full and feeling a little sleepy. With the added element of your calming quirk, Tomura could’ve probably dozed off right at the table, but there would be plenty of time to rest later. For now, you still had half a day left to ensure his birthday was a memorable one.

“Ok, so I lied earlier when I said there weren’t any surprises,” you admitted as you placed both your empty bowls in the sink. “There is one teeny, tiny present I might’ve been able to get my hands on.”

Tomura was back in your orbit again, never leaving the pull of Serenity’s gravity for very long, whenever you were around. He stood behind you, circling his arms around your middle and hugging you close to him. “Yeah…?” he whispered, voice sounding like he was drifting off into a dream. “Well what if I told you my present’s right here?”

***

Two weeks after that first night, you saw him again. Only, this time, it was prearranged and he’d paid you in advance.

You met him at your favorite cafe, one in the part of town you used to live in. Y’know, back when you’d had a real job and a nice apartment instead of an old, drafty one and dreamed of helping people rather than robbing them.

“Here, let me,” Tomura offered as you approached the counter to pay for your order. You just gave him a slightly skeptical look, but didn’t protest as you stepped aside and let him thumb through some crumpled cash he pulled out from his back pocket before handing it to the barista. You two remained mostly silent as you stood side by side and waited for your drinks to be made. You were tongue tied because you felt a little awkward, but Tomura was just quietly enjoying the effects of your quirk from a foot away.

You were fine with him being closer this time, since there were other people around.

“So…” You began once you two were seated across from each other, warming your hands on the hot beverage nestled between your palms while he kept a three fingered grip around his paper cup. “Do you wanna talk or you just wanna stay silent the whole time?”

Tomura perked up a bit then, eyes widening a fraction as if he’d just remembered something important. “Oh…” He cleared his throat, took a cautious sip of his coffee. “I mean, whatever you usually do is fine.”

As you sampled your own drink, you considered him with more of that wary skepticism, eyes squinted as if trying to blur his edges and unveil some hidden image amidst all that scarred, alabaster skin and silvery hair falling into his eyes.

“I dunno… It sort of just depends on the customer,” you shrugged, absentmindedly picking at the frayed edge of the cardboard cup holder as you chewed on the inside of your cheek. “But I guess we could talk, if you want…”

As you both took another uncomfortable sip of your drinks, avoiding direct eye contact, you were starting to fear this might become the longest hour of your life. But then Tomura spoke up, asking, “So, what are you into?” and for a moment you weren’t quite sure how to answer that.

“You mean, like, hobbies and stuff?” you clarified.

“Sure,” he gave a tired half shrug and elaborated, “Hobbies, music, movies, whatever.”

You took a second to conjure up the topics you wanted to divulge to him, then listed off a few of your favorite bands and a couple good documentaries you’d seen recently. Eventually, you turned the question to him and mostly gleaned that he loved video games. You couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes lit up as he spoke about various RPGs and MMOs and all sorts of other terminology you’d only had a little experience in grasping.

But you were relieved that, once you guys got onto his favorite topic, he did most of the talking and the hour passed fast. When it was time for you to go you thanked him for spotting your drink, wished him a good day, and were about to be done with the exchange until Tomura caught the edge of your sleeve, the fabric pinched lightly between his two fingers, and he asked in an urgent, almost pleading way, “When can I see you again?”

You let a few beats pass before exhaling the breath you’d been holding in, already wondering if you were going to regret this before the words even left your mouth. Then you said, “If you’re willing to keep paying this much, then you can see me whenever you want.”

Tomura looked taken aback, as if he hadn’t considered that possibility, and as you tugged free of his grasp on your sleeve, you added on, “Same place and time next week, if that works for you?”

He seemed to search his mind for a moment before giving a satisfied nod and a quiet, “Yeah…”

And so your regular meetings with him began. Every week— sometimes a couple days in a row if you both were free— one hour at the cafe around noon, the new rate of sixty five-thousand yen in cash each time paid in advance.

At least, that’s how things went for the first few months.

***

Standing in the middle of the small kitchen, Tomura was almost unrecognizable when he was like this, peppering tender kisses from the crown of your head to the apple of your cheeks, across your jaw and down your neck.

At least, he’d be unrecognizable to anyone that wasn’t you.

That’s why he usually sought out Serenity in private, behind some closed door or when no one else was occupying the hideout. You two had never talked about it, but he knew you’d noticed.

That didn’t mean he was afraid to stand close to you during meetings or that the others weren’t aware of your unique relationship, but still. To openly express just how much he wanted you— needed you…

That had been a terrifying realization back when it had first occurred to him. He’d tried to push it down, push it down, push it down for as long as he could, smother any semblance of positive emotion that dared spark itself inside of him. Because he knew what would happen if he let it take kindling and catch flame. It would consume him. Body and mind and soul.

Some days he wondered if it already had, if the wildfire of your presence had already scorched him from the inside out like Dabi’s quirk was in the process of doing to his body every single day. Others, Tomura forced himself to douse his feelings for you in ice water, to take a step back and separate the effects of your quirk for which he so often sought you out for from you as a person.

It could all get so confusing, causing him to spiral into bouts of anger or anxiety and end up coming back to you just to calm it all down like withdrawal from a powerful drug.

You made this all so hard on him when you never turned him away. When you always greeted him with open arms no matter how dirty or broken a state he returned to you in. You’d hold him, or let him hold you, for as long as he needed until something or someone came around to remind him to pick up the heavy weight of his reality and keep pressing forward.

He’d tried to keep you as his own little secret for the first few months after you’d agreed to join him and the League, though knew eventually he’d have no choice but to introduce you to his Sensei, whether through the blinding brightness and crackling audio of a computer monitor in a dark room or, a less than ideal scenario, in person. Face to disfigured face.

The screen had sufficed, luckily for Tomura, and after convincing his ominous yet revered Sensei how much you did for him— how much you did for the League as a whole, which you knew was a stretch, as much as you wish his words were true— the older man had let you stay.

Though, even if AFO had disapproved, Tomura would’ve found a way to convince him. Because, like one of those who’d described your quirk like the lulled sweetness of a high, he was addicted. He wasn’t sure what he’d do without you and he hoped he’d never have to find out.

“I’ll meet you in our room in a minute,” you coyly hinted, taking a step back from him and shielding one of the plastic bags from his view. “There’s just one more thing I gotta do first.”

This time, Tomura didn’t try and argue. He still rolled his eyes, sure, but he was smiling while he did it. Telling you to hurry up before heading out of the kitchen and presumably to the aforementioned location, fighting the urge to scratch with every step further from you he took.

You didn’t want to keep him waiting either, so you hastily grabbed his gift from the bottom of the bag as well as the old newspaper and duct tape you’d found lying around the hideout.

