#Honey I Twisted Through MOre Damn Traffic Today

[scopophilic1997]

scopOphilic_micromessaging_935 - scopOphilic1997 presents a new micro-messaging series: small, subtle, and often unintentional messages we send and receive verbally and non-verbally.

[cryptiql]

smoke signals

pairing: dabi/m!reader

warnings: smoking, mentions of anxiety and abuse, but otherwise okay. please do not read forward if any of the listed warnings might trigger you in any way, and stay safe <3

words: 6.5k

a/n: this is my first ever mha fic and the fact that i decided to do dabi first shows i have some massive balls but i'm giving it a try! if he seems ooc at all or i get some facts wrong, please lmk and i'll fix them. (heavily inspired by smoke signals by phoebe bridgers—would recommend listening to it or any of her other songs while reading)

dabi found the meaning of life in a simple strum of chords; a melody twisted by melancholy tunes that resonated deep within the gates of his mind. they haunt him—either by breaking his conscious from a much needed rest to bring him tossing and turning in the damp air of the loft, or making sure that he stayed wide awake during the late hours of the night and well into the creeping day. the lyrics are so surreal that he has to sit down and contemplate their meaning like an english teacher would to the color red, but they're painted saccharine and drip with honey flowing from the mouth that sings them and he hates it. he hates that he's wasted moments better spent wrecking havoc just to understand that stupid little ditty that clings to his heart like a leech. but this song did not come from his own craft—no.

dabi had known the putrid stench of sweat and vermillion blood when the flames licked at his skin, breaching the coarse flesh of his palms to rain hellfire upon all those who dared oppress him. he could weave lies with knots that would take years to unravel, and set whole cities ablaze with a mere finger. clawing oneself from a well built to drown them in their trauma does tend to leave scars on ones hands, and dabi's body was practically a canvas for mutilation, so he could consider himself an expert on the matter. he could attempt to make such a song by strapping in with his many hours of free time and diligent persona, but his hands were not made for music; neither delicate, sonorous tunes or dark, grating strains. they were made for war.

so if anyone had asks, "no" is his answer. "i don't play." and yes, it is while he's drumming a rhythmic beat that he claims this to be true, but the last thing he thinks about is donning a set of drums during his free time. he's far too distracted by the image of your taper fingers curled around the neck of your guitar to consider anything else.

the gentle but keen plucking of chords startles him from yet another ridiculously long-winded spiel by shigaraki, and dabi swallows a strangled groan behind his grinding teeth. it's in his head, now, and so far the only thing that has succeeded in reaping it from his memory—if only for a few minutes—is the blood stained battlefield that he's found himself fighting on far too many times this month alone.

what's he complaining about, though? it's not as though he minds getting down in the dirt. in fact, he's ecstatic to dig his claws into any gruesome ordeal so long as it benefits him in some way, so why is he so invested in this little to and fro game of twenty questions with the likes of you; someone as significant in the world as a paperclip without paper to hold? why come back, despite there being nothing in it for him besides a series of migraines?

not from you, a voice answers from inside. you're an absolute pleasure.

dabi nearly snarls at the confirmation that his own mind is turning against him, and as he does this, a plume of smoke erupts from his lips, billowing and curving to create intricate patters before dissipating into the atmosphere. a second time. a third. a fourth drag from the cigarette has completely obscured his face from anyone's view, and he relishes in the instant of privacy it gives him. however, it has also blocked him from seeing everyone else in the room, and while he normally would have considered that a blessing, it appears tomura has had enough of it.

you get headaches because you smoke too much, comes a second voice; yours, scolding in a way he'd only expect from a worried mother. dabi only has a split second to register it before shigaraki's head pokes through the fumes, red eyes alight with rage and lips pulled back into a snarl.

"would you quit doing that inside? it's fogging up my brain and i can't think straight." he grates.

"strange—i assumed there wasn't a brain in there to fog up in the first place." tomura's nostrils flare and dabi's pride spikes.

"besides, you came in here and looked directly at me as i was smoking—why didn't you ask me to stop then?"

"i was telling you with my eyes, idiot. you should know when it's time to either take it outside or put the damn thing out. there are ashtrays for a reason, and not everyone here wants to inhale that shit." he interrupts their intense staring contest only to wave his hand to clear the smog. now he can see the rest of the league clearly (oh joy, he thinks) and gives an indignant grunt when spotting toga at the bar table, covering her mouth and nose as a pitiful aim to block her lungs from the smoke. twice, who had unfortunately used up the last pack of his own cigarettes that morning, leans forward to take a whiff, exhaling soon after with satisfaction.

kurogiri stands at his usual spot behind the bar, seemingly unaffected as he idly scrubs away at grime infested glasses, while sako lounges at the opposite end of the room. his mask is on, leaving dabi to wonder if it's been like that all day, or if he just recently put it on to better fend off the fumes. he doesn't really care, whatever the case.

after a beat of silence, dabi wets his lips to respond, a lopsided smirk growing on his features.

"oh, i'm sorry your frail body hasn't adapted to a bit of vapor in the air. and with that flakey skin of yours, it's no wonder you're extra sensitive—"

shigaraki's hands come flying through the next waft to slam against the tabletop where dabi's feet lie, causing it to wobble and creak in protest. the ravenette doesn't even flinch as the harsh, raspy words are spat in his face.

"if you're not going to pay attention, then leave. actually, i'd prefer you do that either way."

and dabi would have happily disregarded his request if not for the faint ringing in his ears, rising higher and higher before receding back into his skull like the tide. a scowl morphs its way onto his once vacant expression as he puts pressure on his temple, rubbing softly where his eyebrows knit together. just for today, he'll indulge his so-called boss's whims. the piercing screech that emits from below when he pushes his chair back does nothing to help with the ever-growing headache, but it hardly matters now that he's headed out the exit. he's able to catch the last fragments of shigaraki's raving before the door closes, leaving him to stand amid the tumult of the city in all of its glory.

the alleyway is dark with looming shadows, but people are still milling about, so dabi considers himself lucky for already being dressed in his disguise. he flips his hood up, pulls the surgical mask over his nose and quickly slides on his sunglasses for good measure before slipping out into the traffic, sometimes going with the flow and then weaving past those moving too slow for his liking.

right now, his patience is a mere thread; hair thin and on the edge of snapping whenever someone bumps his shoulder. their negligence is infuriating, and he's tempted to roast them into a charred, mangled mess then and there—the consequences of blowing his cover be damned—but by some miracle, he manages to refrain from doing so. it takes about five minutes for his temper to shorten to the length of a matchstick, and he knows that one more shove will be what strikes it. dabi pauses for a moment to crane his neck, allowing the sea of people to flow around him like a stream to a rock as he searches for an alternative route. it appears as though he'll have to take his chances with the crowd until he hears the repetitive ringing of a bell and a man's voice calling for passengers to board. public transport was risky, what with him being a menace to society, but he can't possibly be the single most shady dressing person on the train, right?

he wouldn't bother answering his own question when daylight was burning, so dabi pushes himself from the swarm and leaps for the streetcar just as it begins pulling away from the stop. there's a shuddering jolt before the passengers settle in for their departure, and as his palms squeeze the metal railing in response, he notices the peeling red paint clinging to the car's exterior and finds himself staring at it for a ludicrous amount of time, not thinking about anything in particular.

the rickety trolley is semi-packed with civilians, none of whom regard his presence with anything more than a noncommittal glance. good—that makes his job ten times easier. to his chagrin, it runs over more than a few opposing train tracks or crudely paved bumps in the road, and this causes the whole cart to jostle before stilling completely, the process repeating itself over and over.

the knowledge that his trip to the outskirts of town is a short one is the only thing that calms his nerves.

when dabi finally arrives at his destination, the sun is gradually descending from its peak in the sky, and the clouds are more like wispy tufts than the luscious, cotton candy lumps they were just hours earlier. overhead, the baby blue hues turn to shades of opal; a forewarning of rain. the feelings of irritation and malice from earlier are still bound to him like chains that threaten to snap him in half when drawn too tight. the crippling weight causes his feet to drag along the gravel path at a sluggish pace, his own hot breaths fanning against his face from behind the mask. if anyone actually lived out here and they were to see him, their first impression would be that a living corpse had just waltzed onto their property. it was just his luck, then, that you were the only person out here, and by extent, the only one not deterred by his appearance.

even so, dabi's mind kicks into gear. was this a good idea? he doesn't even know why he came here—he just needed a place to blow off steam and his body had already made the choice on its own. this isn't any different from all the other times, though, and he can't ignore the fact when it sits in the pit of his stomach like an anchor. you're always the first person he goes to at times like these (dabi subconsciously rules out the man working at the local 7/11 who sells his liquor cheap, though he's still appreciative of the bottle to numb his thoughts). that tells him more than he wants to know.

your house is quaint, like those old country cottages he sometimes sees pictures of, and squats on a large, grassy mound of earth surrounded by heaps of rocks and sand from the neighboring beach. it merges with a towering lighthouse, and dabi notes that there must not be any sailors due to make port yet, otherwise the light would be on. the second thing he takes in are the flowerbeds sitting under your two front windows, and how they look withered and close to death.

"i wanted to add some color, but i can't keep plants alive for shit." you had said, huffing in amusement to yourself as you tended to the weeping alliums. "succulents are the only exception."

a small pot of them sits on the windowsill, but they seem to have gotten to big for it; the rubbery leaves spilling over the cracked rim. he hardly registers how much of a stalker he must look like until he stands on your welcome mat, peering through the dirty glass panes to find you nowhere in sight. the lights aren't on, so he can only see the outlines of furniture when bands of light stream in to reveal them.

sitting back on the balls of his feet, dabi curses under his breath. it's not like he was expecting anything. how was he supposed to know whether or not you were home when you had no way of telling him?

"jesus, patch!" a shout startles him from his brooding, but he doesn't let it show as he looks towards to ocean. you're hauling yourself over a large rock to wave him over, wearing a familiar grin. so that's why he couldn't see you. dabi makes careful work of leaping over jagged stones and threatening to bake any nosy seagulls as he makes his way to where you sit, with your favored instrument slung over your shoulder. the ghost of a smile graces his lips when he recalls how you would have scolded him for being mean to the birds, but that was before last week.

"pesky fucking bastards—they keep shitting on my music sheets!" another seagull waddles into your vicinity, only to squawk in distress as you shoo it away with your foot. "i wonder if this is natures way of telling me to quit while i'm behind. . ."

after breaching the treacherous terrain and nearly scraping himself in the process, dabi squats on the stone beside yours, looking up at you with hooded eyes. you meet his gaze with nothing short of merriment and a shake of your head.

"if someone had seen you, you would have been arrested on the spot for being a peeping tom." you chuckle, combing a hand through your hair with a smirk. "what? you lookin' you catch me in the nude or something?"

dabi scowls, choosing to ignore the question rather than give into the bait. as if i would be satisfied by looking at anyone but you in that state. he swats the air as if it would drive the notion from his mind like a bothersome fly.

"in the middle of fuck-ass nowhere? i'd never get caught."

"aw, don't be like that. if you really wanted a peek you could've just asked." the mocking tone in your voice spurs him to smack your thigh, which earns a hearty laugh in reply.

"ooh, don't treat me so roughly, or i might begin to like it!"

dabi has had more than enough experience with your flirtatious tendencies, and he feels he should have gotten used to it by now, but his heart still clenches every damn time. the worse part? he can't say that he minds. you don't give him a chance to respond, but dabi hasn't a clue what he would have said, so he lets you continue, watching intently as you rifle through your bag to fish out a guitar pick. shifting into a crisscross position, you perch the guitar on your lap and begin tuning the strings, idly talking about how uneventful the past days have been. dabi pretends not to have heard that it was because he wasn't there to visit, and instead gives his attention to the lighthouse in hopes that you won't see the faintest of reds dusting his ears.

five minutes pass before you actually start playing, and even then, it's only a few experimental notes here and there that help you build towards the perfected melody.

it's too sweet for his taste; dabi swears that's why his stomach turns so ferociously and prompts him to lean against the boulder to his right for some sort of stability. he won't even humor the idea that it's because of the way your lips twitch into a near half-smile before melding back into a concentrated frown the moment you strike a wrong cord. an embarrassed flush captures your cheeks as you study the music sheets, briefly pressing down on them when a sudden breeze flutters the pages. the pencil that was once tucked behind your ear now sticks out from one corner of your mouth, a flash of pink and orange melding together when you go to absentmindedly gnaw on the wood.

many more minutes fly by, and you've long since abandoned the new tune just to pick up an old one. dabi's back straightens at the first set of strings you pluck, and he recognizes them as the same ones that have been playing on repeat in his head since the day you met.

dabi's heart hammers in tune with every footfall that slaps against the pavement, tearing through the small pools of water that grow with every second. it hasn't stopped raining since the chase began, and there isn't an inch of him that hasn't been soaked through. still, something good must come from this little dilemma—the burning sensation that clings to his arms has almost settled down. the silhouettes of trees merge with inky blackness when he blinks, and he reaches with trembling hands to wipe the droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes.

a yellow square of what assumes to be light shines in the distance, contrasting wildly adverse to the darkness that sweeps him up from under his feet and pushes him forward. the sound of police sirens has been reduced to a mere memory in the time that was running, but he isn't about to risk going back to the league's base in fear of a stakeout waiting to get the jump on them. besides, why stop there when the possibility of shelter awaits him?

the bottoms of dabi's shoes are slick with mud, and blades of grass have snuck their way under the cuffs of his jeans to scratch at his skin. the sensations paired with the numbing cold are beyond uncomfortable, but he won't have to worry about that once he gets inside—that being if the person inside doesn't put up a fight.

he'd expect them to be mad if they did anything except that, no matter how welcoming the house looked. dabi's instincts tell him that someone out this far from the city doesn't a have a lot of connections, and thus killing them wouldn't cause an uprising if it were needed, but the minute he grips the doorknob, a thought occurs. if they have a quirk, its power could level my own or even surpass it. . . he grits his teeth. but like hell i'm going to let them win.

the hesitation vanishes in an instant as dabi turns the knob and thrusts himself inside, wielding a blue flame in his dominant hand to further illuminate the room. the wind is so fierce that it pulls the door shut for him, and the villain finds himself staring down the unperturbed figure of another man, perhaps around his age, hunched over a stove and glaring at a steaming kettle. they lock gazes, and almost immediately, the kettle gives a high pitched whistle. you look away first, lifting the pot and turning the burner off whilst opening the cupboard overhead to pull out two mugs, both of which adorn ugly christmas-themed patterns that dabi wishes he could forget ever seeing.

his glare hardens when you move to the table in the far corner and begin pouring what he assumes to be tea, taking one cup into your own grasp and leaving the other at his own disposal. your one mistake is grabbing your phone from the counter, but when dabi's flame enlarges, you hold your arms up in defense. then, before he can even formulate a proper threat, you toss the phone to him. he catches it easily and observes the dark screen, masking his astonishment with a more sinister expression.

the only other move you make is to drape yourself across a cushion on the window seat with an acoustic guitar in hand. you look more relaxed by the second despite being cornered by a dangerous criminal, and dabi has to refrain from voicing his shock when you address him with an almost bored tone.

"if the tea isn't to your taste, there's more in the cabinet. shower is down the hall to your left, and there's a spare bedroom upstairs to the right. do whatever the hell you want, just don't burn the place down or touch my freddie mercury records."

dabi is stuck to the spot for one of three reasons, he determines. one, your attitude has surprised him into a stupor that not even hiw own will can break. two, his refusal to believe that you're handling this situation in a calm manner is really just his defense mechanism kicking in, and he won't move until proven that you won't do anything when his back is turned. and three, you're quirk is similar to that of madusa's and you've successfully turned him into a fleshy mannequin.

"if you're worried about me calling the cops, what you're holding is the only working phone here. the power is out due to the storm, so my landline is dead, and the nearest form of help is a crippled old widow five miles west. i'm not going to risk running when i'm up against someone with a quirk."

dabi considers everything said, but never once allows his fire to dim. he took the surrounding area into account while making his escape, and he can see the landline is in fact out of service, so the male's assurances checked out. hell, the light source that guided him here was nothing but an old-timey oil lamp. the fact that you're quirkless does him a great amount of good as well.

with cautious steps, dabi makes a beeline for the bathroom, but he stops halfway to stare at you again. you respond by quirking a brow and kicking your feet up, something akin to mischief in your guise.

"i can take the shower with you since you're so afraid i'll make a break for it." you drawl, and dabi snarls, a fowl cuss bubbling in his throat as heat crawls its way up his neck.

"why, with a blush like that you might not need any drying off~."

dabi decides that he's had enough and storms down the hall, already peeling off his dripping clothes and and silently promising that he'll burn the guy to a crisp if he so much as tries to catch a peek. he can hear you calling out in hilarity even as he slinks into the shower and attempts to drown you out with the static-filled haze that captures his senses.

"the name's, y/n, by the way!"

try as he might, dabi had never been able to keep from coming back. now the reason why has been revealed to him on a silver platter, and he won't even spare it a glance.

your soft singing snaps him from his reminiscing as he stretches his legs, stifling a groan when something pops as not to disturb you. while digging through his pockets for a cigarette, he stops momentarily for fear of forgetting how to breathe when he lays his sights on you. you're in your own little world; everything else—him included— seems to have disappeared as you play from the heart. you need no standing ovation, no adoring fans or fantastic lightshows. you've said it once, that fame and glory mean nothing to you, and that you have all you could ever want or need right here, nestled in the beachside view of what you call home.

