#Stacks

[deadhands69]

In The Stacks Part 2: Taking Things Slow

Tomura Shigaraki x Reader

A mysterious library patron catches your eye, seeking information about his past life. You help him, stirring up your own past in the process. Contains: gn/afab reader, SMUT, cussing, mentions of injuries/violence, obsessive/yandere leaning behavior, spoilers.

[previous] this is part 2 [series masterlist]

"Actually, you said Love, for you, is larger than the usual romantic love. It's like a religion. It's terrifying."

- Richard Siken

Your brain swims, staring at the stack of new books on the desk in front of you. You started adding barcodes to them an hour ago but it feels like the pile is only growing. That can't be possible, right? 

Many of your coworkers had residual issues with the flooding from last night and had to call out. This includes your work friend, Ao. Half awake this morning, you offered to cover the first half of his shift for the four hours before yours starts. It's not that you aren't happy to fill in– you absolutely are. You're glad to help your friend out and you don’t mind the overtime money either. Unfortunately, it means you were in more of a rush than usual today, in addition to the extra work being divided up among those who could make it in, and you're really feeling it.

All of this would be easier if you didn’t have a headache.

Typically, you’d drop by the coffee shop next door on your walk over, but by the time you got the call, you were running late already and didn’t have time to stop. The lack of caffeine is getting to you, on top of the lack of sleep from choosing to stay up talking to Tenko half the night before the storm died down. You don’t regret that by any means either, it’s just catching up to you. Now you’ll have to wait for a long enough break before you can venture out for coffee. 

Two more hours.

You weren’t always a caffeine addict, but you are human so the things you surround yourself in tend to rub off after a while. If you’re going to work in a library, you might as well fully embrace the lifestyle. Even the surrounding neighborhood reflects this. Any way you choose to walk to work leads you past at least two coffee shops. Given your current situation, you will yourself to stop thinking about caffeine – it's not helping anything. Right now you need to focus on adding call numbers to the new books. You double check the one in front of you before sticking the tag on and sealing it. 

Only thirty-eight more to go. Meanwhile, you're still in charge of the circulation desk while everyone else is rushing around to fill other tasks that weren’t covered by the mostly absent morning shift. 

Tenko walks in with his hood and mask obscuring his face, like usual. Unlike usual, he’s here a few hours early. Today he’s also carrying something different. He turns and walks to the desk as soon as he notices you there. You take note of the interesting way he holds his pinky away from the cup, but he drops it onto the sleeve as soon as he catches you staring. He has nice hands, the kind that make you wish for things you’d rather not think about while at the front desk of your work.

“I wanted to do something nice for you,” he mumbles, “as a thank you.” 

“Wow, thank you so much.” You stare at the coffee cup he just pushed in your direction. You’re saved. “You have no idea how much I needed this today.”

“Uhm,” he scratches his neck, “I had to guess your drink though. So hopefully this is okay. It felt right.”

You glance down at the barista’s scrolled handwriting across the side, it’s what you usually order. 

“Impressive,” you smile at him, “you’re sweet and you can pick out my order by vibes alone.”

He smirks back, looking proud of himself. Since you go to the same place every day, they have your order memorized. You’re almost certain Tenko asked the barista; it’s nice he made the effort though so you don’t bring it up.

Tentatively, he continues. “I may also have a favor to ask you.”

“Oh yeah?” you ask, really hoping it’s something he can say at the front desk in earshot of a few of your coworkers.

“I need another article from the archives. On the website it said to ask for assistance, so here I am.”

“Got it, yeah. I can set you up with an appointment for that.” 

“I need an appointment?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you pull up the schedule, “you need an appointment for someone to take you down there. I could, but it would have to be in a few days. Or you could go tomorrow with one of my coworkers?”

“No, I can wait.”

“Okay,” you continue, scrolling through the timeframes on your screen. “How about the day after tomorrow at eight pm? It’s completely empty at that time, so you won’t be interrupted. The archivists are typically gone by that hour though so if you need help with anything else–”

“No, that's perfect,” he smiles and you struggle to hold it together. Tenko glances at the desk and you, surrounded by new books. “What are you doing now?”

“Right now, I’m labeling new books while watching the circulation desk for the two hours I’m assigned to be here so other people can take breaks and work on different projects.”

“Got it,” he replies. “Is that what you usually do up here all day?”

“Not typically, but we're pretty short staffed from the weather. Usually, I check out books for people and answer questions,” you relay, as if you were reciting your resume.

Tenko looks around, the library’s pretty empty today. “And when there’s no one to check books out to?”

“Mostly scroll Tumblr,” you say. He raises his thin eyebrows at you, but it’s your turn to ask questions now. “What do you do all day? I’ve never asked what you do for a living.” 

“Freelance software developing,” Tenko replies, sounding bored. “I want to do games but that’s harder to get into. So for now, boring stuff.”

His random interest in books suddenly makes sense if he’s building video game worlds.