As much as you wished you had some cool, shiny wrapping paper or at least a halfway decent gift bag to put the present in, you figured Tomura wouldn’t be one to care what the packaging looked like. If his impatience for getting the things he wanted was any indicator— like how quickly he got you undressed and underneath him on a night when you both needed to satisfy your more carnal cravings— he’d tear it to shreds and toss the paper to the floor to get at the prize that was inside.

So you only bothered to fold it up in the newspaper and secure the two ends with duct tape before heading off to his room, part of you tempted to tape the entire thing just to give him a challenge, though then figured he might decay it out of frustration, only to find him sitting in front of his gaming PC, having gone to farm for some weapon enhancement materials while he waited for you.

“That was fast,” he remarked as you strolled closer, the poorly wrapped gift held behind your back with one hand.

“Guess what it is first,” you said.

Tomura paused his game, swiveling in his chair to better face you, fingers laced before him as he wore a look of minor curiosity, actually playing along for once. “Uhhhh… Wait, don’t tell me—” It was rare for him to actually indulge in one of your “pointless little games” as he often called them. But the moment his expression dropped back to that usual, unamused look, you realized a second too late that now he was the one playing with you. “It’s a pony, isn’t it?”

Flashing him a disapproving glower you lightly scolded, “Tomura. Come on. That’s not a real guess.”

“Fine,” he said, turning back to his monitor and continuing to beat mobs, picking up whatever it was they dropped so his character’s sword could level up or whatever. “It’s that new dark fantasy MMORPG that came out a few months ago. Y’know, the one with the super cool graphics made by the same company that did that other game I really liked…” His back was still facing you, so he couldn’t see the frown that had crossed your face. He said, “How’s that for a guess?” right before you dropped the package into his lap. When he turned to face you next, you didn’t look pleased.

“You looked in the bag,” you accused, voice low and annoyance beginning to simmer. “Didn’t you?”

He picked up the bundle of newspaper and duct tape that had landed in his lap and carefully turned it over in his hands. “Wait… You mean…?” He shot you a skeptical glance, trying to read your expression before eagerly tearing into the package. When you didn’t budge, still giving him that suspicious glare with your arms crossed over your chest, he began to rip strips of the newspaper off, the first corner of the gift being exposed confirming that his guess had been right.

“Happy birthday, fun killer,” you remarked, though there was a notable softness etching its way back into your words, a small smile spreading across your lips as you caught the awestruck look painted on Tomura’s face as he held the game up to the light to better study the cover art on the sleeve.

In his rare moment of distraction and stupor, you wandered closer to sling your arms around his shoulders, half your body leaning over the back of his gaming chair as you nuzzled your cheek lightly against his, feeling the roughness of his skin but finding familiar comfort in it.

“You like it?” You finally asked, pulling Tomura from his daze.

“Yeah,” he replied, that crooked smile cracking across his face for a flicker of a second. “I just can’t believe you actually managed to get your hands on a copy. It’s been sold out everywhere for weeks since it came out.”

You squeezed him a little tighter, placing another peck to his cheek before saying, “Had to travel three prefectures over and scam a kid who thought he was gonna be able to resale it to me for triple the price, but it was worth it.”

“How long did it take to convince him to let you have it for free?” asked Tomura, a hint of cruel delight lacing into his question.

“Mmmm…” you hummed, recalling the exchange in your mind, “Maybe like, five minutes, tops. But what do you say? You wanna play it?” you prompted, as if the question even needed asking in the first place.

After Tomura gave an obvious, “Uh, yeah I wanna play it,” he reached forward to pop the disc into the computer underneath the desk that held his three screen monitor display. Meanwhile, you were about to go grab an extra chair from the bar so you could sit next to him.

“Wait,” he beckoned you back before you could open the door. You paused and looked over your shoulder at him with a hint of confusion. But then he was waving you over, giving one of those grins you’d come to learn were reserved only for you, and patted his lap as he pushed his chair back from his desk, “Just c’mere.”

You gladly settled into the space between his loosely crossed legs, his arms draping over your shoulders so that he could hold his controller in front of your chest, your own controller resting in your lap and at the ready as you both waited for the game to load.

“Try not to get too frustrated when I absolutely annihilate you at this, ok,” Tomura teased, tinkering with some of the settings before launching you both into the pixelated world.

“Oh, please,” you scoffed, already starting to run ahead of him on your section of the split screen where some low level mobs had just spawned. “Just try and keep up.”

You two spent a little while exploring the world and collecting supplies before you tried your hand at battling each other. Much to your dismay, but not to your surprise, Tomura was indeed “absolutely annihilating you” when it came to 1v1 fights, even when you tried to fight dirty.

And, even with your quirk in uncontrollable, constant effect on him, Serenity did nothing to slow down the rate at which his fingers flew over the buttons on the controller, hitting combo after combo with only a couple hours to learn and familiarize himself with them. In fact, you began to think maybe Serenity was making him better at playing, like the calm was clearing his mind of all other distractions so he could focus solely on the task right in front of him.

But you’d never been able to beat him, no matter what type of game you were facing off in. Still though, as he claimed the final victory in the last round you two agreed to play together, there was still a part of you that was frustrated you hadn’t been able to win against him just once.

“Want another round?” he dared to ask, that cocky air of confidence snagging on the edge of his words.

“So you can beat my character into a bloody pulp again? Yeah. I’m gonna have to pass on that one.”

“I warned you,” he said, a slight lilt in his raspy reminder.

“If I hadn’t been sitting here with you the entire time,” you began as Tomura wrapped himself tighter around you, now peppering gentle kisses to your head and looping his arms around your ribs, hugging you closer to his chest like he liked to do, “then I would’ve accused you of using cheats, but—” You tilted your head back to rest in the crook of his shoulder, gazing into his eyes and getting lost in all that scarlet. “I’ll hand it to you. You’ve probably never had to use hacks in your life, have you?”

A quiet hum of amusement vibrated in Tomura’s chest and you felt it echo through your own body for a moment, his kisses finding your neck and making you melt into him a little further until you’d both abandoned your controllers and you’d changed your position to straddle his lap, facing him so you could kiss him properly now.

“‘Course not,” he stated in between kisses, his voice lowering to a whisper as his hands began to carefully navigate the familiar planes of your body, palms running over your soft curves and grazing over the areas he knew would drive you crazy later, once there were no clothes between you two and you were laying vulnerable and bare beneath him.

He swore Serenity was always strongest when you two were skin to skin, no barriers, no matter how thin, there to hinder the flow of all that tranquility. The first time you two had slept together, you’d been surprised how gentle Tomura had been, how careful the most deadly hands in the country had held you.

Tomura could get lost in those moments, mind clouded by the calm, any and all worries he’d ever had disappearing among the fog. He didn’t want to admit how hopelessly addicted he was to you, how he was afraid of the feeling that might come crashing back in if he spent too much time away.

Sometimes you wondered if he’d still like you even if you didn’t have this quirk, if somehow you two could’ve still ended up like this, if you would’ve lent him some quality of halcyon just by your presence alone, unaided by the tranquility that endlessly emanated from your being.

