#stacks

[galina]

New year, new book

[writerofautumnnights]

A Dance with the Devil

*No spoilers. It takes place before the brothers return to Mississippi

pairing: Elias “Stack” Moore x Black!OC

sumary: Lena Pearl, a waitress in Al Capone's world, confronts Elias "Stack" Moore, a man caught in the same violent life she tries to escape. As tensions rise, they both face the uncomfortable truth about their shared darkness. Their connection is undeniable, but will it be their salvation—or their undoing?

warmings: angust, mention of death, internal conflicts, survival and violence. English is not my first language.

word count: 4,7K

-

The Green Mill - Chicago, 1929

The cutting Chicago wind was no match for the heat emanating from the basement beneath the old barbershop. Lena Pearl adjusted her string of fake pearls as she descended the wooden stairs that creaked under her careful steps. Her emerald-green dress – simple enough not to draw attention on the streets, yet elegant enough for the job – reflected the yellowish glow of the strategically placed lamps around the lounge.

"The princess has arrived," murmured Big Joe, the security guard stationed at the inner door. He was one of the few men Lena allowed to speak to her that way.

"Mr. Capone asked for you three times today."

Lena just nodded, without revealing the weight those words carried. Working for Al Capone was like dancing constantly on the edge of a cliff – dangerous, but impossible to walk away from. There was a strange vertigo in that routine, as if she lived suspended between the urge to disappear and the need to keep being seen.

The Green Mill was buzzing despite it being only Tuesday.

The economic crisis that ravaged the country seemed only to intensify people’s thirst. The saxophone wept on the small improvised stage while white men in expensive suits mingled with South Side workers – all equal in their pursuit of the oblivion only forbidden alcohol could provide. It was ironic – the deeper the country sank, the more vibrant that basement became as a refuge for broken lives.

"Bourbon for table three and a double whiskey for the man with the hat in the corner," said Gina, another waitress, hurrying by. "Oh, and watch out for that new guy. Stack, I think. He’s been watching you since you walked in."

Lena discreetly lifted her gaze toward the indicated direction. In the shadows, partially hidden by the haze of cigarette smoke, a Black man in a dark gray suit stared at her without disguising it. There was something in his eyes – not the usual lust or curiosity Lena was used to ignoring. It was as if he recognized her from somewhere impossible, from a life she had never lived.

She looked back. For the first time in a long while, Lena allowed herself to hold someone’s gaze. There was a restlessness sneaking under her skin – recognition, maybe? Or just loneliness? Elias “Stack” Moore wasn’t just a new man at the bar. He was a living question mark, a reminder that she could still be moved by something other than fear or cynicism.

As she served the tables, she felt the weight of that gaze on her back.

For the first time in ages, Lena felt the loneliness she carried like a second skin. Among so many, she was always alone – it was what kept her safe, what kept her alive in a world where women like her served only temporary, limited purposes. And now, there was a man who seemed to see beyond the role she performed every night.

"Miss Pearl." The deep, controlled voice surprised her as she turned from a freshly attended table. Elias was there, too close, too real. "Allow me to introduce myself, Stack."

"I know who you are," she replied, offering neither a hand nor a welcome. "And I’m working, Jack."

"Stack," he corrected, with a restrained smile. "Just wanted to say Mr. Capone speaks very highly of you. Says you’re the only honest person in the entire place."

Lena couldn’t suppress a half-laugh. “Mr. Capone has an interesting concept of honesty.”

“Maybe,” Stack stepped aside, allowing her to pass – a rare gesture of respect in that place. “But I’ve learned to trust his judgment when it comes to people.”

Before Lena could reply, the back door burst open violently. Two men in overcoats entered, followed by a blast of cold wind. One of them – short, round-faced, and wearing a dangerous smile – was unmistakable. Al Capone removed his hat, revealing his scarred face, and his eyes immediately found Lena.

“Pearl!” he called out, ignoring the bows and greetings around him. “Bring me my whiskey. The special one.”

Stack watched the subtle transformation in Lena, how her shoulders adjusted, how her expression closed off even more, how she became both more present and more absent at once. To him, it was like watching a butterfly retreat into its cocoon at the first sign of threat.

As she walked away, Stack felt a strange pang. Who was that woman, really? Why did she seem so profoundly alone, even in a crowded room? And why was he, a man used to staring death in the eyes – so unsettled by a simple waitress?

“Always on time, Mr. Capone,” she replied with rehearsed formality, already heading to the bar to fetch the bottle kept especially for the boss.

Elias watched her go, realizing in that instant what Big Joe had hinted at earlier. There was something about Lena Pearl that set her apart, not just her undeniable beauty or the dignified posture she maintained in a world that constantly tried to shrink her. It was something deeper, a quiet resistance that seemed to say:

“I’m here, but I don’t belong to this place. I never will.”

Lena returned with the special bottle of Scotch whisky – smuggled in recently from Canada, on a shipment that had cost three men their lives the week before, though no one spoke of it. She carried it on a silver tray, along with a single crystal glass. At Capone’s table, the men fell silent as she approached.

“Here it is, sir,” she said, placing the tray on the table and pouring the first drink with the precision of someone who knew exactly how much pleased him.

“Thank you, Pearl.” Capone looked up, his eyes lingering on her face for just a little too long. “I missed you last night.”

In the background, the piano began a melancholic melody, blues notes weaving through muffled conversations and thick smoke. The saxophonist – a middle-aged Black man with eyes that looked like they’d seen hell – joined in with a wail that made the hairs on the back of Lena’s neck stand on end.

“I wasn’t feeling well, sir. My apologies.”

Capone nodded slowly, not believing her, but willing to accept the lie – for now. He looked at her like a man who believes he owns everything he sees. And Stack saw it. He also saw the pride in Lena as she masked her contempt behind flawless professionalism. That was resistance in its purest form. And beauty. And pain.

Capone’s gaze drifted past her shoulder, noticing Stack watching the scene quietly.

“Stack!” Capone called, his voice shifting suddenly to a louder, more expansive tone. “Come meet the Green Mill’s crown jewel.”

