#fuck i already regret making rivulets so detailed

[mizzyislost]

some fun game night shenanigans, with my slightly tweaked anthro designs!

original image for the middle two drawings!

and i feel like we’ve definitely all already seen that old “””draw the squad board game base””” or whatever, but here it is anyways for convenience!

[cryptiql]

riptide

pairing: dabi/m!reader

warnings: smoking, some mildly suggestive flashbacks + detailed descriptions of drowning. as always, please do not read forward if any of the listed warnings might trigger you in any way, and stay safe <3

words: 4.9k

a/n: welcome to the sequel of smoke signals. perish :)

dabi made a mistake. the knowledge sits in the bottom of his stomach like a lump of lead; his innards twisting into a knot whenever the memory of you crosses the expanse of his sleep deprived mind. the burns under his eyes might as well be bags, but they aren't large enough to bear the weight of his guilt. it isn't much better sitting on his shoulders, but the repercussions of pain are what keep him from letting it go, and that's exactly what he wants. no—it's what he deserves. he deserves the feeling like his head is going to burst; the ache in his spine from too many hours spent hunched over himself with a bottle clutched between his shaking hands; the burning intensity from overuse of his quirk. the extra inches of marred skin serve as reminders of what he did, but it's not half as satisfying when the pain doesn't last.

he wants to scratch at the wounds until they ooze that bitter garnet liquid; until he's suffocated by the metallic scent and forced to endure as the taste of blood engraves itself on his tongue when he chokes on it. he wants to suffer—the slower the better—because not even the strongest alcohol can cleanse his sins, nor the stench of his regret.

dabi made a mistake. it won't be the last time, he's able to admit, because his ego is too shriveled from the lack of your warmth, and his heart yearns for the passion of your kiss that still lingers on his lips. when the loft echoes with fragments of the city's ambience, drowning him in an incessant racket, he longs for the lighthouse. this place is infested with selfish ingrates, scuttling about in search of the next outcast to torment, and it makes him wish he still had that safe space at the shore. your siren song was a drug to put him at ease, and now he is without it, and the withdrawal has taken effect.

he knew this would come to pass. dabi overdosed on your love; your affection; your everything; all while watching the consequences unravel at a snail's pace, almost as if he were being teased by the inevitable end. he let it happen. he did this to himself, so he won't shake his hands at the sky, cursing gods he doesn't know exist; as if they would concern themselves with the faults of men like him.

he knew this would happen.

but then, so did you. you had to have known by the empty space in your bed where he used to lay; by the dates that kept getting postponed and the meaningless promises made to make up for them; by the shortage of visits, even just to say "hello" before he dropped from the face of the earth once more. if this were true, it meant that you were suffering just the same—nay, more than him, by forcing yourself into a state of compliance whenever he told you it was time for him to go. dabi could pretend like he didn't see your fingers twitching; resisting the urge to reach out for him; just as he could pretend like the rivulets of tears on your cheeks did not exist, though they begged to be swept away by him. god, he wants to hold your face again, noses brushing together and your dreamy sighs melding with his raspy laughter.

he had told himself that you wouldn't deter him from his goal, but even that seems like a pipe dream now. he feels like an underachiever, chasing a future that can't be set in stone when he already had you, which should have been enough. dabi realizes that the flames of his own passionate desire for freedom have burned you in the process, and it hurts more than he can put into words. you were always better with words, he reminisces, tracing the coffee stained parchment sitting in his pocket.

dabi has long since stopped reading the letters you sent, but he still carries them with him wherever he goes. they anchor him to both earth and sky; the reality that he's lost you, threatening to swallow him from under his feet; and the hope that he'll find you again, one day, after all this is over. "and just what do you think you're doing?"

you can see his reflection in the stove's glass sheen, his mouth drawn up into a devious smirk as he leans on the bedroom doorframe, clad in nothing but his briefs from the previous night. the purplish burns scaling his collarbone and abdomen give him a roguish look that—if you possessed no self-restraint—would normally have you lunging at him like a starved beast. you manage to smirk back at him, subtly shaking your hips while opening the stove door to pull out the doughy mound of bread inside. to your delight, you hear him grumble something not-so family-friendly before he snakes his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. you had never once thought that the feeling of staples against your skin would feel so good, but now you can hardly imagine being without it, and you immediately melt into dabi's touch.

he breathes softly in your ear, chuckling when you flinch in response, goosebumps stippling your flesh. by the way your cheeks puff out in embarrassment, he should take that as a sign to stop, but fuck, your pouting is just too cute for him to resist, especially when your worship-able body is basking in the afterglow of dusk. you keen when dabi starts peppering your shoulder blades with kisses, but nearly dropping the pan causes your senses to return, and you whisper a plea. luckily, he appears to be in a merciful mood, because he relents his onslaught of affection to rest his chin in the crook of your neck.

when he finally notices what you're making, he can't help but squeeze you tighter.