Before you could dwell on it too much though, Tomura was standing with you, guiding you to the bed, and pinning you to the mattress, both of your clothes beginning to shed like a skin no longer needed.

Tomura was muttering things against your neck and into your hair as he continued to kiss you, sucking a few bruises along your pulse and making you squirm, and at one point you could’ve sworn you’d heard the words “I love you” amidst all the incoherent mumbling.

But you must’ve imagined that, right? Because neither of you had been brave enough to say those words out loud to each other before, even if you’d heard them echoing inside your brain more and more frequently with every passing day.

Yeah, you must’ve just imagined it.

“Hm…?” You tried to prompt as you carded your fingers through Tomura’s silvery hair, catching a few loose knots and combing through them until he met your eyes again.

Through the dim dark of the room, the only light being that which glowed from the computer monitors, his birthday present on pause, the red of his eyes was bright and alluring, a dichotomy between danger and desire.

But something about seeing them tonight was reminding you of the first time you’d met that gaze. Back when you two were strangers crossing paths on the street like ships in the night, you unaware of all he’d ever done and him acutely cued into the sudden and startling shift in the energy around him, pulled into your orbit.

He looked at you like you were a rare treasure he’d been searching for all his life, astonished by the reality he’d long thought to be a myth, driven only by unexplainable faith and the payoff of the proof right in front of him.

“Wha’cha lookin’ at?” you lovingly asked, cradling his face in your palms. He seemed to snap out of the intense stare, melting back against your form and allowing himself to become drunk on the scent of you, on the warmth of your skin, being content just to hold you close if that’s all you’d give him, just like he had in the beginning of all this.

“Just you…” he breathed, his steady breath fanning over your neck. “Only you…”

***

“I want you to join the League,” he’d said, plain and simple and, as far as you were concerned, completely out of left field.

You’d almost choked on your current swig of coffee, quickly composing yourself before giving him a bemused look and asking, “What did you just say?”

You knew exactly which League he was referring to, but still, you weren’t convinced you’d understood him right.

You knew who he was by then, same as he knew you, at least by name. Because, while neither of you had ever exchanged that information directly, you both had a habit of doing some digging behind the scenes. He’d found you a lot faster, given his expertise on navigating the technological back alleys of information stored within systems like the quirk registry and other private digital catalogs.

You, however, had found out his true identity the hard way.

Since you’d grown accustomed to seeing him on a regular basis, you’d recognize those pale tufts of wavy hair anywhere— even on the shaky, blurred footage shown on the news where his face was covered by a grim, grey hand.

You had to give him credit though. For being the most wanted villain in all of Japan, he sure was bold to wander out in public as often as he did.

And at first, you’d felt the familiar stomach sinking weight of dread that came with the realization that you’d been having almost weekly cafe dates with a known murderer. The fact that you knew your generous patron to be Tomura Shigaraki had made those first few days— well, ok, those first few weeks— after uncovering the information incredibly stressful for you.

You found it hard to take your eyes off his hands— the hands that could turn you to dust before you’d probably even have the chance to let out a scream if he wanted to. All it would take was all five fingers to close around you and you’d be gone. Yet, at the same time, all he’d done was show you the utmost courtesy and consideration. Though, perhaps you had your quirk to thank for that.

He kept his distance, only came closer when you explicitly allowed it, and never tried to pressure you for more than you’d give him. He’d offered to walk you home a couple of times when your sessions had been pushed to after dark, and when you refused, he still said he hoped you made it back safely. He kept buying your drinks or your lunches or whatever other extra expenses the locations you two were meeting at involved.

And, as much as you hated to admit it, part of you was falling for him, no matter how evil or dangerous the media painted him to be. And sometimes it felt like maybe he was falling for you too, but once you’d find yourself alone again, and usually sixty five-thousand yen richer, you were reminded that all of this was just an exchange.

If it wasn’t for your quirk, he’d have no reason to want anything to do with you.

“I said I want you to—”

“No, I heard you,” you cut in, holding up a hand to further signal his silence. You held his gaze, trying to search his eyes for any hidden agenda, but felt a further sense of unease when it seemed he was being genuine.

You sighed to yourself, raking your fingers back through your hair as you tried to catch a single thought that was racing through your mind. Once you finally managed to snag one, you regrouped and said, “Look. This thing—” You quickly pointed a finger from him to you and back a few times. “Whatever you wanna call what we have going on… It’s—” You made a short, sort of choking sound, scoffing at the words you hadn’t yet chosen, finding yourself speechless for a moment.

This time, as you looked back to him, trying to remain… What? Composed? Professional? Guarded? You laced your fingers together atop the table and simply stated, “My quirk can do this to people. It can…” Again, you searched for the right words, your eyes darting back and forth from where your hands were clasped in front of you to his which were starting to fidget with the strings of his hoodie. “It can make people start to think things or feel things that, once out of Serenity’s range for long enough, they realize aren’t actually true.”

You paused for a moment, giving him space to say something, to give any indication that maybe he wanted to reconsider. To confirm that, the moment he was more than five feet away from you, he’d perhaps crack one of those crooked smirks he liked to wear and admit, “Y’know what, you’re right. Forget I even said that,” and things between you two could carry on as they normally did.

But Tomura didn’t say anything. Instead, he stood from his seat, turned his back, and walked out of the little hole in the wall noodle place you two had discovered not that long ago— your new favorite late night meeting spot.

You sat there, even more at a loss for words and no less confused, and began to replay everything you’d just said over and over in your head, trying to figure out where you’d offended him so greatly.

But then, only a minute later, your phone began to ring, lighting up with the contact name 65,000. A little joke to yourself, a nickname you’d called him by in your head before learning his true identity.

“I want you to join the League,” Tomura’s familiar rasp crackled through the phone. You turned and looked out the window, seeing him standing on the other side of the street, staring you down through the fingerprint-smudged glass of the restaurant’s front window. “You think I haven’t had plenty of time to think about this while I was away from you?”

You felt like your world was spinning, slow and swaying like the dizziness from a headrush. You opened your mouth to speak, closed it, swallowed, then opened it again to reply with a single syllable.

“Why?”

“Why?” Tomura repeated, like the answer was obvious. “Because I—” Now it was his turn to consider his next words carefully, his voice tapering off into a quiet squeak at the end with what remained of his original sentence quickly dying on his tongue. He leaned against the brick wall of the building behind him, still staring at you from across the street, hood pulled over his pale, fluffy hair. “Because I think you’d be good for all of us. Your quirk, it’s… unconventional. Especially when taken into consideration as to how it’d fit into our party but…” He shrugged, and you thought you could see him crack a small smile, though weren’t completely sure from that far away. “I mean, c’mon. If anything, we could use your convenience store robbing skills.”

You could tell he was trying to use humor to put you at ease, but even so, you could feel your heart beating in your throat and your hands start to go a little numb as you prepared to utter your next statement to him.