Elias hesitated for just a second before approaching the table – but that brief pause seemed to stretch, as if he were deciding whether to dive or retreat from the edge of a cliff. His eyes met Lena’s, and in that brief exchange, there wasn’t just tension – there was memory. Not real, but instinctive. As if they recognized in each other something long forgotten, a shared pain disguised as strength.

“Mr. Capone,” Stack greeted with a nod. “We’ve already met.”

Capone raised his eyebrows, a smile with more teeth than joy. It was the kind of smile that served as a warning.

“Have you?” he asked. “My Pearl’s charmed you too? She has that effect on men.” He laughed, but the sound held no warmth – it was just noise, like ice cracking. “But she’s different. Not like the other girls around here.”

Lena remained still, like a painting of herself. Her face was neutral, expressionless, but her clenched jaw betrayed the tension underneath. Stack noticed and understood. Capone’s words, though wrapped in charm, were fences. A territorial warning.

“I can see that,” Stack replied, his voice even, but not his eyes. His eyes said something else. They said he truly saw Lena. “Some people carry their own light. Even in the dark.”

The saxophone, almost as if conspiring with the moment, let out a sharp note – nearly a wail. The music captured what words couldn’t: That something there was on the verge of breaking.

Capone took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes following Stack with measured interest. “Stack did us a big favor last night,” he said, his tone taking on a more performative flair.

“That issue with the Irish on the North Side? Taken care of.”

Lena’s stomach tightened at the violence in the memory. That morning’s newspaper headline returned like a punch:

Two bodies floating in the river,

Enough bullets to erase names, stories, families.

Now reduced to mere statistics – and silence.

“Stack has a steady hand,” Capone continued, his pride laced with provocation. “Not like those amateurs who make a lot of noise and do little else.”

Elias kept his expression unreadable, but his eyes sought Lena’s – for just a second too long. And she saw it. There was something there – a tremor, perhaps regret, or the shadow of doubt. Not something that could be said out loud. But it was there.

“I just did what needed to be done,” Stack replied. There was weight in his words and emptiness too. Like a man used to digging holes inside himself.

Capone laughed loudly, slapping the table with delight. “Modest! I like that in a man. Makes doing business easier.”

Then he turned to Lena with that look – the one that always reminded her of her place.

“Pearl, bring us another bottle. I want to properly celebrate Mr. Moore’s success.”

"Yes, sir," she repeated. But her thoughts remained tangled in the truth she couldn’t ignore.

Stack was like the others. A killer. A man who took lives for money, for loyalty to Capone, or for any excuse that helped him sleep through the night. And still… he had looked at her as if she were whole – as if both of them might find some kind of salvation in each other’s eyes. That hurt more than any lie. Because Lena didn’t want to feel that. She couldn’t afford to.

The music seemed to change, as if the room itself could hear her thoughts. It grew heavier, more oppressive.The bass throbbed like a broken heart, while the saxophone cried notes that clawed through the air, sharp with regret.

“Pearl?” Capone’s voice pulled her back. “The bottle?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry.”

Lena turned toward the storeroom where the special bottles were kept, suddenly suffocated by the heat and smoke in the room. She needed air, space to think. To process the disappointment she wasn’t supposed to feel – Because what had she expected? That in this nest of vipers, one man might be different?

“Stack, go with her,” Capone ordered, voice casual, but his eyes calculating. “Show her which bottles we brought back from the Jefferson Park stash.”

Stack nodded and followed Lena, keeping a respectful distance as they moved through the crowded room. The singer had taken the stage now, her husky voice rising above the instruments, singing a blues made famous by Ma Rainey:

“Trust no man, no further than your eyes can see… Trust no man, no further than your eyes can see… For a man’s got a heart full of jealousy...”

The lyrics hit like a warning, a painful truth that echoed in Lena’s ears as she walked, hyper-aware of Stack’s footsteps behind her. Every syllable a sting. Every note a reminder.

When they finally reached the hallway that led to the storeroom – away from Capone’s watchful eyes and his men – Lena stopped abruptly and turned to face Stack. There was fire in her eyes. But it wasn’t just anger. It was fear too. Of him. Of herself. Of all of it.

“The Irish,” she said, her voice low but laced with something trembling between disgust and necessity. “Was it you?”

Stack glanced around, making sure they were alone before answering. His eyes returned to her with the same intensity as before but now, there was a thread of exhaustion in them.

“Is that what matters to you?” he asked, his voice lower than usual. “Or is it just something to help you keep your distance?”

“Don’t answer a question with another question,” Lena snapped, anger rising in her like a rising tide. “Two families lost their sons yesterday. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

Stack stepped closer – still composed, but his eyes betrayed a storm beneath. “Those men tried to kill three of ours last week. They were planning to raid this place tomorrow night.”

“Ours?” Lena let out a bitter laugh, but it came out like a blade. “So you're one of them now.”

“I don’t consider myself anything but what I am,” Stack replied, voice quieter now, as if speaking from the bottom of a well.“A man trying to survive in a city that only gives people like us certain paths.”

The music from the club reached them like a whisper, the blues seeping through the walls like the heartbeat of a wounded creature. It echoed everything they weren’t ready to say.

“And what path is that?” Lena asked, barely breathing.

“Killing for money? Doing the dirty work for men like Capone?”

“And what’s your path, Lena?” Stack shot back, eyes burning. “Pouring drinks for men who look at you like you���re for sale? Smiling while dying a little more inside every night? Pretending you don’t see the bodies being dragged out the back?”

Lena blinked, as if his words were wind throwing dust into open wounds. He was right and that hurt more than any lie.

"At least I don’t pull the trigger," she said, steady on the outside, but wavering within. Because she knew – even without blood on her hands, she was still part of that theater of horror.

"No," Stack murmured, his tone now more sorrowful than accusatory. "You just serve the drink that celebrates after the trigger’s been pulled."

The silence that settled between them was thicker than the stifling air of the corridor. It wasn’t just silence – it was the weight of everything they felt, and everything they wanted to deny.