“What kind of games do you want to make?”

“I don’t have a set genre yet, I have a lot of ideas though. Like, ” his cheeks redden from behind the mask. You reach for his hand reassuringly. It's not like there's anyone around to see. “Uh, I'm working on a dating sim,” he says tentatively, scratching his neck with his free hand. Seeing the intrigue on your face, opens the floodgates. “It's kind of a fun concept,” he says excitedly, “because no matter what you pick you still end up together. There are different endings, and some are much better than the others, but there's no rejection.”

“So, I take it you don't like a challenge?” you joke. 

“I like a challenge,” his voice is light but his eyes look serious, “I just don’t like being left.”

“Okay. I won’t leave you,” you say, toying with his pinky, “promise.”

Tenko’s coffee gets you through the afternoon until your break. An extra long shift means a longer break than usual, you walk to the cafe down the block and back with time to spare. 

With the headache subsiding, you figure the least you can do is head up to the fourth floor to check in with Tenko and say thanks again. When you arrive, he's nowhere to be found. Even when he goes to search for another book, he leaves his backpack at the desk in the far corner. You search around the entire floor, not finding a trace of him. 

“Weird,” you mumble to yourself, taking a back exit to a less used stairwell. He must have gone home early or something. He showed up a few hours earlier than he usually does, that wouldn’t be too weird. Swinging around the last corner before hitting ground level, you run into someone. 

“I am so sorry,” you frantically apologize, looking up to see bright red eyes staring back at you. 

“It's fine,” he says, arms still steadying you from the collision. “Really. Are you in a rush or something?” he asks, looking you over as if you’re hiding books somewhere. 

“No, I'm actually on break–” 

“Good.”

Tenko bridges the tiny gap between the two of you, cutting you off with a kiss. The angle is different from before, given that you're standing one stair above him, but you both adjust quickly. 

Everything about your long day washes away, it doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters now is keeping him as close as possible for as long as you can. 

One of his hands slides down to the small of your back, over your ass, and grips the back of your thigh to hike your leg over his hip. You continue kissing him, fingernails digging into his shoulders. The harder you latch onto him, the more into it he seems, enthusiastically sucking your bottom lip. Your tongue runs over the dry skin on his top lip and his hips slam into you in response. It's nice being able to tell what he's into this easily. You can feel him harden through his pants as he grinds into you. 

Everything about Tenko surrounds you. The smell of his shampoo, the sweetness of his lips. His hands grasping where they can, his teeth that are now pressed into your neck. Tenko sucks onto your skin like he wants to pull your soul into his. Fortunately for him, you’re into that. Kissing alone is not enough, you want him to need you so deeply that every fiber of his being seeks all of you out in desperation. 

He leans forward, lowering you with him until you feel the cold concrete against your back. 

Slowly, one of your hands makes its way across his chest and down his side. Giving you a bit more space than before, only slightly less desperate for the closeness. One of his hands slides to land on the small of your back as he hovers over you on the stairs. Your finger runs over the skin along his waistband. He shutters.

“This okay?” you breathe between sloppy kisses. 

“Yes,” he moans back, “do whatever you want to me.”

Hearing this makes you wish you weren’t in an old stairwell on your now dwindling break. Not every moment can be perfect though and you need him now. Your hand slides over the thick fabric of his pants. Running your fingers over where his dick fills the space in the v-line of his hip, straining against his jeans. You should probably be worried about doing this in a semi-public space during your lunch break, but the feeling never comes. No one ever comes back here. Besides, this is just the tip of the iceberg compared to what you’ve been dreaming about all day. You've held back for long enough.

Tenko breathes sharply into your mouth, hands clutching your jacket like you could slip out of his grasp at any moment. 

Then your phone buzzes, it’s the alarm you set to make it back in time to clock in from your break.

Two minutes remaining. 

“Fuck,” you mutter to yourself, “sorry, I–”

“Do you have to go?” he asks breathlessly. It takes everything in you to pull away from him. He helps you to your feet and the two of you take a moment to steady yourselves.

“Yeah,” you continue, “my break ends soon so I have to get back to shelf reading.” You do what you can to smooth his hair down but it’s a losing battle. As you step away, he adjusts his pants and pulls his oversized hoodie further down his front. 

“So, will I see you tomorrow?” he asks awkwardly, fiddling with the excess of the straps on his backpack.

“No, I have the day off tomorrow. I’ll be back in the next day though, and we have our archive time set-up then. So, I’ll definitely see you soon. And I'm just going upstairs now, like usual.” Tenko’s eyes stare at you like a puppy being left at home. 

Tomorrow, you have plans to go out furniture shopping. It’s not exciting, but it’ll be nice to finally have somewhere comfortable to sit. Especially if you have Tenko over again. This doesn’t seem like something you invite your new…whatever he is with you for. It’s only been a day, you don’t want to scare him off asking him to buy furniture with you. 