"and i have you." a cool breeze ruffles your dirt stained overalls as you reach up to wipe a bead of sweat from your forehead. the sun beats down on you, never shining half as bright as your smile, and the shore kisses the boulders with waxing and waning waves of aquamarine; frothy, foamy masses washing up with it to carry lone strands of seaweed. "otherwise i'd go mad without your company."

okay, that was lie. the truth is right there, practically spitting in his face how much of an idiot he is for trying to deny it, and dabi is glaring right back at it. he feels like an impatient kid on christmas eve, sneaking glimpses of gifts under the tree and feeling like he's committed a felony after getting caught. and you do catch him.

"penny for your thoughts, patch?" there it is—that stupid nickname. it's always been laced with mirth when you call him as such, but now it's replaced by genuine curiosity. and is that a hit of concern he hears? you study him with pursed lips and stony features that gradually morphs into that of concern when the silence stretches on. dabi forces himself to sneer at you, and something stirs inside his chest when you don't flinch.

he hates it. he hates you.

dabi nods to the sky, a guarded noise building in the back of his throat as he tugs on his earlobe.

"s'gonna rain." your jaw visibly clenches, but you humor his evasive habits just like you always have, looking to the clouds, which have darkened considerably in the last hour or so. it's around this time that the weather patterns become more unpredictable, but you've noticed the distinct lack of rainfall in spite of the gathering storm brewing overhead. you could sit out here for a while longer without much activity in the sky, and it would take more than a little shower to drive you inside, especially when you finally had the chance to enjoy some quality time with dabi. you notice the way his shoulders droop and the tension from his facial muscles all but disappears when he sits amidst the smell of fresh salt water and unpolluted air—the weight of his past slowly but surely ebbing away. you'd like to hope you have some part in that. oh god, do you ever hope.

you plead to whatever omnipresent being above that he's not just here to hit a blunt without getting reprimanded for it, or that he's making these daily visits out of pity.

"nah. it's been like this for a little while—looks like a storm will hit, but then it passes before it even begins." you sling the guitar back over your shoulder and gather up your music sheets, eyeing dabi from your perch. you're challenging him now, and normally you would never dare force him to speak if he didn't want to, but something about his aura is off. you can sense it in his words; the very air he breathes; and it compels you to hold him close, if only he would let you.

"so, you gonna tell me why you're avoiding the ques—" a deep rumble interrupts you, and dabi lets out a sigh of relief that you're thankfully too distracted to hear. a single drop of water hits your nose, followed by another, and another, and—

"you were saying?"

"oh shut it." you don't get to finish speaking, for a crack of lightning strikes the far end of the beach, scattering sand in every direction. you just barely manage to scoop up your belongings before sliding from the rock, but your footing betrays you and send you stumbling to the ground. dabi is there to catch you, wasting no more time in hauling you to your feet and rushing you as carefully as possible through the jagged maze. he can't refrain from smiling when you splutter a string of profanities pass poorly hidden laughter, an unmistakable "FUCK ME!" spilling into the cold evening when you accidentally stub your toe on a particularly sharp stone. it's pouring within seconds, and no sooner do you reach the doorstep do you both realize how sopping wet you are.

the last thing you think of is your chattering teeth, however, when you see dabi's spiky tufts of hair dripping with residue and his electric blue eyes gazing into yours. what you do think is that for the first time in your painfully ordinary life; your twenty three years of mediocrity and progressive isolation from the world around you; you have found the single person who understands your struggles and has chosen—for some unfathomable reason—not to abandon you. you wish you could say your parents were the same, but you also have scars from a distant childhood that brought you to this place.

this old lighthouse is your home, yes, but dabi is your sanctuary. he might as well be a god by how often you worship him from afar, wondering if ever you'd be so lucky; so eternally blessed; as to call him yours.

you don't register that he's opened the door to let you both inside until a cozy warmth envelopes you. no, wait, that's dabi's fire. it should terrify you that the same man who threatened you with those flames is now at arms length, but you trust him not to hurt you in any way, and so you lean into the gentle licking of heat on your skin, humming in content as your shivering comes to a halt.

dabi's fear of burning you diminishes when you flash him a grateful smile, a whisper of thanks echoing across the walls and pummeling his heart without resistance. he averts his eyes with a curt nod, a feeling like molasses weighing down his tongue and drowning the words he wants to say.

"you're welcome." is all he can muster.

half an hour later, your guitar is drying by the hearth and the two of you are huddled on the window seat, nursing cups of coffee and watching the storm in a comfortable silence. you haven't blinked in a while, meaning you've wandered off the tracks of consciousness as suspected, and pretty soon, you start singing quietly to yourself; the deep crooning used as background noise to your aimless meditation. dabi nudges your calf with his foot and is rewarded with a brief quirk of your lips and a nudge back. he doesn't have the patience nor the brain power to decipher how long this goes on for, but it doesn't matter.

this is fine. the image of red hair and a tall, intimidating figure invades his train of thought, and dabi curls inwards on himself. this is fine.

but it's not.

trembling, he places his mug on the table before retracting back into his seat, clasping his hands together. he tries visualizing the ties of his life coming together to form a rope. the fingers on his left—memories from his past—linking together with those from his right—memories made with you. his palms connect, bringing instant relief with the knowledge that he's here now, practically nestled between your legs, out of harms way. you're both fine.

dabi takes the swelling anxiety and pretends to crush it within his fist; clenching and unclenching it until his peace of mind returns.

"penny for your thoughts, patch?" you ask again, still in somewhat of a trance. this time, dabi answers.

"why do you call me that?"

you're caught of guard, half expecting him to ask why you haven't turned him in to the authorities. you've seen him without his disguise, you know his name, and for the past eight months you've been socializing with him like normal human beings do. that's more than both of you could have said in the past. of all the burning questions, he chose that one? "i've heard 'patchwork' and 'staples' and just about everything in between. why shorten it to patch?"

you gape at him, opening your mouth, then closing it, and so on. the pitter patter of rain against the window has ascended into relentless pelting. it sounds like gunfire to dabi; assaulting his ears in floods; but to you, it's nothing more than a waterfall hindering your view of the ocean. the deep breath you take seems to put more suspense in the atmosphere than needed, and it makes dabi's heartrate quicken for an entirely different reason, yet he makes no sign of stopping you.

"because my first thought whenever i see you is how much you remind me of a doll." oh. what?

you can tell by dabi's reaction that that wasn't what he was expecting, so you gesture for him to wait. he isn't sure he likes the forlorn expression you're wearing.

"typically, when kids first get a doll, they treat it like glass and make sure to tend to it with love. other times, doll owners are reckless and tear them apart just to stitch them back together like nothing happened. you use that camouflaged to blend in with the public, and i'm lucky enough to see what's under it. . .but sometimes i wish you'd keep the mask on so i don't have to see you upset."

upset? a fizzing sound erupts from his palms that he struggles to put out. he's not upset.

"don't try to hide it. you're always scowling when you think i'm not looking, or when you forget i'm even here, and i know it's because someone broke you without the intent of fixing you up."

once more, red clouds dabi's vision, and he moves to stand up.

"you had to clean up after their mistakes because no one else would, but instead of reusing the bits and pieces of your old self, you burned them. you destroyed any and all evidence of who you used to be and now you're patching yourself together with parts that aren't your own, because you don't want to hold onto what happened. though, something tells me you still haven't let go, otherwise you wouldn't be so angry."

"you don't know that!" he snaps, but he knows it's not true.

your hand closes around his wrist, and dabi recoils with such strength that it yanks you from your seat. dabi doesn't want you to let go, no matter how much he thrashes in place, because the sensation of your skin on his grounds him. somehow you know this, and you give a comforting squeeze to his pulse.

"but that's not all i see. because dolls are beautiful, and it's the ones who still love them after they're broken that they need the most. no one's told you they think you're beautiful, have they?"

dabi shakes his head, refusing to meet your gaze even when you cup his cheek with your free hand tilt it towards you. every touch is filled with hesitancy; feather light and more intimate than anything dabi has ever witnessed, let alone experienced personally. with the way you hold him like he's water in your hands, your eyes overflowing with a love he hasn't known in forever, dabi knows he won't find another feeling like it. you're not the embodiment of good—at least not by society's strict standards—but at least you can sit there and say you've committed a crime. you've never bloodied your hands by hurting others, much less gotten a thrill from doing so, and that's why he pulls away. he has to, because dabi is a harbinger of war, and if he holds you any closer it will only be to kill you.

he says something; a snarl mixed with a broken plea that he prays will make you stop; and you do. his silent victory doesn't last for long, though, because then you're using both hands to cradle his face and fuck, the pads of your thumbs grazing his scars feel like heaven. "won't you let me be the first?" how could he say no? how, when the taste of honey and whiskey is so addictive that he's already drooling into the kiss and willing to beg for more; when your mouth slots perfectly with his and dabi begins to wonder if he's stumbled right into the scene of a cliché wattpad story. the idea causes him to huff out a growl, and although neither of you can talk, he can imagine how strongly you must want to poke fun at him for the action. he can feel you smirking—the smug little bastard you are—and dabi ponders how long it will take to reduce that attitude of yours until you're submitting to him.

not yet. he chastises himself, completely unaware that you're currently thinking the same thing. dabi kneads the flesh of your hips through your jeans while you comb your fingers through his hair, gasping sharply between bruising, wet kisses and keening when he leans down to nurse your lips with soft pecks afterword. you're still trying to process the fact that you've coerced this devious criminal into making out with you in the pale glow of your seaside residence, but for the moment, you need not concern yourself with the details. you've forgotten all about dabi's ego and how this whole situation is no doubt feeding its flames. his grip on your waist is making you too delirious to care.

"fuck." dabi's breath is staggering when you finally pull back, an aura of clarity and desire hanging between the two of you.

"y-yeah. . .that was. . ." you can't produce a word, or even a paragraph to describe it. you know you're going to hit yourself later for admitting such a banal phrase in the midst of what could be classified as your very first kiss, but that is neither here nor there, and you would rather suffer an agonizing death than let dabi find out that he stole your first. you're too preoccupied envisioning all the other firsts to come, so you don't notice the way he stares at you like some precious jewel, but his fingertips brushing your bottom lip succeed in snapping you out of it.

"hm?"

dabi goes quiet, contemplating what to say as the thunder moves abroad and the rain comes to an end, leaving the house in a numbing state of tranquility.

"why not call me doll, then? it'd be easier."

you chuckle in response, playing with the hairs at the base of dabi's neck and making sure not to miss the way he melts into the affection. "i thought that'd be moving too fast." and dabi; still drugged from your kiss and what he can only hope is love; rasps out a genuine laugh, cupping your jaw with a tenderness that makes your knees weak.

"you offered to take a shower with me the night we met, and you think a nickname is moving too fast?"

you stick your tongue out at him, and dabi resists the urge to grab it, even if it's just a bluff.

"would you have let me call you that anyways?" you ask, something hopeful ridden in your tone. dabi feigns consideration as he looks to the ceiling, snickering when you smack his chest. eventually, he murmurs what you audibly hear as "brat" before resting his forehead on yours, an impish glint in his gaze.

"no."

you turn your chin up at him, giggling when he nips at the skin. dabi knows just as well that your attempts at escaping him are halfhearted, so he encircles his arms around your waist tighter, delighting in the flush that paints your cheeks.

"then i think i'll settle for my love, or darling, if that's alright with you."

dabi can't fend off the blush for his life, but he's not afraid if you acknowledge it. he can get you back easily, and he plans to. "fine by me, doll."

[perriewinklenerdie]

Late night call (Ethan Ramsey x MC)

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x Claire Herondale

Word count: 1,7 k

Summary: Claire gets fed up with Bloom when he interrupts her evening alone with Ethan.

Warnings: Some heavy flirting, nothing explicit. 

A/N: My two idiots in love spend most of their nights and mornings together and you can’t convince me otherwise. 

With a heavy sigh, Ethan closed the door behind him, letting his bag fall to the ground with a thud. It was well into the evening when he managed to finish up his tasks at the hospital and go home, traffic adding another hour to his driving time. His shoulders fell in relief at the peaceful sight of his home.

Claire turned her head to the side slightly, acknowledging that she heard him coming through the door. The rest of her body remained positioned towards the window, seated on the bar stool, a cup of tea held between her hands, close to her face. It was dark outside, and the lights of the apartment were creating a stark contrast that turned the windows into mirrors, allowing her to observe him without much movement in his direction.

Anticipation buzzed right beneath her skin as she watched him make his way towards her, the distance diminishing with each passing second. She could see the exact moment they would touch, causing a shiver to run down her spine.

Her breath got caught in her throat when Ethan slipped his arms around her, hugging her warmly from behind. He nuzzled her neck with his nose, humming softly at the faint scent of his shower gel that lingered on her skin.

“I see that you took full advantage of your day off.” He muttered, pushing the barely hanging on fabric of his shirt off her shoulder, exposing her skin to his ministrations. Paired with a pair of shorts, she looked like she was just waiting for him to come home and do very specific things to her. Which, for the record, was absolutely true.

She almost managed to convince him to stay in that morning, her kisses entirely too enticing, but alas, he went to work. It was her day off, and Ethan openly encouraged her to stay at his apartment, with a vision of coming home to her. With a very wide and very much knowing look, she agreed.

“I would take even more advantages if I had someone to enjoy all those luxuries with.” Claire winked at him through her reflection, successfully bringing color to his cheeks. He shook his head at her antics, tightening his hold on her. “How was your day?”

“About what you’d expect out of the day under Bloom’s thumb. Tiring and entirely too long.” he sighed, rubbing her arms absentmindedly. “He kept shoving his ridiculous ideas down my throat – I almost punched him.”

Claire smiled slyly, turning around in her seat to face him. She stroked his cheek with the back of her finger. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m glad you didn’t punch him, though, you’d damage your hands.” He smirked at her words, dropping his hands to her hips. “Yes.” She nodded at the feeling of him squeezing them alluringly. “Those hands.”

Ethan pushed on her legs gently, creating space for him to stand in. This close to her, he could see very clearly the playful sparks in her eyes and the slight dilation of her pupils. His hands remained placed on her thighs, skin on skin.

“Your texts kept me alive and going today.” he admitted, trying to keep a straight face despite they way her eyebrow shot up teasingly. Before she had the chance to ask, he continued. “Especially that photo of you in my bed.”

Feigning shock, she skimmed her fingers along the seams of his shirt, a smirk blooming on her face. “Ethan Ramsey, did you just admit that you like our suggestive texting?”

“Baby, there’s nothing suggestive about that photo. Or your texts. Your intent is very much clear.” He dropped his voice to a sultry whisper. With his lips against the skin of her neck, he added. “And welcomed.” Her breath caught in her throat, heart pumping blood faster. She gripped his sides, scratching the skin beneath the fabric of his shirt. Right as she was about to pull him onto her, he straightened his back with a knowing look. “You’re a master of distraction.”

“You’re not that bad yourself.” Claire grinned, placing her hands on his arms, squeezing them lightly. “The things you said in those texts, I have to say… “ trailing off, she leaned up to kiss his jaw. “You made me want to request a house visit.”

“Well, you’ve got me. What do you say we make good on those things you said you wanted to do?”

“You read my mind.”

Eyes locked, they leaned onto one another, like two magnets, unable to resist the pull. Lips touched, first gently, then with more pressure, smiling like a pair of fools. Hands began their exploration, tracing every curve of each other’s bodies, as though they didn’t already know them. As though he didn’t make good on his promise to use every surface of his apartment to have her.

Claire’s fingers began to undo the buttons of his shirt, pausing after reaching the fourth one in favor of rolling down his sleeves. “You drive me to distraction when you wear them like that.”

“Why do you think I do it?”

The impatient sound she gave him was almost enough for him to throw her over his shoulder and carry her to the bedroom. He didn’t have much time to focus on it, though, because moments later, her lips pressed to his chest, leaving a trail of fire in their wake as she worked the rest of the buttons.

Right as she was about to strip him of the offending material, his phone rang, cutting the air in the room that otherwise was silent, save for their fast breathing and heavy sighs they pulled from each other.

“It’s Bloom.” Ethan groaned in annoyance, wondering how much crap he would get from his boss the next day if he ignored the call like he wanted to and went back to kissing his girlfriend.

“Tell him to go to hell.” Claire muttered, not once stopping the kisses on his skin. He choked on air, surprised at her words, but he couldn’t deny that he was getting more and more convinced to shoot down the call. And then the rational side of him chimed in and told him that if he didn’t pick up, he’d have to listen to even more nonsense the next day.

“It could be important.”

Claire stopped what she was doing, hesitation evident in her posture for a fraction of a second. Determination flashed across her face and in the next moment, she took the phone out of his hands. “Okay, fine.”

Before Ethan could react, she hopped off the stool and moved away from him, picking up and raising the phone to her ear. “Mr. Bloom, what can we do for you this evening?”

She could almost hear the surprise on the other end of the line, imagining the confusion on Leland’s face. “Dr. Herondale?” he asked, followed by another moment of silence. “Can you pass Dr. Ramsey to the phone?”

“Is this a matter of life or death?” She didn’t let him continue his request, instead going for the information she needed before proceeding.

“Well- no, it isn’t, but I asked to talk to Dr. Ramsey.” Bloom steeled his tone, losing his patience at the lack of expected outcome of the call.