The music outside seemed to swell, as if the saxophone understood the gravity of that moment. A melodic lament, like a warning that what was being said couldn’t be taken back.

"We need to get that bottle," Lena said finally, her voice slipping back into a practical tone. "Capone’s waiting."

"Capone’s always waiting," Stack muttered, more to himself than to her. "The question is: how long are we going to keep doing what he expects?"

Lena didn’t respond. The question echoed inside her like a prophecy. Then she turned and continued down the hall toward the storage room, her footsteps blending with the muffled rhythm of the blues that followed them like a ghost through the dimly lit corridor.

When they reached the door, Stack reached out and gently took her arm. It wasn’t force – it was an anchor.

"Lena," he said, a vulnerability trembling beneath the surface of his voice, "we’re not as different as you want to believe."

She looked at his hand on her arm, then up at his face. And what she saw there – honesty, doubt, fear – scared her more than any threat ever could. Because it was real. Because she was on the verge of believing it, too.

"That’s what scares me," she whispered, almost regretfully. And then she opened the door.

Stack followed her inside. He closed the door slowly, like someone closing a confessional. The sound of music became even more muffled.

The pantry was a narrow cubicle, barely larger than a closet. Shelves of worm-eaten wood supported rows of carefully organized bottles–some with legitimate labels, others with homemade seals, all containing the forbidden elixir that kept Chicago running like a drunken clock. The only light came from a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, swaying gently, casting dancing shadows on the exposed brick walls.

Stack adjusted the red handkerchief in the breast pocket of his pinstripe suit–a touch of color in a man who seemed made of shadows and restraint. His presence there, in the tight space, was like an eclipse; he occupied no more physical space than necessary, but his aura filled the environment. He was the type of man who had learned to make the minimum seem impossible to ignore.

“Third shelf, second row,” he murmured, approaching Lena from behind. It was strange how he seemed to know the place better than she did, each word measured like expensive whiskey–warm, direct, impossible to forget. “The whiskey came from a shipment we received yesterday. Legitimate Scotch. A man died for it.”

“Just one?” Lena asked bitterly, stretching to reach the bottle. The movement drew attention to the scar on her right wrist, a thin, whitish line that extended across her exposed skin. Her sleeveless dress left her arms completely bare, revealing not only the scar but also the delicate strength of her shoulders.

Stack noticed, but didn’t comment. In his world, every scar had a story someone preferred to forget. He knew that kind of silence well.

“I like to know who I’m dealing with,” he said, his voice low like a confessional. “And so do you, right? That’s why you asked about the Irish.”

Lena reached for the bottle, her slender fingers closing around the amber glass. The liquid inside shimmered under the precarious light like melted gold. Gold with the taste of blood.

“I just want to know what kind of man I’m trapped in a pantry with,” she replied, without turning. “Self-preservation.”

Stack almost smiled. There was something in her calculated coldness that fascinated him–perhaps because it sounded exactly like the lies he told himself every morning when he woke up.

“You asked me if I pulled the trigger,” he said, advancing a step. The space was so tight that the heat from his body reached her back. “You want to know if I’m a killer or a man with principles?”

“Is there a difference in this place?” She finally turned, the bottle between them like a fragile barrier.

The proximity was dangerous. There, in the yellowish light, Lena could see the golden grillz that adorned his teeth, gleaming discreetly when he spoke, the way a vein pulsed almost imperceptibly at his temple, the texture of skin marked by years under the merciless sun. Too many human details for a man who should be just another customer, just another danger to avoid.

“In 1917, I enlisted in the 369th Infantry Regiment,” Stack said, his voice suddenly distant, as if he were reciting facts about someone else. “Harlem’s ‘Hellfighters,’ that’s what they called us. I spent 191 days on the front, without rest, without replacement. More than any other American unit.”

Lena wasn’t expecting a confession. Not there, not now. The entire Green Mill was waiting for them to return with a bottle of whiskey, not with war secrets.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to understand,” he said, his eyes meeting hers with uncomfortable intensity. “I wasn’t a violent man before the war. Afterward… afterward, violence began to make sense. Something about surviving changes the way you see the world.”

The smell of old wood mixed with the subtle aroma of whiskey filled the air between them. Outside, muffled by the thick walls, the piano melody continued, an ironic soundtrack for that confession no one had asked for.

“The Irish were armed,” he continued, something trembling beneath the surface of his words. “They were going to kill everyone at the Miller’s Club on 35th Street. There were women there. Children in the back. Employees’ children.”

Lena felt a shiver run down her spine. Stack wasn’t justifying himself. He was sharing a burden with someone he sensed might understand. The burden of impossible choices.

“I’m no better than you, Lena. I’m no worse. We’re just two survivors caught in Capone’s web, trying not to be devoured.”

The light flickered for a moment, as if the building’s electricity felt the weight of that conversation. In the brief moment of dimness, both their faces seemed more vulnerable, stripped of the masks they wore in the hall.

“Your eyes recognized me when I entered that room,” Stack murmured, his voice now almost a caress. “Why?”

The question caught her off guard. It was true–something about him had awakened an instinctive recognition, like an echo from another life. Was it the way he carried his own pain without ostentation? Or perhaps it was just the loneliness she recognized, so similar to her own?

“I know your type,” Lena replied, trying to rebuild the wall he was, without realizing, tearing down. “Men who think they can save the world, or at least themselves, by working for the devil.”

Stack’s lips curved into an almost imperceptible smile–that rare smile Gina had mentioned, like the sun breaking through at the end of a cloudy day. It lasted only a second, but it was enough to completely transform his austere face, revealing the man behind the legend that Chicago was already building around him.

“And you?” he asked, leaning slightly. The space between them diminished with each breath. The perfectly adjusted tie at his neck seemed a contradiction to the controlled intensity in his eyes. “What do you think you’re saving by working here?”

She could feel the warmth of his breath–whiskey and cigarettes, but also something cleaner, like mint. A man who arrived without making noise, who made entire rooms fall silent by instinct, but who cared about insignificant details like his own breath, even in a world of chaos. This disturbed her more than any threat.