“Okay,” he says in that light tone with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “I’ll see you soon then.” With a quick kiss on the cheek, he walks past you, running back up the stairs. 

Rushing around the corner, your hand barely grazes the metal door pull to enter the main library area when another pair of hands yank you back.

“Oh no,” Ao says, looking slightly windswept from the weather. “You can not go in there looking like that.”

He pulls his scarf off, wrapping it around your neck before fixing your hair. 

“Why,” you grumble, but don't put up a fight. “Do I look that bad today?”

He laughs. “Bad? No, you look like you fucked someone in the back stairs." Realization creeps over his face, "wait, did you?” Ao’s eyes are huge before he turns and runs to look up the stairwell. Lucky for you, Tenko is long gone. Your secret is safe for another day.

“Tell me everything,” Ao whispers, pulling you through the door towards the front desk as you both clock in. 

At Ao's suggestion, you take a moment to stop by the restroom to freshen up before getting back to work. Last night, Tenko’s enthusiastic kissing didn't leave any lasting marks. No such luck this time. You wrap Ao’s scarf back around your neck, happy to have run into him before your manager saw you. Fortunately, his grey and black stripes don't completely clash with your outfit so you think you can pull it off.

A few minutes later, you resume shelf reading on the fourth floor like usual. Tenko glares at you as you walk past the corner desk where he sits. The first time you think it's in your head. When he does it again as you pass twenty minutes later, you know it's not. Is he upset you're not working tomorrow? 

“What?" you pause, leaning over the desk. "Why are you looking at me like that?” 

He stares up at you, arms crossed. “Why are you wearing some other guy's clothes?”

“Because you left a huge bite mark on my neck, I couldn't go back to work like that! I could get fired if they found out.”

Somehow, your explanation doesn't quite sink in. He still stares at you, pouting. Then it hits you.

“Wait, are you jealous of my gay work friend?” you ask. 

Tenko’s shoulders sag in relief, but he's not admitting it that easily. “No, I just–”

“You totally are!” you yell whisper back at him. “Tenko, there's nothing to worry about. He just didn't want me to lose my job or something. There's no one else you need to worry about either, I promise. I do have to get back to work though.”

Tenko smirks, looking pleased with himself as you turn to leave. 

Like you'd ever do anything to fuck this up. 

Your day off passes uneventfully to any passerby. You mop your apartment. You drink coffee. You go to the furniture store. 

That's how you find yourself standing in a large showroom, surrounded by couches in designs you couldn’t have imagined existing, asking yourself which one of them represents you best in the way you want Tenko to see you. No longer are they simple pieces of metal and wood with batting and fabric wrapped over, absolutely not. Someone designed everything down to the tiniest detail, and it's in those details that you'll find the perfect shape to hold him in. The stitching that flows in the most fitting way for you to spend your lives on them. Each one comes with a story of the future, pre-built in. And you need to pick the right one. This was never just about a couch.

A deep green one with long cushions looks wide enough for the two of you to cuddle easily on it. You picture yourself holding him, arms wrapped over his curled up body as he drifts off to sleep. 

It's also much too big for your apartment. 

There's a smaller pink one near it that also looks like you could both lay comfortably on it. The moment you sit, all fantasies disappear as the cushions give too much and you feel the boards underneath. 

Feeling like Goldilocks, you move to another. A velvety beige chaise lounge. You sit, finding it comfortable. It’s lower than the others. You picture him walking towards you, pausing as he reaches the living room. Your mind runs away from you with every direction this could take. You’d be at the right height to suck his dick from here, visions of it take over reality. He felt amazing through his pants and made such sweet sounds, you’re sure having him in your mouth would be even better.

Before you get too carried away, you check the price tag – it’s nearly three times your budget. Onto the next.

You spend an hour wandering the furniture store, imagining the way your life will play out on every stop. As the day passes by, you swear Tenko is sneaking out of your subconscious and into the world. You see him everywhere, but when you look closer he's never actually there. Behind bookshelves and around corners out of the corner of your eye. One man carrying a massive twisting lamp with delicate shades made from deep blue glass looked like him at first glance. It's a beautiful lamp but there's no way Tenko would ever buy something like that. Besides, there has to be more than one man in this city with white hair who wears facial masks and hooded sweatshirts. The obvious explanation is that you thought you felt him here, probably because you want him here. 

Maybe you've been thinking about this for too long. 

You wonder what Tenko would pick. He seems practical – he didn't even notice how under-furnished your space was. So, he'd probably be happy with something simple. 

In the end, you land on a cozy grey couch with washable upholstery, functional and you can decorate around it. It won't be delivered for another week, but that's fine. You haven't had a couch in months, you can wait just a little longer.

The tiny pieces of your new life are finally coming together. 

When you arrive at work, Ao laughs at your attempt to cover the remnants of Tenko’s mark with a high necked sweater. You don't mind him leaving them, some part of you actually felt a bit proud of it on your day off. It's like you get to show him off to the world even when you're apart. Sure you got a few weird looks, but that's to be expected. However, Tenko is still a secret at your work to everyone but Ao for obvious reasons. 