"is that a cake?"

you turn to give him a peck on the nose, which is rewarded with a halfhearted snap of his teeth just millimeters from your mouth.

"that'd be right. though, i'm astonished you know which way is up after last night." your sing-song tone of voice spurs him to squeeze your thigh, and you would have shooed him away if not for how much you liked it. dabi murmurs something unintelligible, the vibrations shooting straight down your spine, and proceeds to remove himself from you in order to better observe the baked delicacy.

"mm. what's it for?" he asks, discretely swiping a bit of the pink colored icing from the bowl to his right. sweet, but not sickeningly so.

you are none the wiser when dipping a spatula into the contents and smoothing it over the cake, a soft smile playing at your lips.

"you never told me when your birthday is, so i'm taking a wild guess. figured i'd whip this up as a surprise, but you woke up earlier than i suspected." dabi swears that his heart is about to burst from behind his ribcage, and all because you're too goddamn perfect. you may as well be a priceless work of art in museum that he's been prohibited from touching. however, the fading marks on your skin signify that he's done more than just touch, and he takes pride in the fact you can't seem to move further than two steps in any direction without faltering.

"i know angel food cake is your favorite—" dabi silences you with a kiss; bruising and passionate; and takes the spatula from your hand, blindly setting it aside on the counter. your protests are short-winded as he lifts you from your behind before promptly turning the oven off and spinning on his heel. he's memorized these halls well enough to not bump into anything during his trek back to the bedroom. you pull away, albeit with a hint of reluctance, just to glare at him.

"what about the—" dabi kisses you again, and while you don't seem too happy about being interrupted twice in a row, the shared heat between your bodies distracts you from being upset.

"you're off by about two months, doll. besides, i think i'd much rather have you as a late birthday treat."

dabi clenches his jaw at the memory, his knuckles whitening with how tenaciously he grips the tattered fabric of his jeans. the league's new base is just as rundown and close to crumbling as he feels, but his despair is masked by the rage that overpowers it. why couldn't you have been a normal couple? why couldn't dabi have grown up with a father who loved him; with a quirk that didn't gradually destroy him and without the resulting scars that made him a hideous monster in the eyes of all who saw him? why couldn't he be as beautiful on the inside as you said he was on the outside? why couldn't he just be happy, after all this time?

why? why? why?

dabi finds his answer hidden in the ashen battleground strewn with rubble and remnants of burnt remains. he finds it in the fear of his victims' expressions before the snare of death claims them in a flourish of blue inferno. it's written there in bold, ichor dripping from his fingers as they smear the message with red.

the privilege of living a normal life is, and always will be, beyond his reach. murder does not warrant mercy, and the only person willing to give it to him is miles away, still desperate for him to come back.

as fate would have it, you and dabi lived worlds apart, but you still look at the same sunset; the same array of stars forming constellations that told stories of your life shared together. they replay in his head like a record stuck on repeat, and only when the song ends does he find himself back in the clutches of his childhood trauma, rather than your embrace.

"dabi? dabi!" his trademark scowl automatically takes place when a finger prods and pulls at his cheek, the familiar voice of twice shaking him from his deep contemplation. jin has been so unfortunate as to suffer minor scorches from the ravenette's flames, on account of him being too bothersome at the wrong moments, and so he instantly backs away at the first indication of danger brewing in the air around him. with how on edge he's felt lately, he really should have gone on a walk to relieve some stress, but the looming knowledge that he can't go to the lighthouse would only ruin the trip.

dabi is fully prepared to smack jin's hand away until he sees what he's holding. he'd recognize that handwriting anywhere, and even without it, the scent of saltwater and freshly baked bread clings to the paper, altering him of yet another one of your efforts to communicate with him. dabi feigns indifference towards the object; quite the contrary to his thinning patience as twice waves it above his head excitedly.

"you've got mail! who's is from? probably a useless nobody! or maybe a secret admirer? but who would admire you?"

to his dismay, the commotion has grabbed toga's attention, and she veers over to their location with a giddy grin on her face. she all but drapes herself over dabi as he snatches the letter from jin, and it doesn't help his struggle when she clings to him like a koala. after a bout of kicking and shoving, he manages to break free of her grasp, grimacing at her lengthy, high-pitched whines of disapproval.