“I’m saving the only thing I have left,” she answered with a honesty that surprised her. “The illusion that I still have a choice.”

Stack raised his hand, hesitant. For an instant, Lena thought he would touch her face – a gesture she wouldn’t know how to receive. But he only adjusted a lock of hair that had escaped her careful hairdo, his finger lightly brushing the skin of her temple.

“We all have choices, Lena,” he said, his deep voice carrying the weight of a thousand regrets. “They’re just not the choices we’d like to have.”

The distant sound of breaking glass in the hall brought them back to reality. The world outside continued its course, indifferent to the secrets exchanged in the small pantry.

“Capone is waiting,” said Lena, resuming her professional posture like someone putting on armor.

Stack nodded, taking a step back. The space between them expanded again, but something had changed in the air. An invisible bridge had been built–fragile, perhaps temporary, but undeniably real.

“You know what the hardest part of the war was?” he asked, as she turned to leave. “It wasn’t the combat, the bodies, not even the constant fear. It was coming home and discovering there was no more home. That the place we return to is never the same as the one we left.”

Lena stopped with her hand on the doorknob. Her back was to him, but Stack could see the tension in her shoulders, the rigidity that betrayed that his words had reached some deep place.

“You know that feeling, don’t you?” he insisted. “Of belonging to a place that no longer exists.”

Lena closed her eyes for a brief moment. Images of a simple house in New Orleans, the smell of jambalaya on the stove, laughter of children playing in the yard. A world that had collapsed so long ago that sometimes it seemed to have been only a particularly vivid dream.

“We’re taking too long,” she said, her firm voice contradicting the tremor in her hands. “And that’s dangerous for both of us.”

When she turned, bottle in hand, her eyes avoided his. Stack understood the retreat. He knew that dance too well–the cautious approach, the mutual recognition, and then the strategic withdrawal. It was the only way to survive when you carried more scars inside than out.

“What do you think Capone is really celebrating with this whiskey?” he asked, deliberately changing the tone of the conversation, offering her the exit she silently requested.

“Something none of us wants to know,” replied Lena, grateful for the change. “Ignorance is sometimes the only protection we have.”

Stack held the door for her – an anachronistic gesture of chivalry that seemed almost comical in that setting of criminality and survival. But Lena noticed how he positioned himself strategically, so that he would be the first to enter the dark corridor. Protection, not courtesy. The difference mattered.

As they walked back through the corridor, the sound of jazz grew progressively, like a tide rising to engulf them. The smell of sweat and cheap perfume mixed with tobacco announced their return to the real world– a world of masks and well-rehearsed roles.

“I know you don’t trust me,” murmured Stack, leaning slightly so that only she could hear. “And you’re right. But if you ever need help…”

“I won’t,” Lena cut in, but without the coldness from before. There was something almost like gratitude in her tone.

When they were about to emerge back into the hall, Stack stopped abruptly. Lena almost collided with his broad back.

“What is it?” she asked, alarmed.

“I saw something in the back of the storage room,” he replied, his voice suddenly tense. “Boxes that shouldn’t be there. With military markings.”

Lena felt a chill. Weapons. They could only be weapons. Capone was planning something bigger than the usual territorial disputes.

“Forget what you saw,” she whispered urgently. “For your own good.”

Stack stared at her, the dim light of the corridor creating shadows on his angular face. “Is that what you do? Forget what you see?”

The question hit Lena like a slap. For a moment, the air between them seemed too heavy to breathe.

“I survive,” she finally responded. “It’s what we all do.”

The music in the hall changed to something more lively, as if mocking the tension between them. A loud, fake laugh from Capone crossed the stuffy air, a timely reminder of what awaited them.

Stack held her arm gently, his warm fingers against her cold skin. “There’s a difference between surviving and living, Lena. At some point, we’ll have to choose.”

Before she could respond, he released her and went ahead, emerging into the golden light of the hall like a man without weight on his shoulders, his face already wearing the mask of efficiency that Capone appreciated.

Lena breathed deeply and followed him, the bottle of whiskey in her hands weighing like lead. As she approached Capone’s table, where Stack had already resumed his place, she realized something disturbing–for the first time in years, she felt fear. Not the familiar fear of Capone, of violence or poverty.

It was the fear of possibilities. The fear that perhaps, just perhaps, there were more paths than she had allowed herself to see.

When she placed the bottle before Capone, her eyes briefly crossed with Stack’s. In that silent look, there was an unspoken promise–or perhaps a warning. His eyes, which normally seemed always distant, trapped in a past he never talked about, were now firmly anchored in the present. In Lena. In possibilities too dangerous to name.

“Stack!” Capone’s voice cut through the air. “Where’s your brother tonight? We need the best for tomorrow’s job.”

“Smoke is taking care of that business in the South Side,” Stack replied, his voice returning to its usual formality. “He’ll be here early tomorrow.”

Lena noticed how Stack transformed near Capone–every movement calculated, every expression a perfect mask. It was as if he stacked layers of protection between his true self and the world. Stack. The man who always had something stacked: money, marked cards, too many secrets.

The future was as uncertain as Chicago on a foggy night. But one thing was certain: that meeting in the pantry had planted a seed of doubt that, like the weeds in the city’s abandoned lots, would be difficult to eradicate.

And as Capone raised his glass in a toast, celebrating some bloody victory, Lena knew that something had changed inside her–something silent, dangerous, and irreversible like the tick-tock of a time bomb hidden in the city’s basements.