“That outfit is too warm for here, heavy sweater up to your chin with those oversized pants?” 

“It's cold outside,” you assert, the older librarians passing by still suspect nothing. 

Ao laughs, “suit yourself,” before whispering, “most people just buy concealer.”

He's not wrong, unfortunately, and within the hour you're regretting your choices. By the time eight rolls around, you're practically dragging Tenko down the stairs to the archive area, happy to be in the consistently cold basement. 

“This is the room?” he asks as you swipe your key card to enter an unmarked door. 

“Yeah,” you explain, turning the lights on and walking in. The librarians have all gone home for the day, it's just you two. “I was told there used to be a sign, they just never replaced it. Most people don’t come down here. They just ask for copies of the articles, so it's not a priority to label the door.”

The space reflects that sentiment as well. Given that the archive is one of the least patron-facing areas, funding never quite makes it here for new tables and chairs. These are just the old ones that were moved in to replace the last old ones. The shelves are older too, minimalistic. Covered in old books and boxes, they stretch on seemingly forever with the lights only partially on. The old book smell you’re growing used to is stronger down here, more condensed.

“Do you know the dates of the articles you're looking for?” you ask. He hands you a small list. 

You track them down in the far corner of the expansive room, pulling out a few more pages on the Shimuras and the house from before. He doesn’t read any of them, instead he takes out his phone to snap a few flash-less photos before returning the articles to their boxes. 

“Is there a record of what people look at in here?” Tenko asks curiously. 

“No,” you yawn, “as long as someone is in here to make sure they're being handled carefully, no one really cares. They know who came in and when, that's it.”

“Oh,” his voice almost sounds disappointed. 

“Why,” you ask, “do you want someone to keep track of what you looked at for you?”

“No,” he mumbles, folding the last newspaper and placing it in its box. “It just seems like there would be a record since someone could damage them or something.”

“I'm not too worried,” you put the boxes back on their shelves then take a seat on a scuffed up, but solid, table. 

“What are you doing now?” he asks, standing in front of you. 

“Killing time. I'm scheduled to do this for the whole hour and it's colder down here.” You gesture at your huge sweater before sliding the neck down to show him the lingering bite mark you're covering. 

“Sorry,” Tenko mouths. 

“It's fine. It doesn't hurt or anything,” you say, taking the sweater off. “I don't mind it either, I just don't want work people asking too many questions.”

Tenko stares at you, barely registering what you’re saying. In that moment you realize he's never seen you in a tank top. You're always dressed conservatively here. Plus, it's barely spring so it's still been pretty cold out.

Most guys would feel some level of shame being caught staring like like he is, Tenko isn't most guys though. 

His hand grazes the skin of your neck. Slowly, his knuckles move down your shoulder and over your arm, leaving a trail of tingles in their wake. 

“Looks pretty on you,” he says, “I look pretty on you.”

“You do,” you agree.

“Are there cameras in here?” he asks, hands already pulling at the hem of your shirt.

“No. According to my manager, it’s a budget or a privacy thing. Something like that. They’re just in the main common areas.”

“Good,” he mumbles against your lips, hand sliding up your shirt.

You slide back on the table, pulling him down with you. Tenko follows, eagerly, mouth not moving from yours.

Your hands slide under his shirt, taking in the feeling of him. His skin is textured with scars, every bump sliding easily under your touch. You want to rip all of his clothes off and memorize every detail of his body, but you don't have all night and you're in the basement of a library so you'll take what you can get for now. 

Some tiny corner of your mind remembers the two of you decided to take things slow, but you don't have the will to pull yourself away. 

The two of you pull at each other’s clothes as you make out, desperately feeling what you can. His hoodie lays thrown over the back of a chair along with your sweater. Your tank top is shoved up to your neck, pants dangling by one leg. His ripped jeans are shoved down to his knees, along with his underwear. One arm is pulled out of his shirt. You press up to straddle him, the table is cold and hard against your knees. It doesn’t bother you though, nothing could distract you from him right now. 

Tenko grabs your hips, dragging each of his fingers deliberately over your skin. You watch his cock practically jump at your touch; it’s so fucking beautiful. 

Everything about him is beautiful. His pale flushed skin. The way his white hair is splayed out over the table. Perfect scars everywhere to match the ones on his face. 

Precum glistens at the tip of his dick, you rub it away with your thumb as you begin stroking him. Even his erection is blushing for you. You want to stare at him forever, taking it all in. Unfortunately, your time here is limited. Leaning back over him to resume kissing, you continue to stroke his length as he pants into your mouth. One of his hands slides between your legs, moving your underwear to the side.

Tenko gasps at how wet you are for him, fingers exploring and lightly dipping into you as you drip down his hand.

“Fuck, y/n. I need to be in you,” he begs, “please.”