“Well, Ethan is at home with his girlfriend on his evening off, so I’m sorry to inform you, but whatever this is about will have to wait. Will that be all?”

Claire could practically feel the warmth of Ethan’s stare at her, but she didn’t let that distract her. Bloom has been pulling the strings at work in whichever direction he wanted and she was getting tired of having to comply with his whims – she’d be damned if she let him dictate how their personal life ran too.

Leland, on the other end of the line, felt a strange pang. Caroline, who was sitting on the other end of the room, looked at her husband’s face with a curious expression. It seemed as though a crack in his otherwise hard exterior has been created by the single sentence from the resident, for reasons entirely too obvious – the affection between the two doctors reminded him of when he could be around his own wife without a single care in the world. Evidently, he was impacted, no matter how much he didn’t want to admit it.

“Yes, I apologize for interrupting. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

The call ended as quickly as it began, and as soon as it did, Claire silenced his phone, then hers, after which she threw them onto the loveseat at the other end of the room. “There, no distractions.”

“I can’t believe you just did that.” Ethan breathed out, walking over to her side slowly. Claire shrugged, grinning mischievously.

“In his own words, my house, my rules.” Realizing what she said, she blushed and immediately rushed to correct herself. “Well, your house, your rules, really, but-“

He silenced her with a kiss, letting his hands fall to her backside, gripping the fabric of her shorts as he pressed her closer to him.

“You’re so attractive when you get bossy like that.” Ethan muttered against her lips, their eyes locked in an intense stare. She kissed him possessively, biting on his lower lip and pulling. His grip shifted to her hips, using them as leverage to twist them around, then fall backwards onto the couch, pulling her along with him in the process. She made herself comfortable on top of him, straddling him through the fabric of their clothes. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I left you in my bed this morning.” Ethan panted, his voice low and rich, courtesy of the way she moved on top of him. “And I’m about to prove just how much.”

Notes

And then he proved it. Multiple times.

The whole situation with Tobias and Bloom is making me nervous. Not to mention spoilers.

Kudos to @justanotherrookie​ for encouraging me to post early (remember when Sara @genevievemd​ said that we got her into E calling MC ‘baby’? Yeah, you’re welcome, both of you :D)

Thank you so much for reading! <3

Tagging separately

[lalainajanes]

For the square “water park” on my Klarosummerbingo card! Might be my worst title ever but it’s actually better than the original one so  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Slip and Slide

Caroline speedwalks through the lobby, weaving around people who seem to think it’s the appropriate place for an early morning stroll. “Hold the elevator!” she calls, ignoring the few disgruntled looks she receives.

She hadn’t been that loud, and she’s nearly late for a critical meeting. It’s the first one with a new client, and she’d hate to make a bad first impression.

She’d had to head to the dry cleaners before work, had gotten caught in a traffic snarl in an area she wasn’t that familiar with, and it had taken her way too long to figure out the detour. She should have left her place earlier.

She gets to the security gates, juggling a garment bag, her briefcase, and a portfolio. Her ID seems to be just out of reach, and she jams her hand further into her purse. Albert, her favorite guard, murmurs, “Take a breath, Ms. Forbes.”

She blows one out, frustrated. Rolls her shoulders in an attempt to relax. “Sorry. I’m just…”

“Stressed? I can tell.”

Yikes. Caroline hopes that doesn’t mean her hair has exploded.

She smiles weakly, “Big day today.”

A brand new project, after the last one had been a disaster. Caroline’s comfortable with stress, thrives on high stakes, but she could totally use a win.

Her fingers touch the familiar edge of her badge, and she pulls it out triumphantly. She taps it on the sensor, walks through the revolving gate. “Good luck, Ms. Forbes,” Alfred murmurs as she passes.

It’s a little thing, but Caroline feels a little better knowing someone’s rooting for her.

She’s relieved to spot that one of the elevators is open, a man holding the door, his eyes on her. She doesn’t recognize him, but that doesn’t mean anything. The building has 55 floors, offices for more than two dozen companies within it. He’s dressed in a suit, like the vast majority of the men she sees in the building. His is nicer than most, charcoal grey, perfectly fitted, with a very subtle pinstripe that she only notices when she gets closer. Caroline hurries into the car gratefully. She leans forward, punches 32. “Thank you so much,” she says to him, turning so they’re shoulder to shoulder. “You’re a lifesaver.”

The man on her other side makes a noise, a tiny scoff. Caroline glances at him quizzically. He’s stoic, eyes forward, but she’s sure there’s a hint of amusement on his face.

An arm brushes against hers, drawing her attention. “Feel free to ignore him,” the man who’d held the elevator says. His voice is low, smooth and she’d be charmed by the accent if they’d met in a social situation.

Or any situation, if she’s honest.

“My brother would probably describe me as more of a troublemaker.”

Huh. She hadn’t have figured brothers. They’ve both got attractive and well-dressed going for them but little other familial resemblance. Caroline’s head swings back, “Are you a trouble maker?”

His amusement is plain. His full lips curl, and deep dimples appear in his cheeks.

Oh yeah. Definitely a trouble maker.

“I’m about twenty minutes early for my meeting today; how much of a trouble maker can I be?” His tone is playful, a touch too innocent to be believed.

Damn it. Caroline does not have time for an attractive man this morning. At least she hadn’t changed into the frumpier outfit in the garment bag. Hopefully, she’ll run into this guy again.

“I think I need more info. Could be a one-time thing. I’m almost late for my meeting, which is wildly out of character.”

“Not the trusting sort, are you?”

Caroline shrugs, raising her brows expectantly.

He laughs briefly, “Well, I did send an email ahead to inquire about the coffee preferences of the team I’m meeting. I’m stopping at one of the cafes to pick it up now. Would a troublemaker do that?”

“Hmm, maybe. Could be an underhanded tactic to get on a good side before the trouble starts.”

Dimples’ brother chimes in again, dry this time. “I believe your assistant sent that email. And that she learned the practice from my assistant.”  

Dimples glowers, and Caroline must admit this is a delightful distraction from her anxiety. She glances up at the panel above the door and is disappointed to find they’re almost on her floor. “If you’re going to the café on 36, I recommend the oatmeal raisin cookies. Most people go chocolate chip. Trust me, that’s a mistake.”

The elevator pings, the doors sliding open. Caroline smiles, hitches her briefcase higher on her shoulder. “This is me. Thanks again.”

The receptionist spots Caroline, stands up, a sheaf of papers in her hands, and Caroline’s reminded about how much she has to do. She hurries out, her heels clicking across the shiny tiles of the lobby.

She still glances back at the elevator, can’t help smiling, pleased, when she finds her new friend from the elevator watching her as the doors close.

Even if she never sees him again, he’d made her morning a little brighter.

Now, though, it’s time to work.

* * * * *

Fifteen minutes later, Caroline’s pacing in her office. She’s pinned her hair back and changed into the purple pantsuit she’d picked up at the dry cleaners. It’s a great color but not the most flattering fit. The pants are fine, but the jacket’s boxy, and she’s wearing a plain pink blouse underneath, buttoned to her throat, a thick silver necklace threaded through the collar. There’s a pair of glasses perched on her nose, and she’d changed into sensible flats.

She’d learned her lesson last time, at the first meeting where she’d been the project lead. She’d been called ‘Honey’ and other more annoying pet names and asked to serve coffee and fetch snacks. She’d received skepticism when she’d introduced herself. By the end of that first meeting, Caroline had wanted to scream her credentials – a B.A. and a Master’s in Civil Engineering, a whole pile of certifications, several prestigious internships, and stellar work references, thank you very much – at most of the people in the room.

Ultimately, the project had been successful, but Caroline had experienced frequent bursts of frustration that bordered on rage. Her suggestions were met with questions that made it clear her intelligence was doubted, her corrections with condescension, even though she’d usually been the only one in the room with any significant scientific expertise.

Expertise that’s kind of crucial in designing a water park. It wouldn’t have been a good look, or a sound investment, if guests were to end up injured or dead after paying exorbitant ticket prices and expecting a fun day.

Her skin has thickened considerably, but Caroline hopes that’s less necessary this time. Her boss had assured her that this job would be easier, and Caroline’s choosing to believe her. It’s even potentially exciting – these clients own several international resorts, the park she’s pitching on will be built in Spain.

Being project leader, she’d traveled to oversee construction on the nightmare build, but Tennessee doesn’t carry quite the same appeal as the Spanish coast, at least from the photos Caroline’s seen.

At the very least, it can’t be a worse experience. She hopes.

She hears Katherine coming her way, takes a final deep breath before Kat breezes into her office. “What are you wearing?” Kat asks, sounding both mystified and vaguely disgusted. She pauses in front of Caroline, fingers pinching her lapel and tugging. “Is this polyester?”

“Maybe. I thrifted it.”

Katherine’s face twists in the sort of revulsion one would expect if Caroline confessed to grave robbing the ensemble.

“Ew, why?”

“Figured I needed a costume. To make sure that this time, no one in there thinks to call me ‘sweet cheeks.’”

She’d been paired with another designer last time, Matt Donovan, who was a nice enough guy but had been pretty useless in the having her back department. Caroline likely wouldn’t have cried into her Ben and Jerry’s quite so often had Katherine been her partner. Kat has the unique and impressive ability to make demands and issue orders and have people thank her for it.

Kat snorts, “Elijah Mikaelson would never. He’s aggressively polite. I haven’t spoken to him yet, but I doubt Niklaus would either. I assume he has the same hot accent.”

That’s a new name. Caroline doesn’t like surprises. “And who is Niklaus?”

“A brother. And a business partner. He wasn’t originally scheduled to be here but is unexpectedly in town. What do you think the British equivalent to sweet cheeks is?”

Caroline’s eyes go wide, a few puzzle pieces clicking together. British brothers, twenty minutes early for a meeting. What are the odds?

Crap. Had she been flirting with a client? In front of another client?

There’s a tap at the door, her boss’ assistant’s head poking in, “They’re ready for you in the conference room.”

Ugh. Maybe she’s cursed.

* * * * * 

The presentation goes fantastically.

Katherine had been correct – the Mikaelsons don’t seem to labor under the misapprehension that a conventionally attractive blonde woman can’t grasp complex concepts. They’d shaken her hand when she’d arrived; Niklaus (or Klaus, as he apparently prefers) had looked a bit puzzled when they’d been introduced, Caroline had chalked that up to the outfit. He’d said it was nice to see her again. Explaining her mad dash to the elevator, and Klaus’ assistance, to the room had broken the ice nicely.

Kat kicks them off, and her design is gorgeous; Elijah and Klaus appear suitably impressed. When it’s Caroline’s turn, her nerves fall away by her second PowerPoint slide. She knows her stuff backward and forward, and she’s incredibly pleased with her innovation.

She also begins to feel less bad about the flirting once she sees that Kat throws Elijah a few looks that are borderline inappropriate for the office (that he seems pretty pleased with).

They ask questions, pour over the mock-ups and technical drawings Caroline and Katherine had prepared. Their ideas are actually good, which is a nice contrast for the last project. She’d done far too much lying and finessing to attempt to steer the previous park into a less terrible direction. The Mikaelsons have far fewer notes than Caroline had anticipated, and she promises to put together an update ASAP. They schedule another meeting.

She thinks Klaus’ handshake lingers when they say goodbye, but maybe she’s just riding high on adrenaline and imagining things.

She kind of hopes she isn’t. It’s probably too messy to date a client, but a girl can fantasize, can’t she?

Caroline helps herself to the cookie tray, pleased by the generous helping of oatmeal raisin she finds. Kat’s disappeared, but she knows their boss will want to debrief. Caroline collapses into one of the conference chairs, pulls out her phone to check her messages.

She replies to a few emails before she notices one that’s just arrived.

 Hello Caroline,

I enjoyed your presentation today. I look forward to the next.

Warmly,

Klaus

 She grins to herself, slumps lower in her chair. Clearly, she hadn’t imagined anything if Klaus is emailing her when he’s barely out of the building. She takes a risk and sends a slightly more casual reply than she’d usually attempt at this point.

If he reacts badly, she can up the formality later on. If he doesn’t, well… she’s only fostering a good working relationship. That’ll be essential if they land this contract.

And she’s like 90% sure it’s in the bag.

 Hi Klaus,

Thank you!

The photos your team sent over of the location were gorgeous; both Kat and I were inspired. I think this is some of our best work to date. I’m excited to dive into the updates and meet again next week.

Best,

Caroline

P.S. Thanks for the cookies.

His reply comes minutes later.

Caroline,

I believe it. Your work is impressive, as I’m sure your new ideas will be. Have you ever been to Spain? The pictures hardly do it justice.

Warmly,

Klaus

P.S. You’re welcome. Which coffee order was yours?

 Well, that’s the opposite of a bad reaction.

Caroline sets her phone aside, tells herself she has to be smart here. She’s reasonably sure she’s not doing anything that’s prohibited. The emails will speak for themselves, and they live on the company server. Neither she nor Klaus are offering anything untoward for the contract. If things go well, she may just have to fill out an HR disclosure form. She’ll double-check the firm’s code of conduct.

Just in case.

[barnesandco]

AYESHA!! Can I request, "their entire body freezing for a second when their love kisses them?" For any character you feel inspired to write for!

The Pay Off

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: brief mention of therapy and allusions to Bucky’s recovery after Hydra.

A/N: This.. got wildly out of hand.... and really, really wordy. I love these prompts and I want to write all of them while my WIPs stare at me feeling betrayed.

Like sunshine honey, the woman who has been sitting two seats down from Bucky at the library for the past four months, with a smile the ambience of New York dawn aimed unguarded at the book in your lap. He’s spoken a grand total of 37 sentences to you in that time, each one laden with the weight of this new existence he is carving out for himself, softly, a breakfast knife through butter. Every interaction with you -- every stolen glimpse up from his own space magazine -- leaves his throat parched but prickling with that sensitive heat that makes him want to thirst more. Like the tingle of salt after ocean water. 

Wetting his lips, he tries to refocus on the page in front of him. It details the scientific contributions of the Hubble Space Telescope, with a colorful side-box about the Nancy Grace Roman, who pioneered the notions of sending telescopes into space to unearth its secrets. The magazine is one from a neat stack to his right, a treasure of information he gathered to go through when he arrived today, but he isn’t making the amount of progress to finish reading by closing time.

Every Avenger has made a comment on getting a library card, to no avail. Sam’s information, Steve’s offer to do it in Bucky’s stead, Natasha’s suggestions of giving a fake name, and Wanda’s kind offer to come with him if he doesn’t want to do it alone, along with Tony’s centenarian-themed jokes and Shuri’s gift of a Kindle containing every book she could buy, have all been politely refused and tolerated in turn. Initially, it was because he likes it at the library. It’s the quietest place he has, and is coming to claim as another safe space. An escape. Now, however, there is a new variable he does not want to introduce to the team.

The woman who sits two seats down from him. You come her every afternoon, a book bag in one hand and a gigantic tote full of Lord-knows-what in the other, both dumped on the table before you go to find a book. He’s close enough to smell watermelons and strawberries, pink, sweet-summer things, reminders of a blueberry sky and sugary lemonade, memories he doesn’t remember having but can taste in the heavy air between them. It had taken him two weeks to discover that the scents were coming from the markers that he saw peeking out from the tote, stationary behaving the same way certain books do, enabling him to live a life he has never had.

Your life is a mystery to him, but he guesses at it, reading you. A rainbow of stray marker lines litters your hands almost perpetually, coming alive when they move rapidly as you check books, sometimes chuckling softly at a particular sentence. Once, he caught a Cheese Whiz stain on your cable-knit cuff, and at another occasion, saw you. Bucky is often overcome by the feeling of sonder at the realization that the clues he is gluing together make for a complex life, a marvel of an individual. There is guilt too, for his curiosity. But your eyes, even looking down, are captivating, and he is too far gone to stop. 

The idea of asking you out, of engaging in conversation beyond the moments of stranger familiarity, scares him still. Last time you spoke was when you laughed aloud at the set of examples one particular student had given for an assignment on sensory details. Zachary, age 11, had written that cow poop was a smell he did not like, sending his library companion into brilliant, bubbling laughs that you cut off too soon when you remembered where you were. At that point, you had looked around to see if anyone noticed, and spotting him, offered an apology he had rejected, on the condition that you share the joke. And you did.

But initiating the moment takes something more than what he has right now. His hands, mismatched and cold from the table, empty and longing, shut the magazine.

-----

The courage arrives on a Thursday. An ordinary day, by all accounts, only Bucky is on his fourth week of actual therapy, and got to the library through the subway, instead of Steve’s motorbike. Small victories fill his chest.

Only, you aren’t there when he gets in, and he panics. Fear and disappointment wrestle for a spot in his belly, claiming a tie in knots and weights, as he paces through the aisles of shelves in what he hopes is an unsuspicious speed. Giving up hope, he’s returning to his seat, head bowed, dismayed, when something collides against his side.

It’s you. A hurricane of movement with a slushie in one hand, your eyes also on the floor, and you crash against him with a shriek too late to save either of you. The slushie, cold and blue, spills out and lands on both of you, as you tumble, hands on Bucky’s elbows while his are on yours as he pulls you down, and you land in a heap of ice-water and sticky saccharine snow, a warm weight on top of him.