“But…” you began, a slight tremble to your voice. “You guys kill people, don’t you?”

You could rob convenience stores to survive, sure. But killing someone…

You didn’t think you were capable of something like that.

As Tomura began to fumble for an excuse or explanation as to why certain drastic measures were often necessary in his position, you continued to sit at the tiny table tucked into the corner, absolutely beside yourself.

“Tomura—” It was the first time you’d called him by his name and it tasted bitter in your mouth. “You tried to kill kids.”

“Yeah. And so what if I did?” Even with this much distance, you could tell his eyes were alight with an all-knowing breed of mischief, almost like he was proud of this fact and not horrendously ashamed like most people would be at just the mere thought.

“I’m being serious!” you blurted out, then remembered you were the only one in a very tiny establishment, catching a few odd looks from the cooks behind the counter. You lowered your voice, though with no less sense of scolding, and continued, “I not going to— I can’t—”

“Relax…” he’d spoken over your ramblings of denial, taking a few tries before you finally seemed willing to hear him out. “You’re not gonna have to kill anybody. Your job will be strictly post-mission remedying. Maybe some occasional reconnaissance if absolutely necessary. You have my word.”

“Yeah, and you think I’m just going to take you at your word?”

Looking back, agreeing to willingly join what many had deemed a domestic terrorist organization hadn’t been a line you ever thought you’d cross. And you had never had a habit of letting people talk you into doing things that every fiber of your being was urging you to stay away from.

But there was just something about the way he’d sold it to you, how he’d made you feel important, made you feel wanted, that seeped its way into your better judgment and convinced you that yeah, maybe having a place and a people to belong to and help was what you’d been looking for for a long time. So you let him take you to the hideout, were introduced to the other members of the League, and when push came to shove, you decided you’d stay.

It didn’t take long for the others to warm up to you— a perk that no doubt had more to do with your quirk than you as a person, as you felt was normally the case— and after a few months, you felt like one of the fucked up family.

You’d come to see sides of all of them that they’d probably never shown anyone else, at least, not within the group. You’d held them late at night and let them drift off to sleep in your arms, sat with them for hours after a battle to ease the pain of their injuries, and gave them comfort when tensions were high.

The first time you shared a bed with Tomura, everyone else was out. He’d sent them scouting or scavenging or something so you two could have some time alone. It was the first time in months that you two had gotten some time alone, and it sort of made you miss the weekly cafe dates from the beginning of your strange, transactional relationship.

And that was the first time you thought maybe he liked you for more than just your quirk. The way he’d handled you was more careful and gentle than you’d ever seen him, and it made you think maybe things had always been meant to turn out this way.

The world outside that room could be decaying to ruins and neither of you would’ve noticed or cared when you were skin to skin. All you could focus on or think about was the feel of each other’s bodies, the way you moved in tandem, pulling moans and whines from each other with every drag of your visiting hips, the taste of his mouth on yours, the way he looked with all that pale hair framing his face as the hooked moon cast a soft, silvery glow through the tiny window.

You weren’t ready to admit it back then, but you knew that was the defining moment in securing the fact that you weren’t going to leave. No matter how things ended up or what turns the future took, you’d be in the League for the long haul, with him, both of you swaddled in a natural kind of serenity.

I think I love you, you’d thought as you felt his breathing slow, both of you curled together and dozing off once the high had come down and the room returned to its previous silence. I think I love you and I don’t know what to do.

You were ok keeping that to yourself. Better to not get hurt that way. But the more time that passed, the more you began to wonder if you’d be able to hold in such a heavy realization forever.

You never thought he’d say it back. Didn’t think he knew how. But you’d wait.

You’d wait until he was ready. Until he was sure he could truly mean it.

***

The room felt smaller now than it had a year ago. It was almost like everything beyond the old, blanket strewn mattress pushed into the corner on the floor didn’t exist.

With the computer monitors now faded dark and the absence of the usual muffled hum and clattering of the other League members moving throughout the rickety building or getting rowdy in the bar, the place was as still and silent as a graveyard.

That was, until the only two ghosts left lingering stirred to resume the haunt.

“Tomura…” you sighed, voice cracking with a whine of pleasure being plucked within you like a taught guitar string. He was already nestled between your thighs, slowly pushing his way deeper into the tight, wet, warmth of you. He had a habit of taking his time when it came to this, unlike the way his patience usually dwindled down to nothing like a fire eating away at a piece of paper, temper red hot and quick to flare whenever someone kept him waiting.

But, when it came to you, his patience burned more like a candle, slowly melting, savoring the experience, steady on the wick until the flame disintegrated it down to delicate ash and he’d have no choice but to wait for the wax to resolidify and start all over again.

You two didn’t talk much during this act. All your usual banter and sarcastic, teasing little comments were put on hold just until you were both stated and recovering from the come down. But still, that didn’t mean you didn’t catch him muttering things under his breath the further he carved out a home in you, all the little strained feels so good’s and god, you’re perfect’s that he whispered into the crook of your neck between leaving a trail of tender kisses there.

He’d work you up slowly, try to outlast until neither of you could take it anymore, and savor the way your core pulsed around him as you both tried to catch your breath and merge back with reality after letting everything go.

He’d let you run your fingertips over his back, sending little shivers across his spine, and lightly scratch at the back of his neck as he nuzzled his face into the crook of your shoulder, breathing in your scent like a sweet, calming drug.

Sometimes you’d hum to him, recalling simple, melancholy tunes you’d heard in your childhood or slow songs that had simply gotten stuck in your head. He’d usually drift off for a few minutes, only coming to with a deep inhale when he felt you inevitably stir beneath him. Then it was his turn to take care of you, to clean you up and witness as you were lulled by his touch, perhaps the only person who knew what his hands were capable of who’d ever let him touch them.

As you two lay side by side now, staring into each other’s eyes, admiring the color of each other’s gaze, you smiled at him and brushed a few misplaced strands of hair from his forehead, brushing your fingers down the line of his cheek, following to his jaw before slowly pulling your hand back and closing your eyes, feeling like it was only a matter of minutes until you were asleep for good that night.

But that’s when you heard it again.

“I love you,” he stated, as if it were a fact as simple as saying the sky was blue, indisputable. You opened your eyes, blinked at him, brows slightly knit together and mouth tugged down in a crooked frown as if about to deliver bad news to someone you cared about.

“Tomura…” you sighed, a slight, sympathetic lilt to your words. Though, whether it was sympathy for you or sympathy for him, you weren’t quite sure. “You’re only saying that because—”

Before the excuse had time to fully be spoken into existence, Tomura suddenly sat up and forced himself to stand from the mattress with a quiet groan. You watched as he walked from one end of the room to the other, now out of the range of your quirk. He looked you in the eyes as he said it again, the shadows of an almost pleading expression crossing his face, like he was begging you to believe him.

“I love you,” he repeated a third time, and by then, you were starting to think maybe he did. You almost felt like you might tear up, because when was the last time someone told you that and really meant it? When was the last time anyone had told Tomura? Had he ever said those words to someone else before?