"and can you believe hawks was the one to deliver it? i didn't take him for a carrier bird. . ."

dabi doesn't hear the rest, nor does he intent to, because he's already making his way to the nearest exit with haggard breaths. whoever calls out for him and whatever they say are the last of his concerns right now, and they're abruptly cut off when he slams the door behind him. the summer heat wills beads of sweat to paint his forehead, but he soon finds comfort under the shade of a tree, cicadas buzzing noisily overhead. he would sooner keel over and die than thank the birdbrain hero for catering to him—and by extension, you—but now that the note is there, begging to be read, he can't help but feel some sort of gratitude.

"i need you to do something for me."

the bristles of hawks' feather hover over dabi's pulse in a threatening manner, but he feels no more in peril than he would at the cruelty of a baby chick. he knows the number two hero won't harm him, at least not without regretting it later, and this is the perfect time to use that to his advantage. hawks narrows his eyes at him, nose wrinkling in accord.

"why would i do anything for you after that stunt you pulled?" he snarls, and dabi almost has to laugh at the drastic switch in personality. the way he presents himself to the public is a true contrast compared to the persona only he and the league have had the pleasure of seeing.

"because if you don't, everyone will know you've been fraternizing with the enemy, and we wouldn't want number two falling off his high pedestal, now would we?"

this time, dabi audibly laughs when hawks' guise wavers. the other grits his teeth, slowly withdrawing the feather and allowing it to fall limp at his side. he revels in his victory, short though it be, and reaches into his pocket to procure a letter marked with your name and address. putting your location at the disposal of a hero isn't something he's proud of doing, but it's all he has left, and he doesn't have the resolve to tell you directly.

coward, his conscious mocks as he holds it out for hawks to take. the winged man stares at it with befuddlement, his movements stalling here and there when he seizes the paper between his thumb and pointer finger. dabi tuts lightly but menacingly, yanking hawks towards him by the wrist and igniting his quirk to leave a faint mark there.

"you're gonna deliver this for me, no questions asked. don't you dare open it."

despite the clear uncertainty, hawks took heed of the ominous demand and carried it out later that night. he had not expected a young man with tear-stained cheeks to greet him at the door, much less the endless babble of 'thank you's as you took the letter with shaking hands.

dabi hadn't wished for you to send one back, but the ongoing stream of them was considered fair, after he'd left without much of a trace. still, he had promised himself that he would never read them, for fear of it opening the wound inflicted by having to say goodbye.

dabi can't understand the sudden change of mind for the life of him, and yet, he finds that he doesn't care whether it opposes every rule he set to keep you safe—to keep himself safe. he tears open the envelope and slumps against the tree trunk, bark and leather grating together as he hesitantly unfolds the parchment, briefly shutting his eyes as a last act of resistance to the helpless cry from within; longing for the familiarity of your poetic words. instead of the delicate precision that was to be anticipated, dabi stared down at your messy scrawl, a carnal fear rising from within and causing his throat to clamp up. the memories begin to flash at a faster rate, like an old-timey picture film. dabi has just finished putting the kettle on to boil when hears the floorboards creak, followed by the sound of your slippers shuffling across the floor. he snickers, remembering that the only pair you have is the one he bought you; a well worn match that looks oddly like cloud bunnies. you've made sure to exemplify how much you love the gift by wearing them around the house on rainy or lazy days, all paired with a wistful smile. this morning is no different as you worm your way under dabi's hold and press your face into his chest, a satisfied groan escaping you when he cards his fingers through your hair and scratches the scalp.

the robe you wear is half-hanging from your shoulders, which makes for an enticing view from where dabi stands, but he simply kisses the crown of your head and continues waiting for the pot to simmer.

"did you hear that noise?" you slur, just barely discernable over the kettle's shrieking. dabi quirks a brow in question as you rub the leftover grogginess from your eyes, tiredly nodding at the back window.

"little past midnight, i think. coulda sworn i heard somethin' rifling around in the trash." dabi squints at this new information while eyeing your appearance. the dark circles and intermittent yawning indicate a lack of sleep, and if he weren't there to keep you steady, you might collapse onto the floor as a snoring heap. if it really disturbed him, he should have woken me up, he thinks, pulling you closer with an ever-deepening frown. you snuggle up to him as if it's second nature, sleepily giggling away when his digits stray too close to your side.

"s'probably raccoons, but if you're worried, i can stay longer just to make sure." you look up at him with nothing short of pure, unbridled adoration, cupping his face and squishing it gently, to your own entertainment. after a moment of consideration, you shake your head.