The library goes silent, for a breath, and then, when the shock lifts, two librarians come rushing from around some hidden corners, by which time you and Bucky have composed yourselves enough to stand and start to apologize profusely in cut-off sentences and shaky stutters. The slush is sinking through his clothes but there is a flush in his cheeks, and somehow, looking at your beautiful face, he has never been warmer.

When the slushie has been cleaned up with rags -- his hand is starting to shiver -- he stands with more sorry on his tongue, but you say, with a grin, “I guess you really fell for me, huh?”

The quip is surprising, but he laughs. Looks between your now-blue blouse and his inky t-shirt, and makes the leap. “Maybe I can get you another drink to make up for it.” And the pleased shock on your mouth, lips parted slightly and breath still recovering, is worth every step and fall it took to get to that one line.

-----

It goes well. He won’t call it a date, in spite of everyone else’s juvenile cooing and teasing when he leaves the Compound on a Saturday evening in his car. It’s a 70s Mustang, body the color of his old Commandos coat, and the interior a shiny black lined with golden stitching and accents. Royal and his very own. Turning towards the neighborhood you live in, he recalls the months it took to restore the damn thing, the last weeks of which were spent practically living in the garage, breathing on the anticipation of this monstrous achievement.

Queens is neon lights and family-owned delis, the scent of tacos mingling with that of curries, and there’s a different language in each window front. You said you lived in an apartment a couple of stories above a Vietnamese bar. 

You’re exiting just as he gets out of the car, and it takes a moment to catch his breath. In jeans and a silk shirt, you are the sun, and he cannot wait to get to revel in your warmth for at least one evening. 

-----

It goes well. With the exception of nerves he can’t rid himself of but rather ignores, everything is perfect. You had enjoyed his handmade picnic in Central Park, and his disgruntled commentary on how things used to be when you got stuck in traffic on the way back. His imitations of Steve and Tony had you in stitches, after which you had fed him Doritos from a packet he did not know was in the glove-box. 

Smooth sailing, soft as cream and just as gentle, the night, until you get back. It is late, and the lights are starting to flicker out of shop windows, and you go a little bit quiet, discontinuing the steady stream of chatter you have been maintaining with him. 

Something is in the air. Something sparking with promise. It hushes your voices and tightens his throat and has his hand trembling when he opens his door and then yours to let you own. You stand in the pale glow of the corner streetlamp, and his hands are in his pockets like he’s sixteen again, wanting to kiss a girl but unsure how to go about it.

Fortunately for him, you’re not a girl. You’re a woman. Made from electric fire and whatever strength that holds the cotton clouds in the sky, luminous and wondrous. 

“I know that was a bit more than a drink, so thank you for agreeing to this,” he says, meeting your eyes.

Your finger is tracing the face of your watch absently as you smile at him. “I had a great time.”

“Really?” Bucky blurts out, and then hurries to suspend the disbelief.

The answer you give him has his heart doing somersaults. “Yeah. I’d actually love to do this again if you feel the same.”

“Of course. Yes, obviously.” He puts a brake on his train of speech, explains as he walks a little closer to you, close enough to count your eyelashes. “I’m sorry, I haven’t been on a date in 80 years, and I’m a little rusty, but--”

Like the event that started it all, your first kiss is a crash. You lean up slowly and he has time to stop you but he doesn’t. He lets you kiss him and freezes, from head to toe, upon the feeling of your soft lips. Stopping within seconds, you lean back, sheepish, ready to back away and run, he’s certain. His head clears, he thinks a little straighter. 

“Sorry, will you let me try that again?” He asks, clearing his throat, and you lift your hand to hold his. 

The warmth of your hold envelopes the back of his human hand, and twists your grip so your fingers are intertwined, so much more surface area to gain heat and the motivation to seek further touch from. “If you stop saying sorry, sure.”

He closes his eyes before you do, and this time, the meeting of your lips is soft. A kiss, not a crash, an elegant collision of mouths and shared wants. In a few breaths of movement, as your other hand rises to his hair and his holds your waist, you come closer, and Bucky grows breathless. The kiss lasts for what feels like minutes too long and hours too short at the same exact time, as you break away with a gasp for air that has pride blooming under his sternum. 

Eyes shining, he hopes he’ll get to do that again. As you kiss his cheek and turn to your door, he looks forward to sitting two seats closer to you on Monday.

[spicyfloaty]

Give & Take | Chapter 6

pairing: kacchako

genre: slowburn/fluff

words: 3.2k

summary: Ochako's grades are slipping. Bakugo is dangerously nearing suspension, or worse, expulsion. A certain twist of fate pairs them together for tutoring sessions. He teaches her math. She keeps him from getting suspended. A simple exchange, but what if this only brings them closer than necessary?

header credits: @alexbenedetto

[READ ON AO3]

Chapter Five

Chapter Six: Bakugo Drools In His Sleep 

Bakugo manages to show up for the next couple of sessions, all of them, thankfully. Ochako’s almost used to the routine of bickering with him for at least ten minutes before their actual sessions start, then to be followed by more bickering in between topics. As much as it was tempting to shove an entire pencil case down his throat whenever they would argue over the littlest of things Bakugo would deem worthy of being remotely upset about, such as times when she would forget to round up a decimal or factor a term, she can’t deny the fact that she was still learning nonetheless. 

Ochako had also grown accustomed to the close proximity they would consistently share, it didn’t look like Bakugo had any intention of finding another desk to use, let alone another pen. They were all so familiar to her now, though she must admit that there were still moments when she would need to exert a considerable amount of effort to force all thoughts pertaining to how close he was to the most hidden and secluded areas of her brain. Something she still has yet to get used to was Bakugo never failing to immediately take off the second her alarm goes off.

She had never needed to use his number during the last weeks and Bakugo had never needed to use hers. She’d know this since she has been checking her phone out of habit now just in case he does. It’s not like she wanted him to text her or something like that, she just didn’t want to miss anything important that could come up at any moment.

“You’re gonna end up spraining your wrist if you keep checking your phone every five seconds.” Kit points out, leaning against the counter. They were in the middle of a self-proclaimed break since there weren’t any new customers coming in the cafe during this time of the evening, this only gave Ochako more time to habitually check her phone for new text messages.

“Waiting for a text from your boyfriend?” Her coworker grins at her as if he’s caught her hand inside the cookie jar. 

She swiftly sets her phone face down the counter, she might have to check it for cracks later, “No! I mean--He’s not my boyfriend.” She sputters out, blushing from behind the counter.

Kit’s grin only grows a mile wider, “So there’s a he?” He presses. Ochako feels cornered against a wall, her face must have been giving all the stoplights in Japan a run for their money and it does not help her intentions of trying to convince Kit that this he wasn’t someone of importance.

“Well yeah,” She begins, but Kit’s eyebrows skyrocket through the roof, “but it’s not what you’re thinking!” She quickly adds.

Kit pushes himself off the counter and turns to face her with the full force of his skepticism, “Right.” he glances down at her phone, “So is there a reason why you’re waiting for this he to shoot you a text?”

Ochako only gives him the same answer that she gives herself whenever she asks the same thing, “I just...don’t want to miss anything important, that’s all.”

“I don’t know, ‘Chako,” he points at her face, “from the looks of it, you are missing something,” he smiles, “or someone.”

She shoots him a glare that fully conveyed the two words she had locked and loaded inside this look, Shut Up. Math wasn’t the only thing she had been learning from Bakugo and if she does it just right, she’d also be able to replicate the bone-chilling scowl that he pairs with it to complete the expression.

Kit holds both hands up in surrender, “Okay, okay, I’ll drop it, geez.” he concedes, “Since when did you give death glares?”

Since Bakugo Katsuki, that’s when, is what she would have said if she had wanted to continue this interrogation from her coworker, “I don’t know, I just naturally got better at it for some reason.” she observes, “How was it?”

“Terrifying.” Kit echoes out as he makes his way to the doors upon spotting a group of people beginning to approach the cafe, “Ready, ‘Chako?”

Ochako straightens herself up, promptly adjusting her cap while giving her phone one last glance, “Ready when you are, Kit.”

Kit cheerfully greets the group of newcomers, two girls from the lot giggle after he gleefully escorts them to their tables. Ochako discreetly chuckles at this, her coworker was conventionally attractive, yes, but she can’t help but think of him only as an older brother. Her crushing on Bakugo would be a more plausible scenario than her crushing on her coworker. She physically pauses from handing a customer their change the moment she realizes that she could have worded that comparison better, forcefully shoving the thought behind her head

Her shifts during the weekdays had always been the tougher ones since she had school immediately before. She had always been arriving to work late, bustling through the evening commute just to avoid passing the thirty minute grace period her boss had given her, but thanks to Aizawa’s schedule, she was being dismissed from class two hours early to give her more leeway time for her job and less of a workout/marathon whenever she rushed to the neighboring town.

Ochako was cleaning the countertop when she hears someone clear their throat, she looks up to see a woman smiling at her, “Hi,” she begins in a honeyed voice, “I was just wondering when I’ll be seated, I’ve been standing here for forever now.”

Her tight-lipped smile makes her stomach drop to her feet, she glances towards Kit’s direction and notices that he was busy serving two tables near the back. Her eyes flicker to the other tables and seeing as to how all those tables were occupied, she gulps.

“I’m sorry about that, ma’am.” Ochako says gently, “There aren’t any available seats yet, but I’m sure there’ll be one soon.” she gestures towards the exit, “You can sit at the waiting area outside in the meantime.” She offers her a sweet, apologetic smile, but the woman’s smile quickly twists into a frown.

“I’ve done enough waiting as it is and you’re gonna send me back out there to do that again?” She sneers.

Ochako had dealt with customers like these before but it doesn’t make it any easier whenever she gets lucky and encounters one again, “I’m really sorry, ma’am, but we had already reached our full capacity,” she tries to explain, “Would you like your order to go so you won’t have to wait any longer?” Her effort to make the situation better was ignored, the woman’s scowl deepens into a grimace.

“This is ridiculous! I want to be seated at a damn table!” She raises her voice just enough so that a few people seated at the front tables curiously look their way, “I’m not asking you to do the impossible here, young lady.”

You kind of are, she thinks to herself. Ochako can’t just make random seated patrons disappear into thin air just like that, she can’t exactly just make some of them go away either just to satisfy the impatient customer in front of her. She quickly scans the cafe once more, praying for a table to miraculously become available.

“Hello?” A hand snaps in front of her face, “Are you deaf? Or just dumb?”The woman icily asks.

Ochako would have snapped right then and there after that comment, but another thing she’s learned from her tutoring sessions with Bakugo was to know when to respond to a rude remark and when to just ignore it and keep a level head. She observes the lady one more time, noticing the business attire she had on. Maybe she’s just having a rough day at work, she assumes. The woman might also be tired and hungry, which would explain why she was having this kind of reaction over a mild inconvenience.

“There’s really nothing I can do about the seats, ma’am,” she begins, “but I can offer you a complimentary snack on the house while you wait for one?”

Ochako knew that the cafe doesn’t do complimentary snacks so this would come out of her own pocket if the lady were to accept her offer, but she brushes off the concern. She felt like it was the right thing to do.

The woman rolls her eyes, “Oh, save it for someone who cares, I’m gonna have to call your manag--”

“Sorry for the wait, ma’am, right this way to your table.” Kit arrives with semi-perfect timing, flashing the woman one of his million dollar smiles. She visibly blushes at the sight of him, but she is quick to compose herself as she follows him to the newly vacant table. Kit looks back at her and mouths Sorry about that, but she shakes her head and mouths a Thank you back at him.

A few busy hours go by and it was already the end of their shifts. Ochako let out a strained yawn as she stretched her arms behind her head, another day at work had left her bone tired as usual, but today had just sucked the soul out of her. She changes into her casual clothes, but leaves the top of her uniform on since she forgot to bring an extra shirt today.

“I’ll walk you to the station?” Kit offers as she exits the break room.

“Oh! You don’t have to.” She immediately declines, “I’ll be fine on my own.” It was pretty late at night so she understands that Kit just wanted to make sure she got home safely.

“Alright.” he smiles, “See you next week, ‘Chako”

She bids him goodbye as she made her way outside, the hum of jazz music inside the cafe now replaced with the myriad of bustling pedestrians and the chorus of cars huddled in traffic. Her legs were heavy, but they still managed to carry her all the way to the station. She would have slept through the entire train ride and missed her stop if it weren’t for the sweet old lady that tapped her on the shoulder to wake her up.

Ochako finally arrives at the dorms, her thoughts drifting to the soft embrace of her bed. She hobbles her way to the common room, but what she sees stops her dead on her tracks.

Bakugo’s sleeping figure is slumped over the table just in front of the couches, his back steadily rising and falling to the rhythm of his breathing. It was already past ten when she had returned, why wasn’t Bakugo sleeping in his room?

She approaches the couches with the intention of waking him up but she notices the open notebook beside his head, slightly covered by the explosive, blonde mess of his hair. She takes a closer look and the word Round Face catches her eye. Curiosity takes over and she takes a seat beside him, peering at the mysterious pages covered in Bakugo’s handwriting.

Her heart begins to race, eyes slowly widening at the realization that dawns on her as she reads its contents. They were notes. Notes on the things they went over during each session and the points she had gotten wrong. He had also taken note of the concepts she was having a hard time on, a list of sample questions and problems that he had most likely thought of by himself was scrawled beside them, some of them he had crossed over in thick, harsh lines.

She looked over to Bakugo in disbelief, he was still very much asleep. The warmth in her belly spreads to her chest and curves the corners of her mouth into a small smile, Oh, Bakugo. Ochako brings her attention back to the notebook and was about to flip to the next page when a hand grabs her wrist.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Bakugo hisses. She quickly turns to face him, his eyes were hazed by the sleep he was still coming out of, but his glare, even with only half of its power, still held the same flaming intensity.

“I was uh,” she struggles to explain herself. She spots a trail of drool on his cheek and in a moment of pure, utter stupidity she continues, “You have, um, something on your…” She points to his cheek.

His eyebrows knit together, using his free hand to touch his face. He must have felt it because he instantly lets go of her as though he had touched the surface of a burning kettle, briskly wiping his cheek with his sleeve, red tinting the tips of his ears.

He was probably in the middle of an insult when his gaze dropped to her shirt, “What’s that?” He asks pointedly. Ochako follows his line of sight, her eyes landing on the name tag still very much attached to her shirt. Crap, I forgot to take that off.

“Oh, this thing!” She blurts, hastily taking the pin off, “Gunhead started making us wear these now.” She laughs nervously, Bakugo still staring daggers into her soul. Before the silence gets too stretched out or before Bakugo could pick up where he left off with that insult, she tries to change the topic, “How about you, Bakugo? Have you been interning somewhere too?”

She hears the tiredness in her voice, her body was weighing heavier by the minute. Bakugo’s eyes dart away, “It’s none of your business.” He bites back.

Ochako internally sighs. She didn’t have the energy to fire something back at him and her patience tank had sadly already ran out of steam just from her shift at work today, “You know,” she starts, bringing both of her hands to her lap, “I was just trying to make conversation, but if you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine.” She breathed out as she stood up from beside him.

Her quirk was no match for the gravity pulling her to the ground as the weight of the day grew heavier with every step she made her way towards the staircase.

“Jeanist.” A low, gruff voice says.

She pauses, turning around to face Bakugo. His eyes were focused on the walls, but she gives him an expectant look when they briefly meet hers.

“I worked with him for a while,” He continues, still refusing to look at her directly, “but he’s not taking any interns right now.”

“I see.” She replied. Ochako’s mind goes blank on what to say next.

“How did you end up in an agency like Gunhead’s ?” He suddenly asks, breaking the silence that she had failed to fill. She almost takes offense to this question, was he thinking that someone like Ochako would be too frail or girly to be associated with an agency like Gunhead’s.

Before she could give him a piece of her mind, he adds, “He’s not even in the top 10, you could do better than that.”

Ah, only Bakugo would consider hero rankings when choosing an agency to intern for.

Ochako walks a few steps closer to where he was still sitting, “You.”

A look of confusion instantly twists his face, “Huh?”

“I chose his agency because of you.” She repeats more clearly.

One of his eyebrows shoot upwards, “What the fuck did I do?” He asks as if she had just accused him of stealing the last of her savings.

She had forgotten that she had to be more specific when talking to Bakugo in particular, “Do you remember our fight last year during the sport’s festival?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t need any more words than that to prove it because the way his expression hardens, jaw tightening at the mention of the memory, already told her that he was telling the truth. He stares her down the same way he did in that arena, carefully studying her in anticipation of what she’ll do next.

“After that match,” she continued, “I realized the number of possibilities that could open up for me if I got stronger.” Ochako looks up at him with complete sincerity, “You helped me realize that.”

Bakugo’s gaze linger on hers for a few moments before grinning, “Guess you’re not as much of a dumbass as I thought, round face.”

She smiled at this, only he could make a compliment sound anything like an insult. Despite this, Ochako knew that this comment from Bakugo was worth more than most compliments combined.

“Even with all that training, I still did pretty bad at this year’s festival.” She jokes, looking back at the events that took place months ago. Compared to her first tournament, she had successfully made it past the first round, but only to be defeated minutes after the second one commenced.

“No you didn't.” Bakugo says flatly, his eyebrows could knit scarves with that puzzled look on his face.

Ochako challenges his confused expression with one of her own, “How would you know?”

“Because I watched you.”

This catches her off-guard for two reasons. One being the fact that for Bakugo, whatever he saw during that match was enough proof for him to say that she did well. The second reason being that she didn’t expect Bakugo to care about other people's matches unless he thought that the people fighting were people he found interesting enough to stay for.