“C’mere…” You beckoned him back into your embrace, and once he was in your arms again you began lazily running your fingers through his hair, gently tugging through a few more knots and feeling his breathing synchronize with yours. “I love you, too…” you muttered into the crown of his head before placing a chaste kiss there.

He looked up at you, eyes wide and full of some kind of innocent desperation, as if he were a little kid seeking approval and couldn’t believe he’d finally gotten it. Again, the notion broke your heart, knowing he hadn’t been loved properly in his childhood, but then the relief of realizing that you could maybe make up for some of it by loving him now filled you.

“Oh, and, by the way…” you smiled, a new kind of brightness shining in your tone. “Happy birthday.”

Tomura cracked a grin then— a real one, genuinely happy— and while he didn’t say it as he lay his head back down on your chest, finding healing in the steady rhythm of your heart beat, he knew that this would be a birthday he would remember forever.

***

(Aaaaaahhhh!! Guys!! I’ve been wanting to write something new for Tomura for so long and am really happy with how this one turned out :)

Honestly, this was originally meant to just be short and sweet and the to the point since I wanted to do something for his birthday but, like usual, I got too self indulgent and it sort of spiraled out of control lol.

Anyway, happy birthday to our favorite gamer boy, who deserves all the love and good things <3

Thanks for reading and I’ll see you next time!)

[sleidog]

a fun little collection of Runa lore from RP/general thoughts:

Runa's ability to have multiple tendrils/limbs when they're damaged beyond repair and easier to just. remove. has had the number cap removed, from doubling, to 'whatever looks cool :)' i feel like this is most important for the back tendrils, where his arm is probably going to have a soft limit around 4 Runa's additional eyes are sense organs for sure, but they don't actually -see- like a normal eye, despite the visual function of them and their ability to emote, matching his own expressions the extra eyes sense heat/movement, and the sensation of them locking in on something is relayed to Runa to judge for himself if that thing he 'saw' move is worth investigating Runa's particularly strong senses are based around movement, heat and magic. he's great at pinpointing a magically inclined target, finding a magically charged object, etc or spotting a hot target through dense foliage, especially if it moves suddenly! his eyesight is actually pretty average, and his taste and smell are incredibly dull [unless what he can smell/taste is augmented by some kind of magic] if you were to peel back runa's charcoal-y armour, you'd find the remnants of his actual arm still under it, but there isn't an awful lot of it left [it's gone from just before the elbow down] as such, he has very little sensation in his left arm! from the elbow down in particular, he cannot feel if something is touching/pushing on his arm, it also means it's of no consequence to do his hyrda nonsense with breaking his arm off manually at the elbow joint and growing more limbs [while he can break it off higher up, this isn't advised, the higher he goes, the more sensation he loses. do not ask him to hold things in his right hand, he will drop or crush it, because he can't control how hard he's gripping something his hair leaves were longer when he was a sapling and his skin resembled more of the aspen tree he's based on, greyish with black eye-like markings, over time with the burning and loss of his limb, his body has been stained by the charcoal that flakes off of him [in theory, if you were to give him a very thorough scrubbing, you could get him back to a more mid/pale grey shade, but it's not worth the effort the armour has the texture of charcoal, flaky and brittle but quite dense, under extreme stress, the armour splits and vents out black smoke from little crackly embers that run through the middle of his arm, the smoke is extremely toxic/hallucinogenic and should not be inhaled [he can vent it at will as well, but this is a rarity and happens from his shoulder spikes; the smoke when done at will takes a yellowish hue, and he's basically isolating and superheating his own blood into a fine vapour and expelling it, it's corrosive if you're caught in the moment it's released and almost sulphuric in scent getting onto that 'superheating' aspect; runa's pretty adverse to fire, understandably after he almost lost his life to it; however in his current state, he's quite resiliant to fire, in fact, his charcoal arm is fully resistant to fire, it simply does nothing to him at all [however the visual can make him panic and recoil] Runa's body runs quite hot, around 53C at his core! he's a walking radiator, but the heat is less intense if touching his skin/extremities, still hotter than an average person to a noticable degree his body glow is normal on the right side of his body, but his left side resembles crackly embers across freshly burnt wood if he DOES burn out his armour too much, it takes a greyish/white tint, and he'll flake away at it like a person would do with a sunburn, it's gives him a sensation similar to a phantom itch, he shouldn't be able to feel it but he can see it flaking so it makes him feel itchy

[e17omm]

Idk why I just turned to venting right now, but I really do miss when HI3 leaned more into its semi-futuristic theme. Especially for its locations.

Like Mt Taixuan is fine. Its a more fantasy-like location imo. Its fine.

But then we have Kolosten. Okay. Old town.

And then there's the ER and EE which is mostly fantasy feeling.

And then we have the Moon which is mostly ruins with some technology on it.

Then SSHC which is like, a medieval town.

Same with Sa's/Vita's place. Some technology but not mainly that.

Even Part 2, yeah its 50/50 but we are barely in the modern place, all the plot happens in the shadowy place.

I miss the normal towns, Schicksal's floating islands (because those are artificial and not natural floating islands. At least that's my impression of SSHQ), fighting on aircraft was cool, even the Sea of Quanta had a modern-ish feel to it. And yes, of course, I freaking love Arc City so goddamn much.

(I do tired rambling below)

But this also has to do with what the characters are wearing these days. Where are the freaking battlesuits? Like come on, I can use freaking Rita for an example!

Umbral Rose is probably the least combat-ready-looking out of her outfits. It looks more like off combat hours outfit for her. Which it kinda is because this was back when characters had more than one pair of clothes!

Look at Phantom Iron! Its a dress but it had armor and mechanic bits to it! This looks like a modern/semi-futuristic combat maid!

Even Arget Knight: Artemis has some of that combat dress going on. Its a dress, but it has armor over hee chest, shoulders, back with those wings, and armored gloves.

And then we get to Spina Aster and its just, a dress. I'm not seeing much of maid or combat in this one. Its a good design, but it doesnt feel like its made for combat. Like remove her weapons and she can go to a party like that, similar to how she can just put her scythe away and start doing maid things as Umbral Rose. But Phantom Iron and Artmeis looks combat maid.

And like even Umbral Rose looks more ready for combat than Spina Astera as she doesnt have all those pieces of cloth hanging after her.

If we can ignore the whitewashing of their color palette for a moment,

HoO and HoTr looks fine, but what is Kiana wearing?? That is literally just a fancy dress

What happened to these designes? HoF fits in better in the Herrscher trio because she's also armored!

...

Im rambling and tired and just trying to scratch an itch for what to do. Dont take my complaints about the battlesuits too seriously except maybe I dont remember if we've had armored battlesuits lately tbh, but I dont remember seeing anyone that did wear armor...

[eleanorfenyxwrites]

The Man From Y.I.L.I.N.G.