Nobody knew for sure where Stack had come from, only that he appeared in Chicago–along with his brother–on a night of heavy rain, with a worn suitcase and a look that said he had left more than memories behind. Now, Lena wondered what else he hid behind that gaze which, for a brief moment in the pantry, had lowered its guard only for her.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

-

Heyyyyyyyy,

There's no tag list, I just had to launch something that was burning in my mind as soon as I left the cinema. Feel free to show your love. Until next time 🥹❤️

~

[fangsiege]

go my scarab etc

[triflingthing]

I’ll take the entire tree xx

[liv-spence]

Mary and Stack were not some great romance lol. I see a lot of people attempting to romanticize what she did to him. Yes he loved her, but she took away his choice once she turned him into a vampire. He would have given anything to stay with his brother and that was the reason he turned Annie to force Smoke’s hand. He would not have willingly wanted to be a vampire and it was unfair of her to do that to him. One could also argue she was under mind control but if that were the case, she would have attacked others once cornbread allowed her to come inside. She went straight for Stack. What she did was not love. What Smoke did for Annie was love not whatever selfish shit Mary did. Now Stack is cursed to spend eternity without the person he loved most but Mary did not care lol she got the man.

Love Hailee btw and she did amazing in this movie but her character was a villain.

[princedevitt]

[deadhands69]

In The Stacks Part 6: Vision Board

Tomura Shigaraki x Reader

A mysterious library patron catches your eye, seeking information about his past life. You help him, stirring up your own past in the process. Contains: gn/afab reader, SMUT, cussing, mentions of injuries/violence, obsessive/yandere behavior, dub-con if you squint (consensual but groggy), spoilers.

[previous] this is part 6 (final) [series masterlist]

"I died a lot to live a little with you." – Yaghma Golroei

Warm. Soft. Wherever you are, you're comfortable. You stir from under the blanket that’s been wrapped around you.

As you open your eyes, you feel groggy. Everything is blurred a bit. It feels like you're underwater. You have no idea how much time has passed or where you are. Better yet, how Tomura managed to get you from the elevator of your apartment to wherever this is without drawing attention to himself on such a busy day. You can still faintly hear the celebration so you know it can't have been too long and you haven't made it very far. Still, you're not certain. Rolling over, you find your head resting in his lap. 

“Don't worry,” he says, stroking your hair. “I'm not going to hurt you. Those were your own meds in decaf coffee. I just needed you to go to sleep a little early.”

“How did you get my pills?” you yawn. You know you should feel more panicked by all of this, but you're not. You're with him.

“From your medicine cabinet,” he replies plainly. You stare at him. Eventually, he rolls his eyes and explains, “you leave your keys on the outside of your backpack. I borrowed them when you were walking to work.”

You stare again, processing the situation. 

“What, I put them back.” He gestures at your backpack sitting a short distance away. There your keys are, reattached where they usually live.

You sit up, looking at your surroundings. Something about this place feels familiar in a way your dazed mind can't quite place. It's giving you deja vu, but you know you've never been here.

The room is partially illuminated by a standing lamp with blue glass globes, but it's still dark. Not in a creepy way, more like you're under the ocean. The light looks like ripples swimming over everything. 

Every wall is lined with newspaper articles, floor to ceiling– and a few even hanging from the roof. When you look closer, most are articles about you. Some are about his previous accomplices. Many of them are tiny, clearly from the deeper pages of a newspaper, but still cut out with care. All of them are plastered together with some photos of you mixed in. A coffee sleeve with your order scrawled on the front is pinned to one of them. There’s an ad with the flowers he bought you and notes scribbled on the side. It's like the most Tomura version of a vision board you could imagine. 

Clearly, it worked for him.

You move closer to the wall, getting a better look at the notes on the bouquet. “Lavender roses for love at first sight,” you read aloud. 

“I-I’ve been trying to tell you things,” he mumbles.

You look around the rest of the room. His space is even more barren than your own. Outside of the rolled out bed you’re on, there's barely any furniture in here. Just a bookcase and a small coffee table that's covered in lengths of rope.

“What are these for?” you ask, as casually as possible.

“I didn’t know if you would come willingly and I really need you to hear me out.” You’re surprised, he would go that far just for a chance to talk to you. Any amount of excessive enthusiasm you thought you felt in this relationship feels like nothing now. 

Tomura loves you. 

Tomura, Tenko, whoever he is, he loves you.

You can’t help but stare at him in surprise, it’s not how you thought you’d find that out. None of this relationship fits what you think people would normally expect though so that shouldn’t come as too much of a shock to you. 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he quips, shoving the pile off the table in one swoop. “I told you I wasn't going to hurt you, they’re all soft. I made sure. Had to go to four different sex shops to get that many without drawing too much attention.”

“I didn’t think you would hurt me. And I was obviously going to come with you, Ten–Tomura,” you lean closer to him. Tomura seems like the right name to call him in this moment when you really want him to know how much you know and aren’t afraid of that part of him. “I already knew who you were and didn’t run away immediately.”

“You still could have been pretending to be okay with it all because you thought I would do something bad if you said no. I had to be sure.”

It’s interesting. The idea of tying you up and keeping you in his apartment long enough to hear him out is reasonable while the thought of you feeling coerced into sex with him is unacceptable. Weirdly, you completely understand that logic. It’s not like you haven’t had the same thoughts about him.

“Got it,” you confirm, “well, maybe we can use them another time since you put so much effort in.” Tomura’s eyes light up at you being the one to suggest it. “But for now, what did you want to talk to me about?”

You had the whole conversation in mind before, but now you’re too groggy to lead it. If he loves you this much and he's not leaving, you're happy to hear him out first. 

“I–I need to make sure we’re okay. And that you know how much you mean to me. I haven't gotten to say it yet, but I thought I lost you,” he continues, “when you went over  that ledge. I thought the last thing you would ever see of me would be someone else. I had nightmares about it for so long.”

“I thought you died too,” your hand finds his shoulder. He flinches slightly in surprise before relaxing and leaning into your touch. “How did you survive all of that?”

“It’s complicated, I still haven’t figured it all out yet. But there was something in Izuku Midoriya’s pocket later that day, something with a quirk factor.”

“Izuku Midoriya had… A quirk? In his pocket?”

“Yeah,” he looks at you like you're the crazy one for being surprised by someone carrying a spare quirk around like extra change. You're staring at the result of it though, so clearly it's possible. “Anyways, there wasn’t power in it but I was able to steal the bit of the quirk left and I used it. It was strong, plus the body I had then made the power build up even faster.” 