“Too bad I didn’t get to beat your ass again.” He teases, crossing his legs as he leaned back into the couch.

Ochako’s hands prop on her hips, “Who says you beat my ass the first time around?” She fires back.

Bakugo scoffs, “Tell that to the medal, round face.”

“The one you refused to accept?” She grins, pleased with herself.

“Tch, whatever. I won that fucking match and your cocky ass knows it.” He barks.

It does, Ochako thinks to herself, “I almost got you though.” She points out. Sure, Bakugo won that fight, but he’s got to admit that her plan had almost won her that match. Not that she expected him to, though.

To her surprise, he mutters, “Yeah.”

Before she could stop herself from blurting out the next idea that popped inside her delusional, tired, brain, she spits it out, “How about a rematch, then?” She hoped that he wouldn’t take it seriously, but she knew better than to think that Bakugo won’t take anything seriously.

His chin tilts upwards, a calculating look masking his face, “You’re on.”

“But,” he lifts himself from the couch, taking a few steps until he was right in front of her, “You have to ace that exam first before I can even consider giving you that rematch.” Ochako remembers the upcoming exam they had for Ectoplasm’s class scheduled weeks from now, it was going to be focusing on the concepts she found the hardest to understand, but deep down she was confident that she’ll be fine once the time comes.

Bakugo walks past her, the sudden electricity from their arms brushing each other almost jolts her awake, “So you better not fail, dumbass.”

“How can I?” She calls out, “The great Bakugo Katsuki is tutoring me.”

“Tch, shut up.” He bites. He was already a few feet away from her, a few steps onto the staircase, when she hears the faint sound of his voice mutter, “Night, round face.”

Ochako smiles, somehow thinking that maybe today wasn’t so bad after all, “Good night, Bakugo.”

[itsmarianstories]

They call me kitty🐾

[Jikook Social Media Au]

Part 12: I’ll show you »» Part 13: Numbers

Jungkook is a bratty college student, who stumbles through life, trying to find his way. He is attractive and he knows it, so he is used to getting whoever he wants. Until a certain cute boy walks into his life with swaying hips and fluttering lashes, who seems completely unimpressed by Jungkook. However, being the stubborn boy that he is Jungkook refuses to give up just yet, not knowing that with that he has already become a figure in Jimins game of life.

Word count: 1.854

Jungkook had his hands tucked in between his legs and rubbed them with his thighs anxiously. He really wasn’t sure what came over him the last few days. At first he had thought kitty would be a cute, soft boy who he can tease a bit maybe and take out on domestic dates. Instead the boy turned out to be anything but soft, now Jungkook was the one getting teased and he wasn’t so sure anymore if it was such a good idea to keep in contact with the smaller. Something about him made things twist uncomfortably in his stomach, he was definitely bad news. Sometimes when he stared into kitty’s eyes it made him feel like he was the smaller man’s prey, which should probably scare him. The thing is weirdly it didn’t, it excited him and made hims addicted. Jungkook wanted more, he was hooked on the challenge. He wanted to crack kitty and get close to him, break his walls and earn his trust. Finally getting his name goddamn it. 

He was ripped out of his train of thoughts as the loud, rattling sound of a nearing engine could be heard. Jungkook stood up from the railing he was leaning on, his eyes widening as he took in the completely new sight of the pink haired boy. Gone were the soft sweaters and leggings, instead he wore leather pants and jacket combined with a white Gucci crop top and a diamond choker. He looked utterly sinful, sitting on his motorcycle, back arched a bit making that perfect round ass stand out even more. The boy turned off the engine, kicked down the side stand and took off his helmet, shaking out his hair before finally turning to look at Jungkook with a grin. 

“Well well hello!” He said, a sparkle in his eyes and Jungkook took a shuddering breath before jogging over to kitty. His eyes wandering not only over the boy but also what he is sitting on because damn.

“Wow,” Jungkook said, observing the white motorcycle tuned with pink and blue neon lights. “So I guess your business is going pretty well.” Kitty giggled at that and ran his tiny hand through his hair. 

“I guess you could say that.”

“Then what kind of business is it? Maybe I should reconsider my studies.” Jimin stared at him for a while as if he would consider whether to tell him or not. In the end he shrugged a bit.

“I own a few clubs.” Jungkooks eyes lit up at that. 

“Ohh that’s cool! Maybe I’ve been to one of yours before!” Kitty chuckled a bit and shook his head.

“I kinda doubt that.”

“Why?”

“Well you are gay, aren’t you?” Jungkook frowned confused.

“I mean yes….but why? Why does that matter?” Kitty threw a helmet into Jungkooks direction, the younger catching it a bit startled. 

“Because there is not much of interest for you then. Hop on, I’ll show you.” The pink haired said before putting on his helmet and patting the space on the seat behind himself, inviting Jungkook to take place. The younger gulped, put on the helmet -which had cat ears by the way? Lol okay- and swung his leg over the machine, settling in behind the younger. 

The engine roared up with a loud purr and kitty reached behind himself, wrapping Jungkooks arm around his waist.

“Hold tight!” He yelled over the sounds of the bike before lifting his feet and returning back onto the street. Kitty skilfully moved them through the labyrinth of streets, alleys and traffic. The wind ripping on his body and making him shiver but it wasn’t really cold because kitty was radiating off so much heat. Jungkook unconsciously scooped a bit closer, his chest pressed against the olders back and arms wrapped tightly around the slim waist. He was an uncomfortable lot aware about the fact that if he moves his hand just a little bit up, he’d be able to feel the older’s soft skin, where his stomach is exposed due to the crop top. It took him a lot of self control to not brush his fingers over it. 

Before he had even realized it they already slowed down again and kitty stopped the engine in front of a big building. The word “Desiré” in big violet glowing letters decorating the front. It looked expensive, high class with big security guys blocking the doors. Kitty parked his bike and took off his helmet before hopping off the seat. Jungkook did the same, eyes still taking in his surroundings. The whole area looked high-class. Clean streets, only a few people roaming through the street, expensive restaurants and boutiques, big office buildings. Jungkook now understood why Jin would make a deal with kitty. 

The older waved his hand at him to follow as he approached the club. Contrary to what Jungkook is used to, there were no drunk students lining up in front of the doors. No drunk people vomiting on the sidewalk, no couples making out in a side alley. Everything screamed professionalism and secrecy. 

The two security men stepped aside for them and opened the doors with a respectful nod and Jungkook suddenly felt very out of place.

“Are you sure I can go in there?” He asked nervously, since Jin never allowed him to step foot into his Restaurant. Kitty chuckled as they entered. Jungkook was immediately hit with a very sweet, flowery scent. Dim violet lights coming from big chandeliers, the whole interior design kept in elegant violet and silver.

“As long as you stay with me you won’t have a problem. Don’t worry, I’m established enough. My clients won’t hop off just because of one emo boy.” He assured.

And then they came into the main room and suddenly Jungkook understood why Kitty said it’s not of interest for him. The room was not filled with flashing neon lights, deafening loud music and grinding bodies, but with cozy seating areas and armchairs all of which are directed to the various small stages where beautiful, half naked women were dancing on shining poles. The music was loud enough to be comfortably heard but not too loud to hinder conversation. Man and woman dressed in suits were serving drinks to the customers and Jungkook realized how packed it was. Mostly middle-aged men but the club was definitely running good. 

Jungkook never stepped foot into a strip club before but he obviously knew what it was. He always imagined some crusty, dark rooms with nasty old horny men and poor women. This was everything but what he imagined. 

Kitty lead him through the various tables over to the bar where a tall, neatly styled man was preparing drinks. They sat down on the barstools and the bartender immediately slid over a drink to the older. 

“Thanks honey, bring one more for my guest, okay?” The man nodded and a few moments later a drink was placed in front of him. 

“You shouldn’t drink when you still have to drive.” Jungkook scolded and sniffed the drink. Kitty chuckled and took a big gulp, then he leaned over and exhaled into Jungkooks face. The younger blinked a bit taken aback. 

“Do you smell any alcohol?” He asked and Jungkook needed a moment to snap and realize what those words meant. He shook his head and Kitty smiled, taking another sip of his drink. 

“So a strip club?” Jungkook said raising a brow. He was curious. What brought the older to that.

“Yeah, it’s good business.” 

“Okay but… why? How?” Jungkook stammered a bit helplessly. He wasn’t sure if he was crossing a line and all kitty did was raise a brow at him.

“Like… did you finish college and were like ‘hey mom, I’m gonna open a strip club’.” As soon as he finished his sentence and kittys face hardened he knew he overstepped. The older straightened his back, one leg swung over the other.

“I don’t have to explain anything to you. Look, honeybun, you are cute and all, but know your place.” Kitty said, staring deeply into Jungkook eyes. Fuck why was that filling him with excitement? Jungkook should be embarrassed, ashamed, maybe even angry or something. Anything really, anything but turned on. All he could do was gulp and nod. 

A few seconds later Kittys attention moved from him over to something behind him. Or rather someone, as Jungkook realized once a tall, skinny woman approached them. She wrapped an arm around the older, pulling him in and pressing a peck on his lips. Jungkooks eyes widened in shock. He remembered seeing her on stage just a few moment earlier and she still barely wore anything. Only a pair of heals, lace panties and a transparent babydoll. Her whole body was glittering and her hair long, brown locks. She was beautiful, especially when she smiled brightly.

“Kitty, I didn’t know you’d come today!” She exclaimed happily. 

“Of course, I have to make sure my baby kittens are safe and sound after all.” He said, beaming back at the woman. 

“Aish, you are such a sap!” She laughed and slapped his shoulder lightly, before turning to Jungkook. 

“Hmm and who is this cutie over here?” She then asked, coming to his side and wrapping an arm around his shoulder. Jungkook froze. He has never seen a naked woman in real life before and he could clearly see her nipples if he wanted to. Which he didn’t, he strictly avoided looking at her, knowing his ears are already red enough as it is. He was never good with women.

“Do you wanna have a bit of fun tonight?” She whispered in his ear and Jungkook stiffened even more. 

“Leave him be, Lilly. He’s not a customer.” Kitty chuckled and the woman finally let go of him. 

“What a pity, he’d be a nice change.” Lilly joked, then she went over to Kitty again and whispered something in his ear before going somewhere else. 

“D-Did she… I mean is she… you know?” Jungkook whispered.

“A prostitute? Yes, why?” Jungkook nibbled on his lip anxiously. This was all so foreign to him.

“She didn’t look… like it…” 

“Why? Because she didn’t look poor? Because she didn’t look like a broken junkie? Because there are no black bruises on her skin?” Kitty rolled his eyes at him. 

“Every woman that works here does that on her own accord. I pay good, they can all confirm that, they have contracts, they get protection and can quit whenever they want. Contrary to what society makes you believe, some people actually enjoy the work.” Jungkook pouted and looked down at his hands.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“

“I know, it’s not your fault. You couldn’t know.” Kitty interrupted him. He then reached out for his drink and downed it in one go. “Come on, let’s go eat.” He said and stood up.

Moments later they left the club again and Kitty drove them to some random diner. They ate and talked about everything for what felt like hours, before the older drove him back home.

[louisfrecklesss]

LCH | Louisentine [2]

Description: Clementine becomes a little bit of a mess after making a silly mistake, her new friend Louis is able to help her however. Will she accept this help? Does she want the help?

Words: 1,791 shit, didn’t feel like that many words

Ship: Clementine x Louis

Warnings: drugs i guess, not extreme though 

Genre: high school au, fluff

A/N: first of all, this is a series now fight me if you disagree. secondly, I hope this isn’t bad or else I will have to cancel this series, effective immediately. Anyway, love to Louis and his freckles. Thank you for reading! and happy new year, I keep forgetting to say that today, well yesterday now because I finished writing this at fucking 3am

CHAPTERS

[1] [2] [3] [4]

__

“No, because he’s a complete dick.” Clementine grabs one of the brownies Violet left on the table while she is in the bathroom. She holds her phone to her ear talking to Minnie who is getting all the information about the new guy Clementine encountered.

“You don’t even want to try it Clementine?” Minnie replies, Clem can hear the faint noise in the background as the girl was packing her bags.

“He told me he would want to take my home with him, and used my skirt as an excuse!” At this point she realised that she was speaking rather loud, some faces turned as she spoke, but not enough knew what she was talking about anyway.

“Listen babygirl, I would go for it. But I’m a hoe and that’s why Violet loves me.” She chuckles briefly before continuing. “You never know what could happen.”

Clementine nods at this, suddenly worried why she was wondering if a Fox really ever makes a sound. She mumbles the question to Minnie who brushes her off and cuts the phone as she’s a little busy.

She pops the rest of the brownie into her mouth wanting more even though she’s already had about five. The common area was rather empty, still had a significant amount of people in it but not enough to focus on whatever the curly haired girl was doing. Clementine sits on her chair in a rather unladylike position, legs open, head rest back and hand reaching for another brownie. She’s thinking of the most silly things anyone could ever think off. Why can’t you see the clouds through the roof? When it rains, do the clouds pee or cry? The gaps in the clouds, is that it’s eyes, mouth and nose?

“I can already see that’s your thinking face.”

She didn’t need to open her eyes to put the smooth, soothing voice to the beautiful face. Popping one eye open, she looks at Louis who flashes a wide grin. Immediately spotting the gap in between his teeth around the back of his mouth; she wanted to trace every freckle on his face and connect them together with a marker pen.

“Hello, Mr Louie.”

“It’s Louis.” He takes a seat next to her twisting the chair so that the back of the chair is facing Clementine.

“I know what it is Louie. How are you? Brownie?”

He shakes his head not wanting anything to do with those brownies, he could already tell from a mile away something was wrong with them. Clementine, however, wanting to play with Louis’ hair all of a sudden, has no idea what is wrong with the brownies. To be honest, she couldn’t see anything wrong with them anyway.

“You shouldn’t be eating those in school, Clem.” He reaches to grab them away from her but her hazelnut eyes glare into this soul as she shoves another on in her mouth. 

“Since when were we on a first name basis?”

“Since I don’t know your last name.” A faint chuckle escapes his lips a he leans further on the chair closer to the girls face.

Clementine rests her head on the back of Louis’ chair, which is in front as he flipped the chair around, her eyes were closing slightly causing Louis to just stare and admire how peaceful she looks. 

“What the shit? Where’s my brownies?” Violet screams jolting everyone in the room rather than just her friends, or friend and acquaintance. Clementine doesn’t react until a good minute after her friend has asked the question. 

“About to come out in a seco-”  Clementine hurls without any content coming out but it causes both Louis and Violet to back up, Louis jumping straight out his chair.

“You ate my pot brownies?” Violet grabs the container shoving it in her back before turning to Clementine who looked like she was ready to pass out any second now. 

“They’re not in a pot.” Louis couldn’t help but chuckle at Clementine’s innocent, or maybe she was just too high to realise what she was saying right now.

“They’re weed brownies, you just took weed. Ever hit a blunt before?”

The girl eyes widen as she finally comprehends what Louis is saying to her; no she has never ‘hit a blunt’ in his words and now her father is going to kill her when she returns home like this.

“Daddy is going to kill me.”

“Yes, she still calls her dad daddy Louis. She’s not talking to you this time.” Violet taps the boys shoulder as it falls down in disappointment. He hits his knee with the palm of his hand shaking his head slowly.

He pulls on the most sarcastic voice he could, which was pretty impressive. “Damn it. I thought i had her in the bag then.”

“I need to go home and hid from my daddy.”

“He is at home Clem, remember?” Louis grabs Clementine’s bag putting it on his shoulder. Clementine makes a face with her eyebrows almost mending with her baby hairs around the edges. “I’m not drunk Louis, I know.”

“Oh my, are you taking her home Lou? That’s great, I have some things that I really need to get too at home. We barely know you but I know your name so if she’s dead tomorrow I will find you and kill you. Keep her safe!” Violet runs off before any one of them could even protest against the idea.

“Let’s get you home Clementine.”

~

“So, it is your real hair?” Clementine holds a bag that contains her thirty minute old vomit in it, after violet left and Louis attempted to help Clem stand up, it just resulted in her throwing up for the next half an hour. 

“Yes Clem, this is my real hair.” Louis sighs shifting her bag on his shoulder slightly before holding her hand again. She seems to drift away from him every time he lets go of her hand, and in her current state she can’t be moving on her own. “What is your door number, darling?” 

“I don’t know, take a guess.” Clementine giggles uncontrollably, if this was anyone else such as Louis’ best friend Marlon, he would have left him at the school vomiting all over himself. But for some reason he wanted to take Clementine all the way home and make sure that she was safe. Also, Violet would murder him if he didn’t take care of Clementine like she said he should.

More of the many chuckles he’s done today rest on his lips again before he walks up to a lucky number sixteen knocking on the door of the street. Clementine just stands there with her hands twisted in his standing close to him. Louis figured that this is the stage where she was starting to lose focus and everything is moving ten times slower than it really is in the real world.

She looks up at the sky as she waits for someone to open the house door, the sun is bright in her eyes and she leans her head on Louis shoulder mumbling something that he couldn’t comprehend. “What was that you said Clem?”

“There’s a really big traffic light in the sky.” Louis couldn’t contain his laughter this time, exploding out loud bent over slightly holding his stomach. “That’s th-the sun.”