"nah, you're probably right."

the feeling hits dabi like a tidal wave, dragging him below the raging surface; far below where the light of day cannot touch. it suffocates him and brings rise to the sickening taste of bile on his tongue, but he doesn't have time to spare in throwing it all up, so he swallows it. withered patches of grass crunch under his feet as he peels himself from the tree and breaks into a dash, sparing your letter the flames fueled by his anguish as to let it drift in the breeze, the single sentence written on it already engraved in his mind.

it wasn't raccoons.

dabi doesn't care what shigaraki will have to say about this when he gets back. the only thing he cares about is that you'll still be alive to say anything to him when he reaches you, and that whoever has invaded your home is willing to die for what they've done, or what they're currently doing, and fuck—he isn't even sure if this is you calling for help or not, but he can't risk being right.

the distance between the base and the lighthouse feels lightyears apart, yet simultaneously at arms length when dabi is running at speeds he hasn't ever been able to achieve before. if he stumbles at any point during his sprint, or if he happens to bump into an unsuspecting civilian on the street, he doesn't notice. the resonant thumping of his own heartbeat is all that he can hear as he thanks the gods for the flow of traffic being so spaced out, otherwise it would be near impossible for him to reach you in time.

in time for what? he has to ask. dabi doesn't even want to think about the repercussions, but the scenarios arrive in rivulets despite the mental trapeze he goes through to push them down, and they only continue to grow into oceans; darker, colder and harboring thoughts too gruesome for even someone of his caliber to handle. he won't realize until much later that he'd forgotten to put on his disguise, but the way people ogle at him with fear and disgust does not suppress the need to protect you.

even now, he can sense the pressure building behind his eyes, though it's more painful that it used to be. dabi hasn't cried in months, and it shows by how unabating the rivers of blood trickle from his skin grafts, despite his feverish attempts to stop them. look at yourself, holding together by a thread and weeping in public like a child whose lost his mother in the crowd. it wouldn't have come to this if he had stayed.

something shifts in the scenery; a distinct line drawn between the city and its neighboring countryside; but it makes no difference to the impending peril that looms ahead. the closer he gets, the sooner he'll find you waiting for him, dead or alive. dabi staggers, his breath hitching at the thought, as well as the harsh sting of pain that erupts when his knee collides with the gravel below. he pushes himself forward in little time, a strangled yell ripping his throat raw as his vision settles on the top of the lighthouse, peeking over the hillside. you have to be there—you just have to. he isn't done with you yet, and you're sure as hell not done with him.

the earth is damp beneath his feet, and it soaks through the canvas of his shoes whilst he darts past the boulevard and onto your property, crying out to you. surely, you must hear him. surely—

dabi practically hurls himself at the front door, his blood running cold when it opens for him effortlessly and swings ajar to reveal the living room, upturned and scattered with broken bits and pieces of furniture. there's no sign of you or whoever did this. the oakwood flooring groans under his weight as he barrels down the hall, peering into every room, beneath your bed and any other place where you could be hiding. nothing. his search ends in vain at the front doorstep, where he stands hunched over and dry heaving. no, no, no. you can't be gone.

"y/n!" he shouts. his only response is the crashing of waves against the shore and the incessant cawing of seagulls. for a moment, dabi forgets how to breathe, and then the ability returns to him; his legs aching horribly as he rushes to the beach. the arrangement of rocks is sporadic at first, but they gradually form large clumps the further he carries on, urging him to squeeze between the narrower openings. it comes with some difficulty, but at last he is able to hobble onto the sandy coast and rest his sights upon the vast sea. he can recall when seeing its murky blue sea would have put him at ease, but now it only causes his senses to be clouded with distress.

"y/n!" the once calm ripples rise into rolling billows that drench the shoreline in frothy heaps of algae, wreckage and blood. it curls and disbands within the ocean to pollute its cerulean hues with ones of scarlet red, and just like that, dabi's heart sinks like the titanic. he'll never forget the sight of you, face-down in the water; your favorite shirt slashed to shreds, clinging to your body as nothing more than a tattered mess. dabi wades into the water until it reaches his ankles, completely numb to its freezing temperature as he sinks down to hoist you up. he rests you on his thighs and presses his lips onto yours with urgency, shortly pulling back so that he can thrust his palms upon your chest and push. he doesn't care to remember how many times he repeats this, but when he finally sits back on his haunches to release a stifled curse, the feeling of dread has only just begun to take control.

you've never looked so pale.

a guttural sob wrenches itself past his grinding teeth as more tears arise, dappling your cheeks like raindrops. it wracks his body and sends forth a surge of agony to course through his veins. dabi cups your face with a shaking hand, the other secured around your waist while he kisses you, his erratic pleas falling upon deaf ears.