“How? You burst into a million pieces, I saw the videos.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I saw those too. I don't know. I could never figure that out. If I was my whole self put back together or if I'm just the largest fragment. I just know that it took me back to the body I had before I even got all for one. Before fucking up my fingers.” He wiggles his hand in front of you before flicking a strand of hair out of his face. “Still white hair and I woke up pretty beat up, so I guess I didn't go back too far.”

“And quirk control?” you ask, “I read you couldn't control decay until more recently. It was theorized, at least.”

“Awe you googled me, that's so fucking sweet. You know that you can just ask me this stuff, right?” He smiles at you again, giving you the eyes that make you forget everything else that's happening. “But yeah, whatever you read was right. I couldn't control my quirk then. I could later though and I remembered what that was like so I practiced it. It wasn't great at first,” he laughs, “but after a few months, I eventually got there.” You watch as he grabs a book on the table behind you, holding it up with all five fingers. 

“That doesn't matter though, that's all just details. For months, I thought you were dead. I thought everyone I knew was dead. But some of you weren't. Honestly, this is the last place in the world I wanted to be when I woke up, so I left for a while. I kept searching the newspapers for anything I could find on the people I knew before. The league was easy to find. They were in every newspaper for months. You on the other hand, were nearly impossible. I didn't even know your name. It took weeks to reverse search your quirk and find the slightest clue you made it out alive. Even then, I still didn't know that was you until I searched some more. But it was you.” He looks up at you and his eyes soften. 

“So, I came back here. We'll, near here – to the last place I remembered seeing you. We met up the street. I don’t know if you’d remember that, it looks so different now. They'd rebuilt everything I destroyed. Almost all of it. It was depressing. Seeing it all forced me to come to terms with what happened. Suddenly, everything I did never mattered and I was alone. Everyone I ever cared about was worse off because of me. I hated being here. After a few days, I was about to leave. Then I saw you again, leaving that coffee shop. You looked sadder than I remembered. It was definitely you though. When I said I stayed here for someone, I was talking about you. You're my only reason for being here.”

Tomura smiles awkwardly, scratching his neck. “After that, I figured if nothing else I ever did mattered, at least I could try to make you less sad. It's uh, not exactly– I've never really been good at cheering people up. It's not something I've seen people do a lot so I didn't really know what you're supposed to do. So, I just kept following you into the library when I was done with work. I spent time on the floor you're usually working on. And I watched you after you finished work to see what things you like. Coffee seemed like an easy one. You always had that with you at the front desk.” 

You think back to the last few days of him bringing you coffee. He had no idea why you weren’t happy, but jumped headfirst into making it better however he could. Little did he know, he made it better just by existing.

”Even then, I was nervous to talk to you since the articles all said you had memory loss. I didn't assume you'd remember me or that I meant as much to you as you do to me. It felt really one sided and I didn't want to scare you off by coming on too strong. This is stupid, but I even made a dating sim to practice. One where we’d always end up together. Eventually, I thought of a way to start a conversation with you and I went for it.”

“The book,” you remember, “and the call numbers.”

“Yeah. I’d been in the library for a month. Of course I knew how to read call numbers,” Tomura admits. “And I could have just looked it up if I didn't. But I wanted to talk to you.”

“Then you asked me to help you find out who you are. If was already talking to you, why didn't you just tell me the things you had me look up? Why did you pretend not to remember any of it? That seems like a lot of work you didn't have to do.”

“I could ask you the same thing, you pretended to have amnesia too. Didn't you want me to know who you were from before? To know all of you?”

You nod. 

“Exactly, so you get it. If I only told you I was Tenko and you actually hadn't remembered anything, you'd only ever know me as one version of me. That's not what I want with you. I want to be my whole self, even the parts other people don’t like.” He pauses and you can hear people shouting and celebrating outside. “This way, I figured you'd work it out eventually.”

“I get that, but then when I did say I knew who you were you didn't seem to like it.”

“I like that you know me. I've always liked that you really seem to see all of me,” Tomura’s arms wrap around his knees, “I just got scared. You said my name so soon and I didn’t know what you found. I thought maybe you were just with me because you were afraid of what I’d do if you said no and that felt like shit. I didn't know if you liked me enough yet to stick around if you found a way out. We were taking things slow, remember? It hasn't been long enough to know you liked me that much yet, not if you didn't remember before. I thought maybe you'd run or something and I couldn't let that happen.”

“I wouldn't do that to you. I didn't leave you like that, not even on top of the building. At least, not on purpose. I could never imagine leaving you.”

Tomura doesn't say anything. He clearly heard your words and took them in, but he still looks unsure. His arms wrap tightly around his legs as he stares at the floor, slightly rocking. You’ve never explicitly seen him look like this, but it was always there – lurking beneath the surface. You felt it in the way he’d watch for your reactions. How his confidence took a month to find. The insecurity was hiding under every moment of hesitation.

“Really,” you say, “I will never leave you. I promised. I meant it. I still do.”

Tomura stares at you, trying to determine if you’re telling the truth. Without any other way to prove the way you feel, you kiss him. Softly this time, slowly. Taking in the way he feels in your arms. 

You missed him. 

You missed this.

There’s so much more the two of you need to talk about, but at this moment all that matters is making sure he knows how loved he is and how happy you are to be close to him. One of your hands runs through his hair, holding him as you pull away. 

Gently, you trace your thumb over the scar on his lip. He lets you, big red eyes staring up at you like no one's ever looked at him like he’s the most beautiful person on the planet before. 

“You are so pretty,” you whisper, moving the hair out of his face. “No ‘m not,” he grumbles under his breath, blushing. 

“You absolutely are,” he can disagree all he wants but you’re not budging on that. “Your hair, your eyes, your face. Everything about you is gorgeous.”

Tomura leans back against the wall, seeming a bit more relaxed now. This is great but you still need him to know how much you want every single part of him. 