“Oh.” Clementine smiles slyly before stuffing her hand in her bag that’s on Louis back, never releasing her hand from his, and pulling out some house keys. 

“You had house keys this whole time?” She nods pushing the key in trying to turn it and open the door. It wasn’t long before someone opens the door from the other-side. 

“Clementine?” The named girl stood with her house key trying to open this door ,which is now discovered to not be her house, with her hand held by the wide eyed boy next to her. 

“Mrs Wiltham, how are you today?”

“Peachy darlin’, why are you trying to open my house with a key?” 

“I’m so sorry ma’am, she’s a little, messy right now.” Louis jumps in pulling the key out and keeping it in his free hand. Clementine taps the door awkwardly as if she was checking for any cracks or marks.

“See you tomorrow Mrs Wiltham, I’ll cut your grass with daddy!” Clementine shouts as she was getting pulled away by the freckled boy. “Tell Lee I said thank you!” The old lady replied waving away the two. “Your boyfriend is very handsome!” 

“Thank you!” Clementine voices waving until she is out of site from her street neighbour. 

“So I guess it wasn’t lucky number sixteen.”

“It’s door number twenty three, Louie.” Clementine hops over to the door shoving her key in before pushing the door open. “Honey, I’m home!” 

Clementine has seemed to forgotten that Louis is with her even though she has not let go of his hand; she removes her shoes before Lee walks in with a small boy in his arms sleeping.

“You’re late, and who’s this?”

“Louis Hammington, sir,” He reaches out his hand which Lee shakes balancing the sleeping three year old on his hips. 

“Thank you for bringing her home. I can see she’s in a, state.”

“Yes, to be honest with you sir, she was just hungry and someone had brownies with weed in and- I think you can guess what happened from there on. It was a completely harmless action she didn’t mean to get high.” Louis nods rapidly flashing a small toothy smile. 

“I like you already son. Boyfriend?”

Louis’ eyebrows knit together before growing in size and releasing the girls hand to which she whined slightly.

“No, no no. No. Just a friend.” 

“Well, friend, thank you for helping her. You want to stay for dinner, I don’t mind?”

“No, I need to get home. Mum is expecting me. Thank you though, I will take up that offer another time.”

Lee nods ushering Clementine to her room upstairs to which she turns to Louis smiling and waving goodbye; her smile is like honey, sweet and beautiful, it was almost impossible for Louis to turn away from her when she’s smiling like that. 

“See you later Louis.” She sings in a singsong voice while walking slowly up the stairs, she almost fell over on one of the steps almost dropping her vomit bag causing the boy to let out a breathy laugh.

[fallenesspoetry]

The [Uninvited] Guest

AO3 FFN

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Raymond Reddington(/)Donald Ressler

Warnings: Light swearing, season 4 and season 5 spoilers. Set before season 6.

Summary: Raymond Reddington, the Concierge of Crime, shows up at Ressler’s doorstep on Christmas Eve.

Child’s-palm sized flakes of snow were collapsing on the windshield of a black Chevrolet Tahoe. Its wipers swished back and forth, sweeping the icy drops with a hissing “Swoosh!” over and over.

Skyscrapers, grey and dirty by day, molded in nightfall, flickering in reds, yellows and greens. Brakes screeched and honks blared below, the street grey-and-white from mud and snow. Coffee shops signs invitingly winked with crisp lettering at every corner, ready to welcome a passer-by for a cup of hot latte.

Just when Tahoe left tail light flicked orange, a red right blinked. The SUV braked at the crossing, giving way to pedestrians. Those had definitely underestimated today’s weather—a trench coat wasn’t of great use; one’d better wear a woolen hat and wrapped themselves in a scarf. 

Washingtonians hadn’t expected this year’s winter to have learned some tricks from her Russian sister. Snow plows could hardly keep the road clean and spread salt on the sidewalks. The freak weather made all the sane folks chill at home, watch TV and, maybe, have a beer or two.

All, but Donald Ressler, the Special Agent with the FBI. Another day, another psycho on the streets. Thugs didn’t give a damn about Christmas, so the task force closed a case. It had definitely boosted their boss’s mood, so everyone got a Christmas day off.

Donald took the FBI’s civillian SUV to drive home because his own car would stuck in the Gulliver-like snow mounds. Anxiously drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, Ressler glanced either on his watch or the traffic light.

Christmas Eve was around the corner, almost hitting him in the forehead.

The twenty-fourth of December. Seven o'clock.

If he could, he would rather spend Christmas with his mom and brother. But the skies snorted at him, producing a flow of non-stop wet and sleazy cotton candy. He’d be lucky not to get into a blizzard on his way home.

The phone buzzed in his jacket’s pocket. Ressler slipped a curse. Red light had already turned green, so he hurried to push the gas pedal at the impatient “Beep!” from behind.

Someone must have really needed him, judging by the unsteady vibration tickling his chest every ten seconds.

Whoever this was, they could wait. He’d be of no use to anyone if he crashed right now.

Ressler cast a quick glance at the rear-view mirror. His heavily gelled hair was now messy and tousled like he’d just woke up. A few stray strawberry blond bangs fell onto his forehead. Pandas envied his eyes’ dark bags—sleep deprivation was his best friend these days. Steering his way through, he unconsciously licked his full, chapped lips, dehydrated from the AC’s hot air.

Someone hysterically honked behind again. To his left a reddish Mazda rushed to blinking green at the intersection.

Jerk.

In no time Donald braked at red light. The dick of a Schumacher had already halted there.

“Suck it,” Ressler muttered, loosening his tie. His eyes on the traffic light, he resisted to show that dick the middle finger.

Donald rubbed his sore eyes, their green-tobacco hue gleaming in the tail lights of a car in front.

One could squeeze him like a lemon and he wouldn’t feel a thing.

Shower. Dinner. Bed. 

A workaholic Holy Trinity.

The light changed to green.

About time.

Already dreaming of his comfy quilt and pillow, Ressler accelerated. Chevy’s engine gratefully purred when he smoothly shifted the gear, speeding up.

The vibration in his left inside pocket was almost aggressive. And the snowfall inherited dogged vibes from his cell too: he could barely see anything on the road, snowflakes splashing over the windshield with a nasty slurping sound.

Passing a Chinese take-out to his right, Ressler finally took the cell out of his pocket.

Nick’s Pizza.

Pizza delivery, my ass. He knew who hid behind that caller ID.

“Yes?” Ressler angrily blurted, pressing the cell to his ear.

“Good evening, Agent Ressler.”

He would have recognized this voice out of hundreds, no, thousands of people. Silky smooth, always with a hint of a genuine laugh at everything. But most of the time it was he, Donald, the guinea pig of the mockery.

The infamous Raymond “Red” Reddington. 

Each time Red gave the task force a case, Donald, his teeth gritted, would cut a deal with his own conscience. The Bureau threw a scumbag behind the bars; Reddington—got rid of an annoying competitor.

“Shouldn’t there be a Christmas tree for Christmas?” Reddington politely inquired.

Tahoe jerked, almost sliding in a dangerous proximity to a street pillar, but Ressler steered her right back in a moment.

“What…” he bit his tongue not to slip a curse, “tree?”

“Green, Donald. My God, these walls… No wonder you’re so uptight.”

Who the fuck he thinks he is?!

Ressler didn’t breath a sound. He dug his fingers into the steering wheel so hard it hurt.

“I apologize for the intrusion, but I’m afraid it’s rather urgent. Besides, no one of sane mind would look for me at your place.”

If he could, he’d bribe any amount of mercenaries if it spared him of this arrogant, self-absorbed, ridiculously wealthy prick.

Fortunately or not Reddington was the adjunctive informant to the FBI. It meant he was his responsibility, regardless how badly Ressler wanted to barbeque his guts. Ressler would always do his job even if the only mention of Concierge of Crime made his stomach turn with disgust.

“I’ll be there in two hours,” Donald growled, hanging up, and pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

If the blizzard went on like that, he’d be home way past Christmas.

*

Ressler parked the car, trying to wrap his mind about the fact Raymond Reddington broke into his apartment.

It’s Christmas, for God’s sake!

Muttering curses, Donald picked up his laptop bag and three pizza boxes from the backseat.

He sauntered to the front door and turned the doorhandle. The hall met him with the usual epileptic blinking—one of the bulbs hadn’t met its end yet.

Cleaning the mailbox of ads and bills, Ressler threw the latter into the bag with pizzas.

The elevator softly beeped behind his back.

Donald got in and pressed “10”. The elevator creaked up to the tenth floor much longer than usual, its snail-like speed driving him crazy.

It suddenly stopped, the door opening at the seventh floor. A man stepped in, wearing a grey coat and a red hat. His snow-white beard and thin rimmed glasses reminded Ressler of Santa Claus. The man’s hands were busy with two green and bushy Christmas trees.

Really?!!

Life had a twisted sense of humor.

Somewhere a cell rang.

Not mine.

“Yes, honey,” the stranger said, trying to make one of the trees stand straight on the floor. A trace of unwavering obedience was heard in his voice. He glanced at the changing floor number. “Just as you asked—” His forehead sank into a confused frown. “But, dear…”

A spiteful hissing of the man’s wife on the other end reached Donald’s ears. Nerves of steel? Endless love? He hadn’t even raised his voice to argue.

“I’ll figure something out… Yeah, okay.” He let a weary sigh. Noticing Ressler, he asked, “Want a Christmas tree?” There was so much hope in his voice that Donald felt sorry for him.

But he wasn’t sure it was a good idea. And yet nothing in his apartment said “Merry Christmas!” except three pizzas—cheese, pineapple and anchovies—and a six pack of beer he had bought before.

There was a box with Christmas lights somewhere in the kitchen. And another box with Christmas toys in the closet.

“Yeah, why not.”

Donald reached for his wallet.

“Nah, it’s Christmas,” the man said. The elevator halted on the tenth floor. “Woah, we’re neighbors. Merry Christmas!”

“You too.”

Ressler had almost took the keys out of his pocket when he reached the door to his apartment. A second later he realized that Reddington had already to be inside. 

He simply turned the handle and entered. It took some time and effort to secure the Christmas tree straight up, but he managed. It stood perfectly still so far, leaning against the wall. He also put his laptop bag and pizza down.

The hallway smelled of home baking.

Neighbors? If it was Reddington, he’d rather eat his badge. 

The Concierge of Crime in the apron? Ridiculous.

“Ah, Donald, here you are. I was getting worried you’d stuck in there,“ Reddington’s sneaky voice caught him off hard. 

The badge slipped from Ressler’s hand, but he managed to catch it. He felt Reddington’s eyes on him, so he muttered something about the weather.

Reddington knowingly nodded, his eyes shifting to the Christmas tree, almost five feet tall.

“Ah, the spirit of Christmas isn’t dead, is it? Well, what are you waiting for? Come on in.”

“It’s my apartment,” Ressler growled, taking off his shoes.

Whenever Reddington was around, Donald felt a worthless, miserable loser. It wasn’t true; he had been on top of his class in college and at the Academy. He had spent countless hours undercover and conducted a series of successful operations.

The one and only time the luck had turned its back on him was the Concierge of Crime’s assassination in Brussels.

It cost him dearly—he had to work his way back for almost a year to restore his reputation.

Few years later Raymond Reddington surrendered to the FBI, demanding to speak exclusively with the man who had spent the prime years of his career chasing him all over the world. 

Soon enough Donald spent more time napping on the jets to Cuba, Mexico and Prague than at his bed. His fiancé, tired of the competition, left him. He couldn’t blame her, though.

Now Reddington looked much better in person than his sketch in the database. Well-groomed, not a wrinkle on the round face, though he was over fifty. He was slightly overweight whim made him quite appealing. Some agents called him “Reddybear” behind his back.

Ressler could argue that Reddington’s reaction depended on his appearance or age. And as much as he wished to ignore it, it had saved his life once.

However, if he had the chance, he would rather shovel the Christmas tree star up into his ass.

Is he glued to floor or what?

Reddington still stood there, his thin lips twisted in a cheeky grin.

What the..? Whatever.

Donald took off his black coat and hung it on the rack. After a day of nonstop run-and-chase even a vagabond wouldn’t want to wear his coat. He had almost let a low grunt seeing Reddington’s ash-colored cashmere coat on the rack next to his leather jacket. 

Reddington was a sucker for luxury and wealth. He would always show-off wearing his three-piece suits and rarely stepped outside without a fedora.

Tonight wasn’t an exception.

“Donald, you’d better wear a scarf next time. You don’t want to catch a cold, do you?”

Almost rolling his eyes, Ressler watched Reddington leave the hallway. He took the Christmas tree and went into the living room.

What the hell…

To say he was surprised was an understatement.

“I asked Dembe to give me a hand. He wanted to help with the Christmas tree, but since it’s your place, I think you should be doing it.” Reddington took a sip of whiskey from the tumbler in his hand.

Ressler missed half of the sentence Reddington was saying, trying to take in what had just happened to the living room.

“…We left the bedroom untouched. Unfortunately, the nightmare you call ”wallpapers” is still there. However,” Reddington grinned, “you don’t invite the guests straight to bedroom, do you?”

Donald had an urge to show the exact destination he’d love to invite Reddington. Part of him wanted to strangle the bastard for what he’d done, but the other part was actually grateful. A tiny bit. Just a bit.

The room had indeed become much better: an old and tattered couch was replaced with a new, wide and comfy along with two armchairs. The walls were painted in a pleasant sandy yellow instead of the old wallpapers peeling off at the corners. There was a couple of plant pots on the windowsill—Donald had no clue where they came from. He wasn’t a plant-friendly guy, so he’d bet a hundred bucks those were dead in a week. 

Now the living room was much cozier than before. His coffee table remained at the same place, and yet it was fixed up, scuffs and scratches gone. A neat pile of The Washington Post and car repair mags had been left exactly the same way Ressler did this morning.

“You like it?” Reddington asked, a hint of genuine care heard in his voice.

Reddington and care? I must be delusional.

“Yeah, thanks. But why?”

“It’s Christmas. Of course,” Reddington gave him a foxy smile, “I’m not expecting anything in return. Gifts make me uncomfortable.” He took another sip. Swirling the tumbler, he said, “I’m afraid I couldn’t help myself. I usually prefer the taste of a much higher price tag, though… I hope you don’t mind.”

“Does it make a difference?”

“Donald, you’re a picture of hospitality.”

“I’m not the one who breaks into the apartments on Christmas.” Ressler pointed at the Christmas tree. “A hand, please?”

To Ressler’s surprise, Reddington actually helped him to put up the Christmas tree.

“Thanks. Where’s Dembe?” As far as he remembered, Dembe was Reddington’s shadow to follow him wherever he’d go. “I owe him for this one.”

For a moment Reddington’s eyes seemed to get wet with tears.

No, just a trick of light.

He and Reddington shared the same eye color—a rich green-tobacco. Each time their eyes met Ressler felt extremely odd and uncomfortable.

As if you were looking into your own.

But the difference was, one would want nothing but to escape the hard, assessing stare, picking every detail, every change you hadn’t even suspected of.

Reddington had a massive amount of dirt on everyone—CEOs, politicians, bankers, defense contractors… You name it. He also knew the whereabouts of the most dangerous outlaws no one had even heard of. Nothing slipped from him. He told Ressler once that almost all people were an open book for him. It was true.

At times Ressler was terrified at what Reddington could’ve read learned about him. He wished to erase a lot of stuff for these years of the game Reddington and the Bureau had been playing.

The fact that most of his memories involved Reddington, the man who forsook his flag and country, drove Ressler nuts.

At first he was desperately looking for the “Why me?” answer. Somehow he wanted to believe it was he who made Reddington surrender.

What could possibly the most boring person like himself do to make Concierge of Crime seek the FBI’s protection?

So he let it go.

“He’s with his granddaughter,” Reddington answered.

“Oh.”

It was beyond awkward. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Reddington had the blues.

Could he, really?

Reddington’s eyes faded, and he seemed rather stiff. For a moment Ressler missed the Reddington who’s used to cite one of those smart-ass quotes or crack a joke. Obviously, the favorite subject of ridicule was he, Donald. But eventually Ressler simply rolled with that.

Unexpectedly for himself he wanted to soothe him somehow.

Soothe?!! Soothe him?!!

Reddington was the FBI’s asset, an informant. And an extremely dangerous criminal. His empire thrived on money laundering and arms dealing. Any competitor met his maker in a shot. Literally. And though Reddington had never killed an innocent man, it didn’t change the fact he had blood on his hands.

So why it feels like shit?

The man before him wasn’t the Concierge of Crime, but a man, drowning in sickening, almost suffocating loneliness. The one Ressler knew too well.

At least there was one thing they had in common—building bulletproofs walls around themselves. Anyone who’d try to pass was immediately brushed off, with no further regrets.

The fact Reddington hadn’t hopped on his private jet to Monte Carlo, but came over to the person who hated his guts, was quite telling.

Reddington and those like him didn’t have friends. Allies, partners, acquaintances… Anyone but friends.

The very first year of Reddington and the Bureau’s symbiosis was memorable. Ressler caught a bullet into his thigh and lost lots of blood. And, as fate would have it, he got locked up with Reddington. And he, to Donald’s utmost surprise, performed a field transfusion which saved his life. Ressler was lucky they shared the same rare blood type—B negative.

Suddenly Ressler realized a thing.

Reddington considered him a friend. At least, in his twisted paradigm. If to roll with the snarky comments, Reddington must have a sort of admiration for him. He even told him that in person. But Donald would rather swallow a bullet than admit he respected Reddington.