His big red eyes stare up at you, looking deep into your soul. It’s dangerous, you think, because you’ll never be able to say no to him when that’s all he has to do. 

Not that you’d ever want to.

With one more stroke, you line his dick up to your entrance. His hand joins yours, rubbing your wetness over him as he teases you with his tip. It doesn’t last long, he needs this as much as you do.

Looking into his eyes, you lower onto him slowly. The stretch is a lot, which you expected. It’s been a while, you didn’t have a lot of time for foreplay, and he’s not exactly small. Still, you’ll take every bit of the feeling if it’s him. Tenko breathes in sharply, fingers digging into your ribs. Neither of you look away.

“We still have to be quiet though,” you whisper, pausing as you reach his base. “Anyone could walk past the door and it echoes in here with the high ceilings.”

He nods.

Your movements start small then increase. It doesn’t take long for the ache to fade and he starts to feel good.  

Really good.

Your pace quickens, back arching to press into him as deep as you can. You've waited forever for this and you need as much of him as you can take. He moves to match your tempo, meeting you in the middle.

Tenko grips the front of your shirt, yanking you closer with every thrust. The sound of you both reverberates from every wall.

“Just like that, Ten. You feel so good,” you murmur. 

You weren’t sure what to expect your first time with him, but you’ve had thoughts. You’ve been dreaming of this for so long, playing out every way it could possibly go. Somehow, this is even better than you ever imagined. 

He never struck you as the type to have a lot of experience, but then again he’s read books on everything to make up for it.

Tenko fucks you like he needs it. Hips pressing into you with force, pace slightly off when he’s too worked up. Still, so much of what he’s doing is deliberate. The way he adjusts the angle with your moans. How his hand rests on the top of your thigh, thumb reaching over to massage your clit as he pounds into you harder.

It’s all overwhelming. His touch, the soft smell of him all around you. This is finally happening and you still can’t believe it. Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, knees giving as you fall into his chest. Tenko catches you, holding you close to him. Waves of pleasure surge through you, leaving you breathless. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders, teeth latching onto the soft skin at the bottom of his neck.

“Fuck, y/n, I’m gonna cum,” Tenko groans.

“Please cum for me,” you reply, needing everything he can give you. His hips slam into you as he holds you as close as possible. For a moment you forget where you are, the entire world outside of this room disappears. 

“Fuck,” laughs Tenko as you come to rest on his shoulder, “I can’t believe we did that.” 

The two of you pull most of your clothes back on, with him noting that you’re twins now after you bit his neck. You know you should go and get cleaned up but he’s so cuddly and you need a few more minutes close to him.

“Well,” you muse, “so much for taking it slow.”

“Can’t help it,” Tenko mumbles, drawing circles with his fingers in the area where your shirt dips below your collarbone. “I just feel like we've been together for so much longer.”

Your heart skips a beat at the way he casually refers to the two of you as “together.” You're about to ask what that means to him when he continues. 

“So, uh, I've been trying to ask for a month now, but didn't find the right time. I guess better late than never though. Can I take you out for coffee or something?”

“Yeah,” you answer a little too quickly, he doesn't mind. “When are you free?”

“Tomorrow at noon?”

“Perfect.”

The two of you lay in silence for the few minutes you have left here, happy. With his leg wrapped over you and arms pulling you closer as well, the oversized table is a reasonable enough space to cuddle. 

You have no doubts the couch you chose will be even more perfect for this.

[series masterlist] [bnha masterlist]

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[galina]

New year, new book

[writerofautumnnights]

A Dance with the Devil

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

pairing: Elias “Stack” Moore x Black!OC

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

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

word count: 4,7K

-

The Green Mill - Chicago, 1929

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

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

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

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

The Green Mill was buzzing despite it being only Tuesday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two bodies floating in the river,

Enough bullets to erase names, stories, families.

Now reduced to mere statistics – and silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir. Sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why are you telling me this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?” she asked, alarmed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

Heyyyyyyyy,

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

~

[stacksattack]

go my scarab etc

[triflingthing]

I’ll take the entire tree xx

[liv-spence]

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

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

[kingshook1]

[mammons-lover]

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

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

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

Lucifer (staring in shock): Mammon…

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

[roisian]

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

[authenticfashionstatements]

Count It Up

[dk-thrive]

Power Plant at Twilight. 7:16 a.m. 27° F. January 6, 2025. Cove Island Park, Stamford, CT. (@dkct25)

[deadhands69]

In The Stacks Part 1: Thunder, Rain, & a Boy Who Doesn't Know His Name

Tomura Shigaraki x Reader

A mysterious library patron catches your eye, seeking information about his past life. You help him, stirring up your own past in the process. Contains: gn/afab reader, SMUT, cussing, mentions of injuries/violence, obsessive/yandere leaning behavior, spoilers.

this is part 1 [next] [series masterlist]

"Do you understand the violence it took to become this gentle?"