Decay, you remind yourself as you grab the slightly frayed edges of his sweatshirt, pulling it over his head and throwing it to the side. The black shirt he's wearing underneath comes up partially with it. 

You kiss your way down his neck to his collarbone, over the raw scratched skin. His hands come to your face, holding you for a moment. You turn your head, kissing his fingertips one by one. He stares, entranced by you.

Sliding his shirt off, you finally have a chance to admire all of him for as long as you want. You run your lips over every scar and scrape you come across. Some are new. Others are older, you wonder where they all came from. Many look like broad battle wounds, others more intentionally placed. Regardless, you give them all the same attention.

They're beautiful; like a sea of constellations over his skin. Even better, they're all a part of him. Tiny reminders of everything he's been through that led him here to you.��

Tomura watches intently as you kiss him, occasionally gasping when you find the right spots. You linger on those a bit longer.

When you make it to his lower stomach, you kiss your way down the trail of hair that dips into his pants. Unbuttoning your way down to find the rest of it. 

He really is beautiful.

Tomura is hard already, because of course he is. He always loves how you touch him.

Sliding your fingers under the elastic of his underwear, you fully undress him. His jeans are tight so they catch at the feet but you get through it without much issue. You kiss your way back up his legs, scar by scar. There are some bigger ones you'll have to ask about. You'll ask about them all when you have a chance. 

Eventually, you find yourself where you started again. You take him in your hands, loving the feeling of holding so much of him at once. He's so responsive to your touch, breathily whining already. 

While you'd seen his dick before, you haven't been able to get this close of a look at it. One perfect vein runs up the middle, disappearing before his pretty pink tip. 

For days, you’ve wanted to taste him. Months really, but only recently has it felt like a realistic option.

You wrap your lips around the tip of his cock, sucking him in until he hits the back of your throat. You wish you could fit all of him, but he's too big for that – especially in this position. 

Tomura groans under you. His hips flex slightly as he tries to stay in control. One of his hands pulls your hair out of your face. 

Pausing in place for a moment, you stare up at him. His beautiful eyes gaze down at you, filled with want. 

Continuing with your hands on his base, his breath becomes more staggered, vocal.

“y/n, fuck,” Tomura moans, spilling ropes of warm cum into your mouth and throat. You suck out every last drop of it until he's writhing in overstimulation beneath you. 

Wiping the excess from your lips, you crawl back up the bed to hold him. 

For a moment, you almost think he's passed out, he did cum really hard. But when you wrap your arms around him he grabs your fingers, bringing them to his mouth and kissing your knuckles one by one. 

“Do you believe me now that I'm not leaving?”

“I think so.” 

“You ready for bed?” you ask, running your free hand through his hair. 

“No,” he mumbles quietly, “you don't get to have all the fun.”

Slowly, he sits up. 

“Roll over,” he says, shifting the pillows under you. You're not quite sure what's happening until he's straddling your lower back and his hands press into your shoulders. He pulls the shirt you're wearing away from you, decaying it off your body. You feel a slight chill but his warm hands are on you again and everything is okay. 

Getting a massage from Tomura Shigaraki was absolutely not on your list of things you thought would happen tonight, but you're happy for it. His hands slide down your spine, running over the scar on your neck and back. For a moment, you feel self conscious. You've spent nearly a year trying to keep it hidden so no one asks questions. It's only when you feel his lips that it occurs to you that he feels the same way about your scars that you do about his. Besides, there's nothing to hide from him – he was there. 

He kisses his way down your back, lovingly. His hands slide under your hips, pulling you up onto your knees, your elbows remain planted into the bed. Now that you're looking for it, you notice the way one of his fingers always hovers or rests on something else whenever he's touching you. Sure, he still has his quirk and seems to have control over it, but he doesn't appear to risk anything when it comes to your safety. 

Tugging down the sweatpants he must have put on you when you got here, you feel another chill as you’re suddenly as naked as he is. Then you feel his tongue.

Tonight is the night you learn that Tomura Shigaraki eats pussy like he’s starving. Although, you probably could have guessed that would be the case. As he licks, sucks, and moans into it, you find yourself pressing your hips back into his face for more. This only makes him whine louder. 

If you had known he'd be this enthusiastic about it, you would have begged him to come over to your apartment every night. At least you have him now.

You feel his fingers grip into the sides of your thighs, harder. He brings his mouth down again, sucking your clit while he flicks his tongue. It's enough to send you over the edge. Fists tightly wound around his sheets, you pant into his pillow but it's still not enough to mask the sounds. One of his arms wraps around the front of your legs, hugging you back into him as hard as he can while his mouth continues to work until it's too much. 

You collapse face down onto his bed, catching your breath. Tomura curls up around you, throwing a leg over your hip. You're not surprised to feel that he's hard again. 

Of course he is, he loves you and you just came all over his face. 

“Want to keep going?” you ask, already stroking his dick. 

“Always,” he rasps in your ear. 

Reaching for one of the strands of rope Tomura bought earlier, you have an idea. 

“Lay back,” you say, gently moving his arms over his head. He wasn't lying, the restraints he picked really are soft. He looks nervous. 

“Is this okay?” you ask, rubbing the smooth skin of his inner wrist with your thumb. 

Tomura nods quickly, “yeah. Definitely,” before tentatively adding, “I've just never done anything like this before.” Given what he said earlier about waiting for you for months and everything you read about his life before the two of you met, you have a sneaking suspicion that a lot of what the two of you have been doing might be new for him. 

“Okay. If it's too much or you don't like it, just let me know and I'll untie you.” He nods again in agreement. 

Trying to remember any knots, you settle for looping the rope around his wrists like an infinity sign then tying the ends around the middle. Tomura watches curiously as your hands move above his face. He probably knows a better way to do it, but he doesn't say anything. You pull his hands back over his head, keeping them there while leaning down to kiss him. He catches your lips instantly, craning his neck for closeness. You kiss him hard, back into the bed. He will never need to make an effort to be closer to you; he can always have as much of you as he wants. 