Chapter 15: "U.N.C.L.E. (Epilogue)

Final main fic chapter! Keep an eye out for the extras we just can't help but write 😂😅

--//--

MONACO

The air is different here.

Sitting calmly by the ocean on a private white-sand beach 12 hours a day for the past few weeks may have a little something to do with that observation, Jin Guangyao is willing to grant. Maybe the air here is no fresher, no lighter, no cleaner than that of Jinlintai, or Yiling, or Yunping, or anywhere else he’s at least passingly familiar with. Maybe there’s nothing much different about it at all.

But it feels different. He feels like he could be different, too.

Not in every way, of course. And not even, probably, in any ways that matter. His fingers had started itching the second they’d arrived at their resort absolutely packed to the gills with the obscenely wealthy all showing off for each other. He’s glad that he’d indulged in a bit of light lifting on their way through the lobby to check in, because as it turns out the obscenely wealthy were all swanning through the lobby in something of a quiet uproar — they’d just been informed that the resort was completely booked out, utterly unavoidable, apologies for the inconveniences, off you go.

Jin Guangyao had nearly laughed in their faces on their way out the beautifully ornate front doors.

He’s also only gone on one very respectable, very demure, single mission in the weeks since they arrived, and it hadn’t even been a challenging one at that. Conning four very drunk, very rich men out of every penny they own at a poker game hardly counts as a mission in his books, after all, considering he’d walked into that 4-million-franc buy-in game knowing he was going to trounce them and how, and he’d thoroughly enjoyed doing it.

So he’s really still the same man at his core; it isn’t his fault that the difference is that now it all rings a little hollow without the voices he’d most like to hear chiding him for it whilst not making any real move to stop him doing whatever he wants to do.

So. Monaco feels different.

“Not swimming either today, A-Yao?” Qin Su asks. She settles into the chair next to him with a happy sigh, half in the shade of a white silk umbrella with her legs stuck out in front of her to slide her feet through the warm sand.

“Not today, no.” Jin Guangyao slides his own feet down far enough into the sand to hit the cooler layer beneath what’s been warmed by the sun and tells himself that he doesn’t feel the phantom of Nie Mingjue’s waterlogged weight in his arms, shuddering and trying to cough quietly enough not to get them caught by the Jiangs.

“Hm. Yu-didi’s having fun, at least.”

Jin Guangyao follows her gaze easily enough despite her chunky sunglasses; they’re the only ones on the beach, of course Mo Xuanyu is easy to find where he’s splashing around in the waist-deep water, jumping to catch each wave that rolls in, with a cackling laugh echoing over the water back to them every time he resurfaces after gets bowled over.

“Out of all of us, he deserves it the most.”

“He’s such a good kid,” she sighs, “I’m happy to see him acting like one.”

The ‘in spite of it all’ lingers unspoken between the two of them; there’s no need to say it aloud when they’re both so clearly thinking it. Jin Guangyao thinks that if he’s done one thing right in his life, at least, it’s been taking care of his little brother the best that he can since discovering his existence. He hadn’t been able to shield him from everything that happened in Jinlintai, but thankfully what he was exposed to doesn’t seem to have ruined him entirely. Whether or not the same can be said for Jin Guangyao himself remains to be seen, but he’s not nearly as concerned about that.

“Are you alright, A-Yao?” Qin Su presses, gentle but insistent, and Jin Guangyao finds that the smile he turns to offer her doesn’t sit right on his face.

“I’m fine. A bit tired from sitting in the sun, maybe.”

“Well if you won’t cool off in the water maybe you should go inside for a while, hm? Open up the doors to the balcony, let in the breeze, take a long nap.”

It’s not a terrible suggestion. He’s spent every day since they’ve arrived staring out at the ocean and attempting to calm his mind with little success. That poker game hadn’t helped, counting his 8-figure winnings afterwards hadn’t even helped, and that means there’s really nothing else to be done. Besides, soon enough Jin Zixuan will return from his mysterious errand in town for the morning, which Jin Guangyao suspects has something to do with his inevitable marriage to Jiang Yanli, which means Jin Guangyao will have no interest in talking about it at this moment in time (for what he feels are obvious reasons).

There’s really nothing else for it, then. “I think I will, actually,” he allows, offering his sister a slightly easier smile that she’s quick to return. He gets to his feet with a sigh, stretching his arms overhead and waving back at Mo Xuanyu when his brother leaps up to wave at him with both arms over his head just in time to get smacked down by a wave. Jin Guangyao can’t help but laugh a little and shake his head as he turns to head back up to the resort, squeezing Qin Su’s shoulder in silent thanks as he goes.

The interior of the lobby is a welcome reprieve from the heat and glare of the sun and sand, but he hasn’t gone more than a few steps when Jin Zixuan calls to him from the entrance all the way at the other end. “Oh, are you going upstairs?” He’s clearly only just arrived back from town. His hair is still swept back from his forehead from the drive along the Riviera in their borrowed convertible, which he only accentuates when he pushes his sunglasses up to rest on top of his head. (For a man as awkward and artless as he is, it’s a wonder he manages to pull off casual style with so little effort.)

“Yes, just for a little while. A-Su and Yu-didi are down at the water, our usual spot.”

“Good, good. Hey, listen, you know we’re almost done here, don’t you?” Jin Zixuan asks, and now that they’ve crossed most of the lobby to meet in the middle Jin Guangyao can see his brother looks oddly nervous under that casual air.

“…Yes,” he hedges, “I heard Miss Luo has nearly finished clearing out the worst of the rabble in Jinlintai, and we only promised Xuanyu a few weeks away, which we have nearly delivered on.”

“Right. Yes. Um. Right.” Jin Guangyao raises an eyebrow and tamps down the urge to smile at his brother’s artless fumbling.

“Zixuan, if you’re working up the nerve to ask that I take your place in Jinlintai while you run back to Yunmeng to continue playing lapdog for Jiang Yanli-”

“No! I mean…wait, is that an option?”

Jin Guangyao loses the battle against the urge to smile. “No.”

“Damn. Worth a try anyway. But ah, no, it’s not that it’s actually…maybe…a little bit the opposite?”

Something cold slithers into the pit of his stomach, the last of the lingering heat from the sun leaving him in a rush; he’s abruptly feeling chilled enough that he has to suppress a shiver.

“You don’t…want me to come home?”

“No! Oh my god I don’t know how I’ll be able to get anything done without your help but-” Jin Guangyao exhales slowly, a controlled sigh of relief “-I just mean it’s up to you what you do. You can do anything you want, you know that don’t you?”

“I see.” Jin Guangyao doesn’t agree outright simply because that’s not true, but who is he to poke holes in his brother’s idealistic view of the world? If everything they’ve been a part of thus far hasn’t done the job yet then it’s highly unlikely that he can make Jin Zixuan see sense himself. “Well thank you, I will bear it in mind. I’m going up to my suite now if that’s alright, but I’ll be back down in a couple of hours. Perhaps if we can persuade Xuanyu to come back to shore he and I can spend the afternoon teaching you and A-Su how to successfully cheat at poker.”