- Nitya Prakash

The storm rages outside, rain pummeling the old windows. In contrast, it’s a quiet night at work. Nearly everyone was sent home early, with the exception of you and your manager who is covering the circulation desk four floors down. Floods are expected to block bus lines for most of the night, but that’s fine. You live two blocks from here anyways so you offered to stay until closing in case anyone comes in. 

Barely anyone does. It’s not just the staff missing, the library is also void of most patrons tonight. You figure that’s to be expected with weather like this. A sudden crack of thunder nearly makes you jump out of your skin, but you keep walking. There’s someone you need to find and you get the feeling he’s not so easily put off by a storm.

The orderly rows of books on one side of you stretch from floor to ceiling in their carefully constructed places. They're in stark contrast with the rain flowing organically down the windows to your left. Another clap of thunder shakes the floor beneath you, but this time you're not so easily startled. You take a deep breath and focus on your task.

In his usual spot sits a man with long white hair and deep red eyes. The oversized hood of his sweatshirt is pulled up, nearly obscuring his face. He’s a bit odd in a way you find absolutely fascinating. For the past month he’s been spending time here, he has never checked out a book or used one of the computers. The books you do see him reading jump between genres almost daily and he never seems to finish any of them. He’ll skip from books on prison design one day to Shakespearean theater the next. You still aren’t sure what he’s doing here all the time. 

Yet you see him every day, like clockwork. He arrives fifteen minutes after you’ve punched into your shift at four pm. Sitting in the same spot on the fourth floor until ten minutes before closing, when he promptly leaves and disappears into the night.

After watching him from afar for so long, you were ecstatic to have an excuse to finally talk with him last week. You were shelving books, as you typically would at that hour, when a gravelly voice spoke behind you.

“Hey, uhm” he said tentatively, waiting for you to turn around, “I, uh, need help finding the next book after this. I forgot where I found it.”

You were surprised to see him on that floor. It was the fifth floor when he usually sits on the next one down. In any case, you jumped at the opportunity. Setting the book you were shelving back on the cart, you gave him your full attention. 

“Absolutely, which one is it?” 

He handed you a book. A very dry looking text on evolutionary biology, part one of a five part series. Gesturing to a shelf, he continued “It should be here, right? It’s not though.”

“Oh, I see what happened,” you reply. “It’s confusing, but you were close. You see these numbers on the bottom line? They don’t work the way the ones above do. Instead of being one full number, they’re separate digits. So, we find six, then eight, then four, then five. It’s not very intuitive. This means the next part should be,” you drag your finger over the shelves to the bottom, “right around here.”

“Huh,” he adds, standing remarkably close to you for someone you’ve never seen speak to another person before. “You seem to know a lot about this.” 

Then he smiled at you, stretching the scar that splits through the side of his lips. A pretty smile. One that would certainly make its way into your dreams for the rest of the week. Blushing slightly at the compliment, you leaned down to the bottom of the bookcase, busying yourself more than necessary. 

“How long have you been working here, anyways?” he continued.

“As long as I can remember,” you mumbled.

“As long as you can remember,” he repeated. “That’s a while to stick with a job. You must really like it here.”

“Yeah,” you said, coming to your feet again.

“Ever think about doing anything else?” he asked, likely just trying to keep the conversation going.

“No, just this,” you replied, a little too cheerfully. It’s a lie but you weren’t about to tell him you switched jobs after an injury stopped you from being able to continue at the last one. That’s not a conversation you wanted to have, at least not yet.

“Interesting,” he smirked, staring through you. You got the feeling he knew you weren’t telling him the whole truth, but he didn’t say anything else about it. You suddenly remembered why he was talking to you in the first place and shoved the book in his direction with a little too much force.

“Sorry,” you laughed awkwardly. Wanting to keep the exchange going, you scrambled at the next topic of conversation you could find. “Interested in protostomes?” you ask, glancing at the book in his arms.

“Not really.” Pink dusts over his cheeks as he scratches the side of his neck through the fabric of his sweatshirt. “I uh. I mostly just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”

His eyes continued to pierce through you as you processed what you just heard. He wanted to talk to you? 

“I’m y/n,” you said with a smile, “what’s your name?”

He stared at you for a moment, chewing the rough skin on his bottom lip. His eyes fell to his feet for a moment before his mouth parted. Looking back up at you, he stated matter of factly: “I don’t know.”

The mysterious man talked to you a few more times in the days that followed. Little things like asking where he could find a water fountain or re-explaining how call numbers work. A few days ago, he left an address with you, asking for more information.

“I remember this and know it’s important, somehow,” he explained. “But when I went there it’s a vacant plot. Can you help me find more about it?”

“Of course,” you said without hesitation.

And now, here you are. Copied article in hand, searching the library for someone who doesn’t know his own name. Your hands shake slightly, nervous about what he’ll do or say when you finally hand him the story of a family mysteriously disappearing in their demolished house, but you’ve put it off for days now. Maybe it’s for the best that you waited to do this while the library is practically empty.