They went into the small kitchen. There were two bags from the Sticky Fingers on the counter. The mix of ginger and vanilla in the air reminded Donald about his mom’s baking. He’d sell his soul for her pie with berries and wallnuts.

Donald put pizza boxes on the counter and then looked into the first bag.

Ginger-honey biscuits, ginger biscuits, chocolate muffins, pretzels, cupcakes, donuts. The second bag was with pies. One of them Donald instantly recognized—his Mom baked exactly the same. The other one was a meat pie.

“I didn’t know what you like. There must be baklava somewhere too.” Reddington put a teakettle on the stove, ignoring the electric one just on his right. “If we want to have Christmas dinner on time, we’d better dress the green lady up in the living room first.”

Concierge of Crime making tea in his kitchen! It’s like a snowstorm in Ecuador.

But there he was, in flesh and bone, humming some Christmas carol.

“You said it was urgent. I’m all ears.” Donald opened the drawer, taking out the box with Christmas lights. 

A number of conflicted and particularly twisted emotions was itching within him right now. The change of the subject seemed the perfect way to cool down.

“Ah, indeed. Must have slipped my mind.” Reddington paused. “I’d like to offer you a job.”

“The FBI works for you already. I can’t believe I’m saying it, but it’s a fact,” Ressler said, trying to untangle the lights’ cord with the bulbs. 

Somehow Reddington knew the exact place Ressler kept the cups and dishes. He unpacked the pie and one of the pizzas and put them in the oven. Then—arranged the muffins, cupcakes and pretzels on the plate. The rest of the goods he hid in one of the cupboards where Ressler kept bread.

Reddington found the teapot Donald hadn’t used since college and added the tea in it.

“Forget the FBI. I need you. You’re the best man for the job. Especially after Laurel’s death.” 

At this point Ressler would love nothing more but to strangle Reddington with the Christmas lights’ cord and, maybe, lit it up. 

Laurel Hitchin had been his nightmare for more than a year. Deep down he knew it had been an accident.

I didn’t mean it, for God’s sake!  

But he didn’t call it in.

Instead, he called a cleaner. 

Like the last piece of thrash on Earth. 

Of course, the luck had turned its back on him. Again. So he, once an honored FBI agent, did a number of unforgivable, horrible things. Bribing witnesses, blackmailing, moving the dead bodies, covering up murders, fabricating evidence… He did all that to keep his secret safe. 

“I was ready to go to jail. I didn’t need your help. And I didn’t ask to burn Prescott alive!”

“That’s why I need you, and no one else,” Reddington put a cup in front of him and sat at the table. “You trust no one but your gut. You’re walking on a tightrope, yet at the end of the day you make the right choice. And you can’t be bribed.” Reddington gave him a wide grin. “And, finally, you’re damn good at what you’re doing.”

“As hundreds of other agents.”

“Donald, don’t be shy,” Reddington took a sip of tea and bit at the ginger-honeyed biscuit. “M-m… Perfect. If you like honey, you’re going to like this one.” Red took another sip. “Think about it.” 

Ressler wanted to refuse at once, but Reddington raised his index finger. Apparently, he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer.

“You have a week.”

Ressler sighed deeply. The cup warmed his hands, but on the inside he felt colder than an iceberg.

He didn’t realized the room was getting filled with the smell of prunes and apricots mixed with pineapples, until it’s aroma tickled his nose.

“Better do a raincheck on that.” Reddington stood up, and went to the oven. 

And Donald was left to fight with his own conscience.

To work? For him?!

The system he always put his trust with had been rotten to the core. It stank of corruption and cover-ups. More and more cases got tossed away if some moneybag threw in some cash here and there. And one could do nothing.

But what Reddington was offering… It crossed everything he woke up for in the mornings.

To seek justice for those who couldn’t do it on their own. And to punish those who deserve it.

But hadn’t he crossed the line one couldn’t go back?

The world wasn’t no longer black and white, good and evil. 

Because Reddington showed him there was much more to it.

And hadn’t he become everything he loathed?

A crooked cop.

There was no way to change that, no matter many scumbags he’d lock up.

No way to erase it. No way to make amends.

Reddington stared at him. There was something in his eyes Ressler couldn’t identify yet.

Empathy?

Understanding?

“I know what you’re thinking, Donald. And no, there are plenty of men capable of a killing job at my hire. I wouldn’t ask you to do that. At least out of the respect how much you value someone’s life.” Reddington paused, looking Ressler straight in the eye. “Even if it’s as miserable as mine.”

Ressler winced at the memory he had once caught a bullet for Reddington.

“You’re my responsibility. No matter how badly I hate your guts, it’s my job to protect you.”

“I know, Donald. And I’m ready to do the same for you.” 

Reddington gave him a long, piercing look. It seemed he was put under the microscope. Ressler could swear his whole body grew Alaska-like cold on the inside.

Donald withstood the overwhelming, almost stripping stare. Though the tide of doubts within was already coming up, ready to gargle him.

He didn’t know what to say. To he honest, he’d always been allergic to this elaborate and confusing mechanism they called a human soul. That was the reason he had almost flunk the exam on profiling.

Reddington theatrically clapped his hands.

“My goodness, the time! Donald, decorate the Christmas tree. We have one hour left. But please, don’t fall from the ladder like last time. Remind me, what was your disguise?.. Ah, the museum curator. An early Picasso hit you really bad on your head, didn’t it? Fun times, fun times indeed…”

It took Ressler a real effort not to roll his eyes on him.

This year’s Christmas seemed fun. Sort of.

Well, at least there was one thing he was still sure of.

You won’t get bored with Raymond Reddington.

[alwayssunnyprompts]

Always Sunny Prompt - Mac is the only person allowed to take care of Dennis. Dennis gets sick or injured, and he whines for Mac the entire time. Of course, Mac shows up and makes everything better.

I absolutely loved writing this! It broke my heart a little bit, but I loved it. This also turned out so much more emotional and serious (and longer) than I thought it would be. Enjoy injured, delirious Dennis and Mac helping him through it.

There’s a sickening, wet crunch as Dennis’s ankle twists and slips off the corner of the bar before he hits the floor, unable to even attempt to regain his balance before crumpling there unceremoniously. Dee runs from the back office at the noise, confusion and worry coloring her face.

“What the hell, Dennis? Are you okay?”

He’s struggling to sit up, his face white as a sheet and a small cut on his forehead leaking blood. He cries out when he tries to move, his breathing getting frantic as he lifts the hem of his jeans to look at his ankle. Dee can already see that his foot is bent at a weird angle, so it’s probably broken. His eyes close and for a second, he looks like he’s about to black out. Her heart is galloping in her chest.

“Shit, Dennis, that looks bad. Does it hurt?” She inches closer, like she’s approaching a wounded animal, her hands out in front of her so he doesn’t get more anxious.

“Of course it hurts, you stupid bitch!” He yells, but it’s hysteria in his voice, not anger.

“Goddamn you, Dee, I told you that Charlie wasn’t cleaning up there, but you didn’t give a shit, so I have to do everything my goddamn self. And now—” he gestures wildly toward his leg, really getting a good look at it for the first time. He looks like he’s going to be sick.

All the color has drains from his face and his hand clutches at his leg. His breathing is labored and heavy. He’s starting to space out, his eyes going glassy.

Dee can tell he’s about to cry.

“I’m sorry, Dennis, but you have to try and breathe, okay?” She crouches in front of him, rests a measured hand on his shoulder, rubbing gently.

“I can’t,” he chokes out, “Dee, it hurts. Shit. Oh god—” he gasps, coughing as he struggles to breathe through the pain and panic. His rage leaves as quickly as it came, and she can see him realizing how bad it is, starting to spiral. Shit.

“I can’t breathe,” a heave turns into a shuddering sob, and tears start pouring down his face as he hyperventilates.

Dee sits down on the floor next to him, running her hand over his back. She’s used to doing this for him, but it’s been a long time since she’s had to try and calm a panic attack, and she’s definitely never had to do it while he had a broken ankle.

“Dee, I can’t breathe,” he’s staring ahead at nothing, wheezing.

“You can. I’m telling you it’s just a panic attack. We know how to deal with this, right?”

Well, maybe not this exact situation, but she decides that if there was ever a time to sugarcoat things it’s right goddamn now.

“Where’s Mac?” He whimpers, grabbing clumsily at Dee’s arm.

“Dennis, you know where Mac is. He’s out filming his stupid videos, remember? He’ll be back soon, okay? Look at me.”

He doesn’t.

“Oh Jesus,” she grabs his face and turns it to look up at her, “Dennis. Listen to my voice. Try to match my breathing, okay? In and out, you know the drill.”

She takes deep, measured breaths, exaggerating how loud they are so he can hear through the crying.

“Dennis, I know you’re scared, but Mac will be back soon. Okay? I think we have to take you to the hospital, that ankle looks pretty screwed up.”

His eyes widen, and he rips her hand away from his face, trying and failing to move away from her. The movement jostles his leg and he stifles a scream by bringing his hand to his mouth, more tears pouring from his eyes.

“No.”

“Dennis, you’re a grown man. This is serious.” She tries to reason with him, but she can tell that he’s too delirious with pain and fear to act rationally.

“I’m cold.”

“What?”

“Dee, I’m cold.”

She can see him shivering through the tension in his muscles and goes and grabs the blanket Charlie keeps behind the bar. She wraps it around him, careful of his leg, and sits back down.

“Where’s Mac?” He says again, suddenly, like Mac is somehow just going to appear if he keeps asking about him. She can’t tell if he genuinely forgot their conversation from a few minutes ago, or if he’s just so out of his mind with pain and shock that all he can think about is wanting Mac. Either way, the confusion and cloudiness in his eyes worries her. Maybe he’s more hurt than she thought.

Her eyes move to the cut on his forehead, still bleeding sluggishly.

“Dennis, he’s out. Filming videos. We just talked about this, you remember?”

She speaks slowly and clearly, looking him straight in the eye.

“I… don’t know. Dee, I don’t know. Maybe? I, I don’t—” his breath hitches again, and he looks terrified.

“Dennis,” she says his name clearly and evenly, even though she’s sure some of his anxiety is rubbing off on her, “It’s okay. I’m sorry for scaring you. I’m gonna call him, okay?”

He whimpers again, nodding. His chest is rising desperately as he tries to get some air into his lungs. His hand is still firmly white-knuckling his leg.

She pulls her phone out of her pocket, hastily pressing Mac’s name on speed dial. She’s almost starting to think he won’t answer when he picks up on the fifth ring.

“What do you want, Dee?” His voice is tinny, and his reception is shit. “I’m busy.”

“First of all, screw you, Mac. But this is serious, okay?”

He gets quiet.

“I’m listening,” he responds, quieter and more focused, “what is it?”

Her eyes stay locked on her brother.

“Dennis, um…fell off the bar. And he hurt himself. It’s bad, Mac. His ankle is definitely broken, and I think he might have a concussion too,” she lowers her voice, “and he’s absolutely terrified. He’s having a panic attack and he keeps asking for you. I can’t calm him down because he’s so damn delirious, and I can’t move him on my own anyway. I think you should come back here.”

She doesn’t realize how stressful the situation is until she says it, and her hands are shaking as she tries to keep the phone steady.

“Goddamnit,” Mac breathes, all traces of humor gone from his voice, “let me talk to him?”

“Sure.” She takes the phone from her ear and presses the button.

“Dennis, Mac’s on the phone. I’ll hold it for you.”

“Mac?”

“Den, can you hear me?”

“Mac,” he whispers again, and Dee can tell that just hearing his voice is enough to put some part of Dennis at ease.

“Can you hear me?” Mac tries again, his voice even.

“Yeah,” he whispers, his voice shot.

“Good. Try to breathe, buddy. Come on, with me. In, and out.”

Dennis’s breath stutters as he tries, interrupted by a frustrated sob.

“It’s okay, you’re doing so good. Keep trying for me and Dee. It’s gonna be okay, I promise. I’m on my way there right now.”

“Mac, it hurts.”

“I know, Den, I know. I’m so sorry. But I’ll be there soon, and we’ll get you some help, okay?”

“Mac?”

“Yeah, honey?”

Dee freezes for a minute, forgetting the situation. That’s a new one.

“I’m scared.”

“I know. But you’re gonna be okay. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes and we’ll figure it out. Sound good?”

His voice is more gentle and sincere than Dee’s ever heard it sound before.

“Okay.” Dennis still sounds horrible; his eyes are bloodshot, and his face is gray-white, and his jaw is clench with pain as he tries to stifle his crying. But his voice comes a little easier, less choked.

“Dennis, I love you,” he says sincerely.

Dee feels her eyes widen at the shock of the emotional whiplash as she struggles to keep her facial expression neutral.

Dennis takes a shuddering breath and clears his throat, still trying to calm down.

“I love you, too, Mac. Hurry?”

“I’m already on my way. I’ve got to drive. Give the phone back to Dee?”

Dennis looks at her, gesturing at the phone with a knowing expression. She takes the phone off speaker and lifts it to her hear, still trying to process what she just witnessed, and the fact that Dennis doesn’t seem embarrassed at all. Maybe it’s the shock.

“Mac?” She forces her tone to be neutral.

“Dee, I’ll be there in twenty. I told him fifteen, so he’d calm down, but there’s traffic downtown. I’m driving like a goddamn maniac though. Be there as soon as I can.”

“Okay,” she responds, “Thanks, Mac. Don’t drive too crazy though, I’ve dealt with enough bullshit injuries today. Be safe.”

“Don’t thank me, and I will be.” He hangs up.

She lets her phone drop to the floor.

Dennis looks a little calmer. She hopes that it’s because of the panic attack calming down and not because of the shock. She decides to keep him talking.

“Hey, Den?”

“Hm?” He sounds distracted, but his breathing is still shallow.

She starts rubbing his back again, a little more forcefully than before, trying to keep him grounded.

“So…what’s up with you and Mac?”

As far as conversation topics went, it was probably the worst choice she could have made at that moment, but if anything would get him talking, it’d be this.

“W-what do you mean? We’re fine.”

“I don’t mean you’re arguing. I mean you seem very…close…these days.”

“He’s my best friend.” Dennis says softly, “Of course we’re close, you dumb bitch.” There isn’t any venom in his words. He sounds spaced out, but honest.

It’s almost endearing.

She nods at him, trying to encourage him to keep talking.

“I think I’m in love with him, Dee.”

He says it with such delirious sincerity that it would’ve been absolutely hilarious if she wasn’t trying to keep him from passing out from shock.

“Dennis you just told him you loved him on the phone, did you forget that I heard that?”

“Oh. I didn’t even think about that.” He chuckles softly.

“I mean, Dennis, to be honest, it’s sort of obvious to everyone except you and—oh shit—”

She catches him as he starts to slump forward, his eyes nearly rolling shut.

“Dennis. Come on buddy.” She taps his cheek.

He blinks sluggishly.

“Sorry,” he says sincerely.

“It’s fine,” she feels her heart rate returning to normal. She vaguely hopes Dennis won’t remember this later.

They sit, dazed, on the floor of the bar until they hear the doorknob turn, and suddenly Mac is there, full of nervous energy. It snaps Dee out of the funk, and she feels the anxiety returning and her heart pounds in her chest as she looks at Dennis’s purple, swollen ankle.

Mac is on top of Dennis in a heartbeat. He crouches down next to him, wraps his arms around him in a careful embrace. Dennis melts into it, but Mac quickly detaches Dennis from him, sitting down and joining Dee in rubbing his back. He gingerly lifts his pant leg to see the full extent of the injury. Dennis starts at the contact, his eyes welling up as the ankle gets jostled.

“Shit. Dennis, I’m sorry,” his hands are on Dennis’s face, wiping the tears away, “How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know. It hurts so bad, but I can’t…feel it? As much, anymore…I don’t know.” He sounds out of it.

“Okay,” Mac shoots Dee a concerned look, “Dee and I are going to move you to the car and get you to the hospital.”

At the word “move,” Dennis freezes like a cornered animal.

“No, no, please. Please, Mac. I can’t. I can’t walk,” he gasps.

“Hey, no, don’t get all worked up. It won’t even touch the floor. We’ll hold you steady and all you have to do is keep that leg off the ground. Right, Dee?”

“Yeah, yeah. Of course.”

They lift on three, and Dee cringes when Dennis cries out as they get him vertical. All the way, Mac is whispering soothing words to him.

“You’re doing so good, Den.”

“I’m so proud of you.”

“You’ll feel better soon.”

Dennis doesn’t acknowledge them, but she thinks she feels the slightest bit of tension leave his body.

Getting him to the car goes surprisingly smoothly. Of course, having to ride in a car with an unsupported broken ankle is an absolute nightmare, but they don’t have money for an ambulance.

Dennis starts crying again and buries his face in Mac’s shoulder in the back seat. Mac strokes his hair.

“I know, Den, I know,” he says, loud enough for Dee to hear, “It’ll all be okay soon.”

Dennis whimpers in acknowledgment.

The hospital waiting room is a goddamn zoo, but there’s a few chairs next to each other so that Dennis can stretch out and Mac can sit with him.

He leans heavily on Mac, their hands interlocked tightly, and Dee can’t believe that the dumbasses took so long to realize they were in love.

She rests a quick, comforting hand on Mac’s shoulder, and he turns to her with a small smile, tired and worried. She lifts the corners of her mouth in return, hoping she can convey how grateful she is without having to say it.