Jin Zixuan offers him a tight smile that only looks slightly constipated as he passes him with a firm clap to his shoulder. “Sounds like a plan. Have a uh…have a good rest, didi.”

Jin Guangyao lingers just long enough to turn and watch Jin Zixuan head for the verandah but he doesn’t bother to keep watching him walk out past it onto the sand. He crosses the lobby to the main stairs and heads up to his suite, hand trailing lightly along the elegant mahogany handrail polished to perfection, cool and smooth under his palm. Of course it’s worlds away from the Supervisory Resort. There’s no real reason a luxury resort in Monaco — of the sort that regularly plays host to the Monaco royal family and American Hollywood stars and mob bosses from all over Europe — should remind him of a comparatively rundown old-world hotel in Yiling, but once again it’s not like any of this pining is his fault. It’s theirs for being too wonderful to easily forget.

(He refuses to think of them in more specific terms for his own peace of mind, such as it is.)

Hiding his sour mood is more effort than it’s worth as he climbs the stairs unobserved, so instead he pouts a little (prettily, of course) and trudges more slowly up the marble stairs than he normally would. He unlocks the door to his suite with a tired sigh-

That freezes in his chest the moment the door swings open.

“Hello darling,” Lan Xichen greets in lightly accented English, smiling softly and shifting his weight to cross one leg over the other and looking for all the world like the sort of handsome movie stars that usually graces these rooms. He’s sitting in an armchair in the middle of the room like he owns the place and Jin Guangyao is roughly three seconds away from climbing into his lap to bite and/or kiss every inch of his beautiful face.

Every capacity for language (every single one that he knows) deserts him, so all Jin Guangyao can do is shut the door behind himself and step a little further into the room awash in summer sun streaming through the open windows, gauzy white curtains billowing softly on the ocean breeze.

He manages to find his tongue, finally, when Lan Xichen just smiles at him and offers him a quick wink, but even with his powers of speech restored, “You’re here,” is all he can think to say. Useless, pointless, obvious — but it makes Lan Xichen smile at him so widely his eyes crinkle up at the corners and Jin Guangyao’s heart does some strange sort of thumping, leaping thing in his chest so maybe that’s alright.

“We are.”

We..?

There’s a faint sound, the scuff of a hard leather sole on marble, and Jin Guangyao whips towards the open French doors that lead to the balcony in time to see Nie Mingjue step into the room, limned in that rich gold Mediterranean sunlight and somehow just as charmingly handsome as Lan Xichen. It’s incredible how much the lack of a pained scowl can change a man’s looks, he thinks somewhat manically.

“You-“

Nie Mingjue raises an eyebrow at him when he’s unable to continue with anything else even remotely articulate, everything caught in around the knot of emotion stuck in his throat, and after a moment the corner of Nie Mingjue’s mouth tips up into a crooked little smirk even as his eyes soften.

“Me. Little Viper.”

Oh that’s just not fair. This is not fair! His heart jumps in his chest again, stomach swooping with pleasure just to be in the same room as them again, and he just knows his face is giving every single bit of it away.

“What are you doing here?” he finally manages, his mind whirring back to life finally only to skip straight past pleasure into alarm. “What’s wrong?”

Nie Mingjue scoffs and steps further into the room to cross behind Lan Xichen and settle in on the little loveseat that matches the armchair, knees spread with one arm draped along the top of the cushions. “I told you he’d assume the worst.”

“Mm so you did, but if you’ll recall I then told you we’d fix it quickly enough.”

“Well fix it then, since this was your idea.”

Lan Xichen, his smile still warmer than the sun pouring in through windows and the balcony doors, immediately soothes, “Everything’s fine, A-Yao. We would’ve come earlier, but some things needed doing before we could both slip away to steal you for ourselves.”

They’ve come to steal him…for themselves. That sounds good. That sounds lovely.

“Quicker, A-Huan, we’ve only got a few more minutes.”

“Ah, are you sure?”

“You’re the one who insisted on getting it done early!”

“Of course, you’re right,” Lan Xichen sighs and stands in a smooth motion, twitching his suit jacket straighter and buttoning it closed as he crosses the room to stop just in front of Jin Guangyao. Jin Guangyao’s breath stops somewhere halfway through the process of sucking in a sharp inhale that fills his head with the scent of expensive cologne — Lan Xichen’s fucking face should be classified as a deadly weapon, let alone his everything suddenly so close.

“In a few minutes-”

“Two.”

“-in two minutes, my uncle will knock on the door to this suite and come in to offer you a business proposition. You are free to answer him however you’d like, do not worry about anything except what you want for yourself. Do you understand?”

Not in the least, but Jin Guangyao has always been quick on his feet. He nods, and somehow, for some reason, earns himself another smile and a quick, fleeting kiss to his cheek that leaves him reeling more than anything else has yet. He meets Nie Mingjue’s piercing gaze around Lan Xichen’s shoulder and finds it grounds him a little, a steady anchor against Lan Xichen’s tidal pull.

“The next minute and forty seconds are for you to come sit over here and get your breath back, by the way,” Nie Mingjue tells him, patting the empty cushion beside him and looking him over with a pointed raise of his eyebrow that leaves no room to doubt that Jin Guangyao has been perfectly and embarrassingly obvious about how all of this is affecting him. Lan Xichen steps aside and presses a gentle hand to his back to get him moving in the right direction, and somehow Jin Guangyao manages not to stumble as he crosses the suite to sit down gingerly on the loveseat next to Nie Mingjue.

Nie Mingjue immediately leans into him, his arm stretched along the back of the sofa heavy and warm on top of his shoulders. Jin Guangyao stays very still as he ducks down, not quite close enough to kiss his cheek but enough that the tip of his nose brushes against it, which is nearly as arresting. “Don’t worry, I got the same unexpected visit and business proposition last week. He did the same thing to me.” Jin Guangyao knows he means more than just surprising him with the visit; if anyone in the world can empathize with him about what the full force of Lan Xichen’s charm can accomplish when turned on the unsuspecting, it’s the man currently running featherlight fingertips up and down the top of his thigh and nuzzling against his cheek — like that’s somehow supposed to help him calm down.

“Are you drunk, ge? Huan-ge did you get him drunk?” Jin Guangyao has to ask, if only because it makes Lan Xichen laugh and that’s always worth accomplishing.

“No, Qinghe has just been very very good for him.”

The questions that crowd to the front of Jin Guangyao’s mind will have to wait — there’s a crisp knock on the door and he hurries to stand and smooth down his hair in an attempt to look like he’s somewhat less flustered than he feels. Lan Xichen crosses to open the door for his uncle and Jin Guangyao’s perfect posture straightens even more when Lan Qiren turns his stern gaze on him.

“Did you tell him the details, Xichen?”