However, when you approach him in his usual spot and hand the article to him, he has almost no reaction at all. He glances over it blank faced, folding the page neatly and tucking it into the front pocket of his backpack.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

“No problem,” you reply. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Okay,” he replies. 

Not knowing what else to say, you leave – going back to organizing the books on this floor. A few rows over, you find the wooden tab you marked your place with. Starting at the book before, you begin reading through the call numbers. 

Three-hundred fifty five point oh two…

“y/n?” a familiar voice grates behind you.

You turn to find him walking towards you, his backpack slung over one shoulder. Your heart pounds in your chest. His presence is enough to fill the whole room and he's not even trying. He approaches you, once more standing closer than most people typically do. His forehead tips towards yours as his stark white hair hangs on either side of his face. You can practically feel his breath on your skin as he quietly speaks. 

“Thanks,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirking into half a smile that makes your heart skip a beat. “As a thank you, can I–” An untimely clap of thunder rings out, shaking the whole building. You jump, startled, straight into his arms. He feels warm. Everything about him envelops you and before you know it your body is leaning in closer, without thinking. 

He is too. 

His beautiful red eyes flutter shut, chapped lips smashing into yours without hesitation. They're much softer than you expected and less fragile than they look. His backpack drops to the floor, immediately forgotten. One of your hands slips into his hood, tangling your fingers into his hair. The other grips his sweatshirt, desperately pulling him in closer. You've been waiting for this moment for so long, now you need every bit of him you can get. 

His lips move with yours, rolling his tongue over your own with confidence. One of his knees slides between your thighs, further intertwining the two of you. It's been a while since you've done anything like this, but you jump back into it quickly enough. With him, it's easy. Of course it is, you've never wanted anything more in your life than kissing him right now. 

His mouth moves down your jaw. Every breath you take is filled with him, something like fallen leaves but sweeter. You grip his hair harder, eliciting a gasp. He looks up at you while sucking in a breath, pale skin flushed and pupils blown wide. He's so hot like this and you certainly know what you'll be dreaming about tonight. 

Moments later, his teeth graze your neck. Not biting, but he kisses you with so much force that you feel it in the rest of your body. One of his hands cups your face while the other wraps around your lower back, holding you as he presses you back into the bookshelf. Wrapping your leg over his hip, you pull yourself in.

Footsteps echo up the stairs. Someone's coming. 

It takes everything in you to pull away, pressing him back. He goes willingly, grumbling slightly as he takes a step away. For a moment, his hands linger on your hips as he stands in front of you, eyes closed. He takes a few deep breaths to pull himself back to reality. His lips are swollen and his nose is pink from kissing you so hard, it's cute. 

The footsteps continue up a few floors, but it's close to closing time anyways. He steps away, picking up his backpack and adjusting his hoodie. 

Say something, you think. You know you're supposed to but your brain is elsewhere and slow to find the words. “Uhm, I’ll see you around…”

“Tenko,” he says, patting his backpack where he stashed the article.

“Tenko,” you repeat. He moves a strand of your hair behind your ear before giving you one last kiss, pulling on a mask, and turning for the stairs to leave.

Shortly after, your manager calls for you. The other floors are all clear of patrons, you’re free to go home a few minutes early while she turns off the lights.

“Get home safe,” she says, back turned to you as she gestures at the tree branches bending in the wind outside the window.

“You too,” you yell up the stairs before grabbing your belongings and exiting into the storm.

The rain is falling so heavily, you’re drenched through your jacket before you make it to the end of the block. There’s a thick layer of water over the sidewalk which you wouldn’t mind if you weren’t also in a thunderstorm and at risk of being electrocuted. You start to run.

On the way to your apartment, you can see the signs above the bus station in the distance. All of them are all flashing ‘delayed’ with at least a three hour wait on them. Tenko walks just ahead of you. Wherever he’s going, he won’t make it far.

“Hey,” you shout after him, “Tenko!”

He turns, white hair in clumps from the rain. “Hey, y/n,” he smiles back at you, as if the bad weather is nothing. 

“You should come with me until the storm dies down a bit, I live near here.”

Tenko looks surprised then considers the offer for a moment before responding, “yeah, sounds great. Thank you.”

You run a little to catch up to him, before pulling him through the door into your building half a block down. The warm air surrounds you, invitingly. 

“Come on,” you hit the elevator button and it dings immediately. “You can warm up in my apartment until the buses are running again.”

The sight of yourself on the reflective elevator wall is almost alarming. Your hair’s a mess, lips puffy, and your neck is reddened where he was kissing you. All that on top of being drenched from the downpour. Still, you feel almost giddy. 

As Tenko enters the elevator, you notice the way his sweatshirt clings to him under his backpack. The fabric stretches over the muscles in his back and chest, flexing as he moves. Everything in you wants to jump on him again. But you've waited too long for this and don't want to fuck it up by making him think that's all you want from him. Plus, you invited him back to your room to warm up and don't want to make him feel uncomfortable if the two of you have different expectations. 