[vankoya]

Saviour of the Good Days.

➢ A Christmas drabble series based on this list!

Genre | Sense8 AU.

Pairing | Jung Hoseok / Feminine Reader.

Conspectus | Even the worst days can have some good in them. That good, always, arrives as the same person. The one that your entire body and soul is inexplicably entwined with.

It has been a very, very bad day.

Indeed, it has been one of those days where you wake up and have an overwhelming feeling that you should most definitely not leave your bed, because nothing good will come from it. And although you eventually roll yourself to the edge of your mattress and lethargically drag your limbs into an upward position; although you think it can’t be that bad, just get on with it; the whole world unforgivingly crumbles to shit around you, and you get caught in the rockslide.

It was a case of one bad thing after another. A pile of small inconveniences that built and built, slowly becoming more unstable with every new weight added to the mountain. First, there was realising that you forgot to buy a new jar of coffee granules yesterday afternoon, and so you could not make yourself a cup of liquid adrenaline the instant you awoke. Then, there was knocking a half-full glass of water over important documents during your nine-to-five at the office. Later, there was your card declining when you tried to purchase a Christmas gift for your best friend, and the sudden flash of remembrance that rent money came out at midday and, to make it worse, you still do not get paid for another three days.

Now, your car has broken down on the side of the road in the middle of a small snowstorm, which is terribly classic because you abso-fucking-lutely despise snow in general. This right here is the breaking point; the collapse; the crush of your body beneath the weight of all the shitty things that have occurred today. This right here is the cherry on top of the shit cake of shitty shit things, and like a flooding riverbed, your barriers break down and you sob the frustrations out.

“What the hell,” you furiously whisper through a sniffle, forehead resting against the steering wheel of your car as snow pelts down on the town outside. “What’s up the world’s ass today? Is it ‘poke fun at ___’ day?”

“Want me to fight the world for you?”

The voice, while more familiar than the back of your own hand, nonetheless makes you jolt in your seat with a short squeal. Some sensates say that you never get used to it. Having a group of people in your head who share all of your senses, your skills, and can mentally materialise right beside you, although their real bodies remain to be separated from you by thousands of miles. Others express that it takes time. Rather than living as individual people, you learn to be a cluster of minds that coexist all at once, and the intermingling of your lives becomes as natural as before you became connected by the souls.

You are at the midway point of the spectrum.

“Depends,” you say, voice still a little choked with your emotional outburst. “Will fighting the world revive the documents I spent hours working on, only to ruin them completely with my damn elbow colliding with an misfortunately placed glass of water?”

He makes a contemplative sound. “Maybe not. But watching the world get punched in the face by my fists might make you smile, at least.”

At that, there is a watery curl of your lips, and you lean against the headrest of your seat, tilting to the side to face him. Jung Hoseok, who you have mentally, physically, and emotionally been connected with for little beyond a year now, is already watching you with an adoring smile. A South Korean mechanic from a city called Gwangju, who towers over you in height with messily styled hair the colour of the night sky at its darkest; juxtaposed by his bright, sunshine-like features; doused in gold. Even the dreary weather cannot suck the honey from his skin. He remains to attain a soft, pleasant glow that you swear brightens every time his mouth shapes itself into a waning moon, shimmering like sunlight on a calm ocean.

Perhaps, the visible radiance is just your imagination. Then again, you cannot necessarily trust anything you see in your head, these days.

“There it is,” he coos. The thick, fur-lined leather jacket that he wears gives a muffled squeak when he reaches over the gear stick to pat your thigh. Although he is all in your mind, the touch feels as real as ever; sets warmth aflame in your cheeks. “Now that seeing your pretty smile has been ticked off my to-do list, what’s happened here? The car has broken down?”

You wipe at the silvery tracks on your face with your mittens, inwardly hoping you do not look as much of a wreck as you feel. “Something like that. There was a bang, and by the time I pulled it off the road, it had completely stopped.” Hoseok goes to open his mouth, but you swiftly cut him off, already able to see the question he is going to ask by the playful twinkle of his eye. “And no, I haven’t run out of gas. I still have half a tank left, smart ass.”

Hoseok chuckles, directing his gaze out the windshield where the road is being painted white. “Well, my next best guess is that you’ve popped a tyre.” He twists so he can face the backseat, eyeing your spare black parka. “I’ll need your help. Can we use that to keep ourselves shielded in this mini storm? Wait, do you even have a spare tyre?”

“Yes, and yes,” you confirm, already pulling the parka into your lap. “The jack should be in the trunk, too…” Your voice trails off when you take in Hoseok’s attire of the leather jacket, combat boots, blue jeans, and a thin sweater. Most certainly not suited for snow, nonetheless a snowstorm. “Are you sure you won’t be cold?”

“I’m not literally here,” he reminds you with a smirk, unlocking the passenger door. “As long as you’re warm, I’m warm too. I’m feeling what your senses are feeling, right now.”

At that, your feeble heart stutters, and you avidly attempt to not focus on the thought of him feeling something a lot less innocent than the cold weather. “R-Right. Okay. Let’s get to it, then.”

The pair of you stumble into the already calming storm, heading straight for the trunk. Hoseok pulls out the spare tyre and the jack, while you remain huddled close to him with the parka pulled around your bodies in a feeble defence against the assaulting white. It is rather fascinating to observe him changing the tyre; the concentrated, determined frown of his features; the deft movements of his bare hands as they skilfully work. Under his breath, he mutters to himself, as if vocally making his way through the steps. His tousled fringe falls in his eyes, and he keeps having to blow it back with short, slightly irritated huffs. You know that you are ogling like an idiot, but you cannot help it when everything he does is just so… insanely attractive.

Hoseok seems to catch onto this by the time he has completed the job, and you are darting your eyes away from his face where they had been embarrassingly burning holes for the past ten minutes. He notices how closely you are crouched beside him; the parka-shield surrounding the two of you in a cosy cocoon only serving to force your body-warmth to share the space. Around your huddled figures, the storm has completely relaxed into peaceful snowing. Out the corner of your eye, you can see the way his expression softens, melting like butter.

“T-Thanks. For this. I really appreciate it, Hoseok,” you mumble in a pathetic attempt to cover up your ridiculously intense staring. When you go to drop the parka away, no longer a necessity, he softly catches your elbow, halting the action. You pray to every deity that he believes your watery gaze is due to the icy weather.

“No need to thank me, I’m happy to help,” Hoseok says gently, squeezing your elbow. The warmth of your face ignites into that of a pot reaching boiling point. His own cheeks light up in a rosy flush, and you wonder if that is your own senses reacting with his own, or if they are solely his, making him blush completely by themselves. “If it makes you happy, I’m happy.”

There, you realise how near his face is to your own. There, you think that you could move forwards three inches, and you would be able to kiss him. There, Hoseok seems to understand the same idea that is running its dangerous course through your mind, because he slowly, incrementally, leans, and leans, and leans–

A car door slamming shocks you out of your intoxicated daze. You physically fall backwards from your crouch, collapsing into the snow with a surprised shriek. Almost immediately afterward, a flustered, middle-aged women wearing a pink beanie with a giant pompom on top is offering her hand to you.

Hoseok is nowhere to be seen.

“Oh my goodness! I’m so sorry for frightening you, darling!” She says in a high voice as she helps you back to your feet. “I saw you all by your lonesome on the side of the road, and couldn’t help but worry. Did you pop a tyre? Oh- Wow! You changed that all by yourself? How impressive of...” 

The woman continues to ramble on, but your attention has been snagged elsewhere. Still stunned from the almost that was finally about to occur; that was yanked away from you at the last second, like teasing a dog with a bone. And then, suddenly, all you can focus on is a familiar hand gingerly curling around your wrist.

A pair of silky, warm lips pressing to your cheek.

“Merry Christmas, ___,” Hoseok murmurs into your ear, planting another soft peck on the lobe, drawing fire in its wake. “I hope your day gets better.”

“... Gee, I remember when my husband nearly drove us into oncoming traffic when I– Honey, are you okay? You look like you’ve just seen Big Foot!”

Note | Sensates are a ‘cluster’ of human beings who are mentally and emotionally linked, able to sense and communicate with each other, as well as share their knowledge, language and skills. Please watch the show. It is phenomenal.

All Rights Reserved © Vankoya. No translations, reposting and/or modifying of the material is allowed without my direct permission.

[kclenhartnovels]

White Lies

[For new readers, start here. If you want to be tagged in future updates, please let me know.

@flannelandsarcasm @polapipo @quill-of-thoth @itstheenglishkid @gingerly-writing @littlefearsdoodles @knightedwriter ]

Merrick returned to Abby running late, but with such a lightness in his chest he felt as if he were flying the whole way. It didn't matter how late he was; she was always later. By the time he got back to her, she was still throwing on her clothes and searching for her badge for the lab, swearing up and down all the while. He casually moved her badge onto the bedside table from where it had fallen into a pile of dirty clothes, and whispered soothing words in her ear to get her to breathe.

If only he knew the words to get his own fluttering heart to calm.

Somehow, between his gentle nudges and Abby's whirlwind, they were both out the door and into her car in the next twenty minutes. Merrick quietly influenced the lights to turn green a touch sooner, for cars to switch lanes, hoping between that and her lead foot, she would be to work more or less on time. This internship was everything that she wanted in life—he couldn't let something as simple as her disorganization at home be the reason her passion was quelled. Besides, Teremun said her research was important, and to keep her on track. And he needed his job, too.

Unless he got another assignment. After all, wouldn't be converting a demon to an angel be more important than one more human soul? Especially one who didn't seem at all to be on the path to damnation? While Abby gathered her belongings and hurried into the concrete building, Merrick trailed after her with his thoughts anywhere but his charge. The question was more, how could he convince Teremun?

And would the man even give him the time of day?

Would he give it to Fletcher?

Would any of the angels see that the demon, despite his anger and his frustration, despite his trigger-finger and his pride, was worthy of saving?

“I'm sorry I'm late, Dr. Georgian,” Abby greeted, practically throwing her purse and jacket into a locker and flashing the older man a smile. “Traffic was terrible.”

“You're technically not late today,” he assured, holding out a white lab coat for her. “Did your other job keep you late?”

“You shouldn't lie,” Merrick put in quietly. “He doesn't seem to care if you're late or not. You do a good job. Just tell him the truth. He'll forgive.”

“Yeah,” Abby lied. “Lots of packages this time of year.”

Merrick scrubbed his hand across his face. Maybe she did need a bit of work, but white lies weren't enough to damn a soul nowadays.

“We're expecting a visitor today,” Georgian began, leading her into the lab proper. “Someone who has done a bit of research like ours, and may have some input.”

Abby twirled her hair into a bun as she walked, balancing a pen between her teeth. “I didn't think anyone was doing research like ours,” she slurred around the pen, before she sucked her spit back into her mouth and wiggled the pen into her hair, holding the bun in place.

“Sexy,” Merrick noted dryly. “Honey, we need to buy you some real hair supplies, instead of Bic pens.”

Georgian shrugged. “He approached me about it. I received a call from him yesterday. He said he read on my theories of internal energy and had some leads for us to follow.”

“Internal energy,” Abby repeated with a sigh. “You sure he's not just coming to mock us, like the last reporter that came through?”

“The last reporter was an asshole,” Merrick put in, as if he could be heard. He perched on the edge of one of the metal tables, folding his wings thoughtfully. “He called Dr. Georgian a crackpot. But you know, I may not really understand what you're doing here, but I think he's onto something.”

“He is onto something.”

A rustle of wings startled the young angel, and he twisted around to face Teremun, falling off the table in the process. He quickly caught himself, fumbling to his feet and standing at attention. “I didn't hear you coming,” he greeted lamely, internally wincing. Teremun may have been a stone angel in a graveyard for all the amusement etched on his face. Though half a head shorter than Merrick, his presence seemed forever looming, shadowed and disapproving as ever. He still had the look of old Egypt in his dark skin and black hair, but he seemed more one of the carved Gods on a sandstone wall, judgmental and damning.

“How is she doing?” Teremun asked, folding his white wings and watching Merrick intently.

“Running late again.” Merrick glanced back at her, just to break eye contact a moment. “But working hard. She is passionate about it.”

“Feed that passion, and see that she gets her life together,” Teremun tsked. “What she is doing is important, and more important that she is destined for heaven, should something come of it.”

“Why?” Merrick folded his arms over his chest like a plate of armor, leaning his back against the metal table and half-listening to the scientists drone about something or other behind him. “They're researching energy.”

“Energy drawn from living things,” Teremun corrected. “And the most you need to know is that it's important. It could change the course of heaven and hell, and be the turning point in this war between us. It could change everything.” He stepped forward, and put his hand against Merrick's cheek. His palm was hot, like a quiet warning of hell fire, like the pulse of the sun, like a promise of a slap. Merrick didn't pull back. His fingertips quivered. “Do not let yourself be distracted, Merrick.” Teremun's voice was quiet, but his eyes were focused on the other angel's, pinning him in place until Merrick felt every feather stand on end. For what seemed an eternity, Teremun watched his face, and Merrick was sure that he could see every sin, every indiscretion, every thought about Fletcher and salvation and kissing the demon in the bunker.

Then, the heat was gone, and so was Teremun. Merrick swallowed, his cheek burning and his knees weak. Maybe the other angels were afraid of Eztli and the Garrison, or even afraid of demons and hellhounds, but Merrick knew few things more unnerving than his boss's stare. And he was left with no more answers than he had in the beginning, aside from one thing.

He was not going to tell him about Fletcher.

Merrick raked his fingers through his hair, and turned back around to watch Abby and Georgian again, finding a place to sit where he was less likely to go tumbling. They went about their work for hours, and the angel found himself starting to daydream. He propped his feet up on one of the metal tables, leaning back in a chair and letting his wings drape to either side. How was Fletcher combating this ceaseless boredom? More importantly, had he thought about how to be a better person, and earn his feathered wings? Merrick could hardly imagine having him in heaven with him—one kiss, and he was already enamored.

Again, he found himself falling for someone he shouldn't.

He laced his fingers behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. He could remember being in Hawaii, stretched on the sand beside another young soldier as they took their Sunday free time not to pray in church, not to read letters from home and sleep in for once, but to swim naked in the warm waters, to lay under the sun and litter each other with salt-stained kisses on every inch of flesh they could find. It was like heaven, until the first plane roared overhead, and the first explosion woke them from heavy daydreams. Until the war finally came to American soil, and he spent days in the hospital, tending to the wounded and dying, washing blood from the floors day after day after day. Watching his lover be sent home with his leg amputated and his daydreaming eyes haunted and hollow.

He could remember the Battle of Iwo Jima, the month of fighting and the month of screaming soldiers writhing under his hands. The eyes of a Japanese soldier who looked up at him in his dying moments, mouthing words he couldn't understand, crying for love and salvation and a mother that prayed for his safe return. Merrick gave him morphine to ease his passing. He cried.

He looked over the prisoners they took from the network of tunnels and caves, and he could remember one young man named Kyou who spoke English badly, but better than Merrick spoke English. He called Merrick blue-eyes. When an infection spiked Kyou's temperature and he thrashed in fever-dreams for days, Merrick tended to him every hour. When the battle was finally won, and the graves were finally filled, Merrick told him that the war would be over soon. Kyou said that he loved him. Merrick hoped and feared that it was an error in translation. When he had to return to the fleet to sail on to Okinawa, and Kyou was to be taken away with the rest of the prisoners of war, Merrick held his hands and whispered that he loved him, too.

He never saw him again.

Merrick snapped out of daydreams when the conversation in the room stopped. He sat up, blinking the dampness from his eyes and swinging his feet off of the table at last. It wasn't like Abby to be quiet, or Georgian for that matter, but when he saw the reason why, even his breath caught.

“Dr. Toussaint. Thank you for coming to see us,” Georgian greeted, extending his hand.

At first sight, the angel knew that this stranger was not normal. Normal humans didn't not exude a sort of quiet promise of power, and normal humans did not carry a shadow with them like a second soul, and most of all, normal humans did not make direct eye contact with him.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he said coolly, looking away from Merrick at last to make his proper introductions to the visible people in the room. “Please, you can call me Raen. I have a doctorate in philosophy—it's hardly worth mentioning. Thank you for allowing me to see your research.”

“How does one with a doctorate in philosophy come to take an interest in alternative energy resources?”

“We happen to have a shared interest not in renewable energy, but in the source.” Again, those gray eyes looked to Merrick, lingering just long enough to assure the angel that he knew he was there. “Have you determined yet what is causing the low levels of energy outputs in every human on earth?”

“Well, I'm fairly certain that it has something to do with the electrical impulses in our nerve endings,” Georgian said enthusiastically. “If we could find a way to tap into that—”

Raen's smile was more in his eyes than his mouth, and he sat down across from Merrick, tucking his hands into his oversized sleeves. “If we could find a way to tap into that,” he finished for Georgian, “the possibilities are limitless.”

[For more about characters, moodboards, and prompts, check out the masterpost here] [Previous | Next]

[studiograbdown]

HONEY, I TWISTED THROUGH MORE DAMN TRAFFIC TODAY

[gagosiangallery]

Here's a sneak peak of #EdRuscha's pastel drawing "Honey, I Twisted Through More Damn Traffic Today" being reinterpreted as a huge mural at The High Line at West 22nd Street, NYC. Go see the unveiling on May 6, 2014.