“Not yet.”

“Hm.” Lan Qiren steps further into the room and looks Jin Guangyao up and down once, crossing his arms over his chest and taking an extra moment longer than is strictly comfortable to size him up. When he’s finished, he hums again and seems to come to a decision. “There’s news that a fresh little unpleasantness has arisen of the sort that the Lan organization is best suited to handle. I’ve spoken with Wei Wuxian and my nephews, and we’ve agreed that now that you’re all such good friends-” Jin Guangyao very carefully keeps his face completely neutral “-it makes sense to keep the team together a little longer, under my direction.”

“I don’t suppose we’ll have any reason to work together again,” Nie Mingjue had said in Yiling, and Jin Guangyao, for lack of any better options, had agreed and pretended he couldn’t see how upset Lan Xichen had looked at the prospect. And it was true; at the time, he hadn’t seen how continuing to work together would be at all feasible.

But now it’s being offered to him on a silver platter, and suddenly Qin Su’s gentle insistence on him going upstairs to rest and Jin Zixuan’s morning errand paired with his general caginess around Jin Guangyao’s freedom to choose where he goes when they’re finished with their holiday all make so much more sense.

But — “I won’t abandon my brothers. I’m still needed in Lanling.”

Lan Qiren shrugs ever so slightly in an elegant sort of way (a very Lan sort of way, he supposes, as he’s seen Lan Xichen make the exact same gesture). “As Xichen is needed in Gusu, and Nie Mingjue in Qinghe. I believe all of you to be more than capable of deciding where you’re needed most at any given time.”

Lan Qiren’s simple praise warms him as much as it had that day in Qishan three weeks ago. He turns to look over his shoulder at Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue patiently waiting for his answer with understanding in their eyes. There’s no possibility that either of them would shirk their duties to their families, and Nie Mingjue especially wouldn’t abandon his little brother after having just freed him from Wen Ruohan — but they’re both still here, they still agreed to be part of this mission for Wei Wuxian and Lan Qiren. For once it seems it might be possible for Jin Guangyao to get what he wants without compromising his duty or his family.

What a novelty.

He turns to face Lan Qiren again and can’t keep himself from smiling ever so slightly as he asks, “Where are we going?”

“Rome — I hope you’ve remained fluent in Italian. We leave tomorrow morning at first light.” Lan Qiren turns to go and Jin Guangyao pretends like Lan Xichen’s hand isn’t already creeping up the small of his back even though he doesn’t bother to take it away again when Lan Qiren pauses and glances back at them over his shoulder. “Oh, and per Wei Wuxian’s insistence the three of you now have a code name.”

“A code name? You didn’t mention that before,” Nie Mingjue says, stepping up to join Lan Xichen right behind him.

“Yes he’s only just decided, and given the source it’s surprisingly adequate. When you work for me, you will go by ‘U.N.C.L.E.’”

Lan Qiren leaves without another word and shuts the door to the suite behind himself, a definitive click that does nothing to cut through the tension ratcheting higher and higher by the moment. Jin Guangyao clears his throat delicately and turns his head enough to look up at Nie Mingjue behind him, meeting his knowing smirk with one of his own.

“Absolutely hated working with you, Big Red.”

“You’re a terrible spy, Little Viper.”

Nie Mingjue winks at him and Jin Guangyao’s heart beats a traitorously tender staccato against his ribcage.

“Ge, close the doors to the balcony. I don’t believe we require an audience for what happens next,” Lan Xichen tells Nie Mingjue as he finally succeeds in sliding his wandering hand up the back of Jin Guangyao’s shirt, cool fingertips skimming sun-flushed skin. Jin Guangyao can’t help but laugh aloud when both of his partners duck in to kiss opposite sides of his neck at the same time, a quick parting and a promise for more that together make his stomach swoop in a way he supposes he’d better start getting used to.

Needless to say the promised sibling-bonding poker lessons don’t start until much later in the evening, after Jin Guangyao lets his siblings bully him into a farewell dinner at sunset out on the terrace. He spends the entire evening bracketed on either side by his partners in every sense of the word, and at least for now everything feels right with the world.

[jus-a-lil-mouse]

@crossoverdanuary Day 1: Prison

from @this-is-z-art-blog‘s phantom falls au.

Danny shifts, the costume he’s wearing itching through his shirt. He’s hot, sweatier than normal, and cannot believe that he’s doing this. He stomps around, the paw-shoes of the Abominable Snowman suit big enough that if he doesn’t pay attention to where he sets his feet, he’ll fall right into the metal bars of the cage he’s stuck in.

Why did Aunt Alicia even have a fake cage? And the costume? And dear God, why did Danny agree to this?

Dani opens the door to the main museum area. She sets his water bottle down near the shadowy corner of the cage. “Do you have to go before the tour comes in?” she whispers.

“No, I’m all set,” Danny whispers back. “Are you leaving soon?”

Dani grins wide. Right - that’s why he agreed to this. “Yeah! In just a minute. Thanks again for covering for me.”

“Just… Please learn how to drive the golf cart,” Danny replies. “You have to stop crashing the golf cart.”

Dani nods, but Danny knows she isn’t listening. They hear a bike bell from outside, and Dani perks up. “That’s Val! I’ll see you later. You’re the best, bro!” She gives him a thumbs up as she exits, and he weakly gives her a thumbs up back. She promised to bring back an entire pie from the Lunch Lady’s for him.

The door swings open again, and Aunt Alicia leads a tour group in. Danny shuffles his feet. He watches Alicia show off the other exhibits and seethes at all of the inaccuracies she’s spewing. The group is halfway around the room when he realizes Dash and Paulina are in the back of the group.

He gets even sweatier somehow, and turns to the door of the massive cage. The paw-shaped gloves make it impossible to grip the heavy door enough to open it. He frantically paws at it, desperate to make sure the other tweens don’t see him.

“And here you can see the ferocious yeti!” Alicia announced. Abominable snowman, Danny corrects silently. He turns around slowly. Dash’s eyes light up and Paulina disinterested stare turns cruel.

“It looks pretty small to me,” Paulina says, interrupting Aunt Alicia. “And so raggedy. Like a wimpy dork getting eaten by feather boa.”

“Yeah, I bet yetis aren’t even real,” Dash snickers. “Probably just some nerd in their fursuit.”

Danny was saved from further embarrassment by a tourist in the front. “Yetis are real,” he announces confidently. “This one is so wimpy because we’re too far north. It’s malnourished. Yetis live much further south than people expect.”

If Danny really was an abominable snowman, he’d be pulling his fur off. Yetis weren’t native to North America; their slightly smaller cousins the abominable snowmen were. But he couldn’t say anything because he was in a stupid costume. Shit, was Dash right? Is this a fursuit?

Alicia cut in, swiftly taking over the tour. Danny shuffled around and kicked at the floor. He’d show them. He’d get a real abominable snowman, using the Journal, and he’d show them all.