You tap your keycard before hitting the number 16 to your floor. Taking advantage of the sliver of self control you have left, you continue. 

“Uhm,” you clear your voice, “about earlier. I-I don’t usually do things like that. I mean, I do, just not that fast.”

“Oh,” Tenko’s eyes widen, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you or anything. I don’t either. Usually. It’s just… you’re different. I feel like I’ve known you for a while, even if it’s just been a week.”

“Yeah,” you agree, “I feel like that too.” 

“We can slow things down though. I don’t expect you to make out with me every time you see me. Especially when you're at work. That would be ridiculous," he adds, sounding more like he's reminding himself than talking to you.

Slow it is then, you think to yourself. It’s a nice thought, but you wonder how long it will last. Now that you know touching him is an option, slowing things down will be a whole lot easier said than done. 

The elevator dings and the doors open to your floor. He walks out ahead of you, turning down the hallway towards your apartment. “It's this one,” you point at a door halfway down before unclipping your keys from your backpack and letting him in. 

For a moment, your hand hovers over the light switch when you remember the state your apartment is in. The space is small, a one bedroom that feels more studio sized. In spite of this, it’s still pretty barren. Like many people, your last home was destroyed in the final war. Some fight between fire and ice, you were told. Your old job helped you get back on your feet to an extent, which is lucky – that’s not a privilege most people had. Still, you haven’t had a chance to buy new furniture or decorate. It's not quite the first impression you'd like him to have. At least it's clean.

You also have a kettle, time to lean into what you can offer. “Do you want a cup of tea or something?” 

“Sure,” he says, kicking his shoes off and peeling away his soaking wet sweatshirt. You try not to notice the way his v-neck underneath still clings to him. “Anywhere I should put this? I feel bad dripping all over your apartment.”

“No, it's totally fine! I am too. Uhm, just hang it on the doorknob.” He does so, adding to the puddles you're both creating in the entryway. You've taken off your outer layers and thrown them to dry over the backs of the two small dining room chairs you own. You'll definitely need to mop tomorrow, but that's okay. 

“What flavor of tea do you want?” you ask from the kitchen. 

Tenko joins you, still standing closer than most people comfortably would. Sifting through the options while the water heats up, he eventually lands on chamomile. The two of you settle down onto the floor of your living room in front of a heating vent, both wrapped under a shared blanket. He doesn't seem to notice your lack of typical household amenities or if he does, he's doing a great job of hiding it. Everything feels normal with him.

“What made you move here anyways,” he asks, between sips of tea. “To this area?”

“Convenience, mostly. It's close to work and everything is within walking distance. How about you?”

“I guess I just ended up here, but I stayed because,” Tenko blushes from behind your mug.

“Oh, come on.” You urge, “it can’t be that bad.” 

He raises what little eyebrows he has at you. 

“Really,” you insist. “I won't judge.”

Tenko looks at you skeptically but continues anyway. 

“Uh, this is stupid but I stayed because I liked someone and thought I’d have a chance with them.” Suddenly you regret asking.

“Oh,” you say, voice a little higher than you mean for it to be. “I uh, is that–”

“No, no, no. Sorry, uh, that’s not like– you don’t have to worry about anything. There’s not like someone else in my life or anything,” Tenko frantically scrambles to clarify. “No one will be upset with you for kissing me.”

“Well, still. I’m sorry that didn’t work out.”

He smiles, “no you’re not.”

“No,” you laugh, “I’m not. You’re right. I just hate that something didn't work out for you. I don’t want you to be upset.” It still stings a little having heard that he’s just here because he had feelings for someone, but he’s here with you now, not anyone else, and you tell yourself that’s what counts. “I can’t believe anyone would ever miss a chance with you.”

Tenko’s cheeks turn a deeper shade of pink, he tries hiding behind the mug as he takes a sip, eyes glued on you, but you can still see how flushed he is. It’s adorable.

“Really,” he drops the cup from in front of his face, “I’m okay. I really am. It's not like that.” He smiles bashfully. His spare hand meets yours, pinky rubbing lightly over your knuckles. “Besides, I kissed someone today and I’m pretty excited to see where that goes. I couldn’t be better.”

Tenko’s eyes meet yours and it feels like he’s staring into your soul. Setting his empty mug aside, he moves yours too. Once more, he leans in to kiss you – this time much sweeter and less hurried than the last. 

“Hmm,” he mumbles, as he pulls away, “and then I kissed you today too.” You scoff, hiding a laugh pushing him back. In response, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you to the floor with him, blanket still tangled around your limbs. 

“There’s no one else,” he whispers into your ear, “you don’t have anything to worry about. I'm all yours, I promise.” Tenko smiles and everything you’ve been trying to hold together crumbles apart. 

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[galina]

The stacks are getting out of hand again

[ongawdclub]

D a f f y D u c k

[stacksattack]

Beetle event 👍