Straddling him, you keep kissing as you slide his tip over your entrance. You're shocked to discover just how wet you are for him. 

“I want this so much,” you whisper, sinking down and letting him fill you. Your voice catches slightly, “there's nothing in the world I want more than you. All of you.”

He shudders and moans loudly as you bottom out on him. Based on his reaction, you're shocked he didn't cum immediately. Slowly, you begin moving. It's only been a few days but you're starting to get used to having him in you. The way he hits every spot you've always wanted. 

“I want you all the time,” you moan. He seems to love hearing you talk, you might as well lean into that, even if it feels odd at first since you're used to needing to keep quiet with him. “I need you in every way I can have you.”

He bends his knees, fuck up into you with his hips. It's not enough, he needs more. His tied hands slide down around your shoulders. He pulls you close before rolling both of you so you're under him. Wrists still tied, his weight falls to his elbows on either side of your head. Now that he has more to press off of, he begins thrusting harder than before. 

Voice cracking, he groans into your ear, “need all of you too.”

The lighting ripples over his face, he's so perfect. The way his eyes soften as he looks at you. How his mouth is slightly open at an angle as he pants, giving you a view of the bottoms of his teeth. Nothing else outside of the room matters right now. Not your past lives or the loud celebrations caused by them outside. There's only you and him. This is how it's supposed to be. 

Just as you feel like a tidal wave is crashing over you, he leans in kissing you gently while pressing deeper into you. You moan hard into his mouth and he breathes in sharply, arms squeezing around you as much as he can with the restraints. 

He keeps kissing you for longer than either of your orgasms, still breathing heavily. You notice the way his arms flex around you. How he holds you close as if you could still slip from his grasp. 

“I'm not going anywhere,” you whisper against his lips. “But I should get cleaned up a bit, okay?”

He nods, slowly pressing himself up to sit by your side. 

You turn to untie him and he's already reached his fingers down to his wrists, decaying the rope away. 

Excusing yourself to get cleaned up, you walk to his bathroom, noticing that you instinctively know where it is already. 

As you walk back into the room a few minutes later, Tomura hands you a cup of tea (the kind he saw you drink the first night he came to your place) and a shirt to wear. Given that he was just tied up and you can still see the slight marks indented on his wrists, you should be the one taking care of him but you appreciate it. 

Walking around his small apartment, your eyes focus on something you hadn't noticed before. 

“You have throw pillows but no couch?” you ask, looking at the pile of pretty pillows stacked in the corner near the window. 

“You already ordered a couch, we don't need two,” he says matter of factly. “I like the one you picked, but it needed more pillows.” 

For a moment you wonder how he knew you ordered furniture then you remember he's been following you to learn what you like. It occurs to you how much work that has to be, it's really sweet of him to put so much effort in. 

“You don't have to hide behind things, you know. You can just go with me next time.”

Tenko smiles, moving the pillows in front of the big windows and opening the shades. It's raining again, rippling over the glass. The view is remarkably similar to what you see from your own apartment. 

“Where are we?” you ask, but you think you already know. 

“You never asked where I live,” he says, sitting on one of the pillows. “I needed to be close. The 14th floor of the same building seemed close enough.”

“Hmm,” you consider, taking a seat next to him. “I guess that will make it faster for one of us to move in with the other. If you want to be even closer, that is.” It's not something you think you're supposed to ask the person you've been dating for less than the amount of time it takes for a couch to be delivered, but something tells you he'll be okay with it. 

“Of course I want to be closer,” he replies as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. “It'll be easier to move my stuff than yours. Want to do that later tonight?”

“Yeah,” you say, wrapping your arm around him. “I'd love to.”

Tomura leans his head on your shoulder. 

The celebration continues in the street. People rush, clustered in the best spots to see the fireworks. 

“Hey, uhm, is this okay for you? Watching this? We don't have to–”

“Yeah,” he says, “it's fine. I'm around it every day, I've had time to get over it all. Plus, I have plans to fix a few things, so it'll be okay.”

He says this so nonchalantly. Given what you've heard of his past plans, you're concerned about him, to say the least. He notices the look on your face. 

“Don't worry, hero. I'm not stupid enough to do the same thing again, I just have to get a few friends back. It's my fault they're in prison.” He looks up at you, smiling. “You'll like them.”

“I'm sure I will, Tomura. Or is it Tenko? Which name do I call you?”

“I'm used to Tomura at this point, it's what most of my friends called me. It reminds me more of them than the person who gave me that name at this point. But Tenko seems better to use around other people. Uhm otherwise, you can call me whatever you want. Babe?” he scrunches his face, “that doesn't feel right.”

“We'll find it,” you reassure him, rubbing his shoulder. “We have time for that.”

The fireworks begin, clapping like the thunder on the first night you kissed. 

You lean your head on his. It's been a whirlwind getting here, but you couldn't be happier. Tonight you're moving in with the love of your life. Tomorrow, who knows. 

The finale fires off in a sea of rainbows until it turns into smoke and blows away. People scatter, going back to their lives as the celebration ends.

The rain continues.

[series masterlist] [bnha masterlist]

thank you thank you thank you if you read this far!!

taglist: @shigarakislaughter @dance-with-me-in-hell @minniessskii @vaval3ntin @ykyouluvme 

@dummi666 @lotus-flower420 @nonominchan @softnfuzzy @mysticalhills 

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@amira-44820 @its-evee16 @itsameyermaw

[faebirdie]

[ongawdclub]

J o k e r

[mammons-lover]

Mammon (driving his beloved red car): Watch this drift Luci!

Lucifer (Holding on for dear life): Mammon slow the car down!

Mammon (Hits a demon passing by): oh shit!

Lucifer (staring in shock): Mammon…

Mammon (speeding off): I ain’t gonna lie, Luci I ain’t go my license!

[roisian]

Little Kelsey and Stacks I did back in 2022 when "Fire and Ice" aired :') my sweethearts

[galina]

The stacks are getting out of hand again

[lifes-remedy]

[fangsiege]

Beetle event 👍

[authenticfashionstatements]

Count It Up