"come back. . .come back." his bawling ceases to end, no matter the abrasive pain blossoming in his gullet.

"c'mon, doll. where's that sweet voice of yours?" his thumb strokes your bottom lip as though beckoning you to speak. when nothing follows, he makes a pathetic sniveling sound mixed with something broken; a blubber or whine, he does not know. the burden of your lifeless form causes the reality to set in; a dagger piercing his insides and twisting as to drag the most blood-curdling screams from him.

dabi loved you, and he wishes he had the strength to say it when you were still there. it was only within the presence of his own demons that he was able to utter his affections; curled into himself and waiting for a reply that would never come, carried on the wind that bit his skin. he loved you because you held him like a child when his father hadn't even the heart to acknowledge him as his own. you spoke his name—his real name—as though the blood on his hands was not there; like you had washed it away yourself through acts of tenderness that he did not deserve.

and now you're gone.

you're gone, and—

dabi's entire body jolts with a start, a familiar heat dancing across the grafts of his marred skin. a faint blue glow radiates from his fists, which are tightly fastened the weighted blanket that lays crumpled atop his legs. he lets go with a shuttering gasp, observing the black smudges that reside where his flames once were, then blinking owlishly at his surroundings. the room is shrouded in darkness, all save for the bedside table to the left of him that is dimly lit by a flickering oil lamp. that, and the spaces illuminated by the moon's brilliance, showering the floor with multicolored spots as it glistens through the stained glass window. something slots into place, but all it does is send dabi's mind into overdrive.

where is he? where are you? are you really dead? everything hurts.

his nails drag down the length of his arms, seeking some sort of comfort in the pain that blooms there. it doesn't last long, however, when the bed suddenly dips, and a soothing warmth is placed on the small of his back.

"touya?" you croak, your words lingering with the remnants of sleep. dabi—no—touya, swears that he could cry again, right then and there. his eyes flit over your torso, where several scars in varying sizes have desecrated the skin. as he idly traces the pink lines, one final memory surfaces from the depths of his subconscious. him, desperately pounding your sternum; the last threads of denial snapping in tune; and you, coughing and spewing both curses and whatever seawater that had clogged up your lungs. touya held you in that same position for hours, listening as your ragged wheezing turned into hiccupping sobs. hauling you inside had been no easy feat, and having to hear your muffled groans while he stitched you up by the crackling hearth was no better, but the evening after had been pleasant.

you could not recollect the face of the intruder, and with such little information to go off of, touya was left to wallow in self-loathing for love he had almost lost. no amount of therapy could prevent the following nightmares and panic attacks, but in time, the rekindling of your relationship was proved successful, and dabi was prepared to repay you for the moments where you consoled him.

it wasn't just a dream. it had all happened, and yet here you were, alive and well.

a pensive look crosses your features when you note how quiet touya is, and you take it as a sign to break the tension with a tried-and-true method from the past. he doesn't resist as you coo softly, pulling him under the covers and wrapping yourself around him, a garbled tune fleeing from past your lips before you press them to his shoulder. you trail the faintest of butterfly kisses along his neck, his jaw, his cheeks and so on. the anxiety coiled in touya's chest starts to untangle, leaving him as a trembling bundle of nerves in your arms as you shush him, your nimble fingers carting through his hair.

if he weren't so tired, he would have laughed at how the tables have turned; with you cradling him in the way he's so used to doing. still, not even he can deny that it feels nice to be held like this.

"s'alright sweetheart. i'm here. . ." you whisper, and the effect is instantaneous. touya stills as he inhales the scent of buttercream and fresh pine that wafts into the bedroom, his eyelids fluttering shut. all he can hope for is that your presence will drive away any nightmares that foreshadow his well-needed rest, and that when he wakes up in the morning, you'll still be at his side.

dabi made a mistake, and thousands more will come to pass, because underneath the grit and grime that makes up his callous exterior, there is a human being; struggling to survive and struggling to please, just as much as the next. but he'll never leave you again. he had promised you as such with the band of gold now encircling your ring finger, and as long as he lives, he'll never break it.

[mediioxumate]

i was listening to mal blum the other night, and got slammed with the urge to write about the night of the assassination. cw for heavy grief, dysphoria, disordered eating, passive self harm, vomiting, the works. ~2k words.

alternatively titled, goro akechi and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad night.. 

Your body looks to me A way it never has before And is this what's making you so sad, And what you did this for?

Shooting Akira - no - murdering Akira, does not feel like a victory. It doesn’t feel like a step towards his revenge and salvation.

It feels empty and repulsive. It feels like the burn of the acid in his throat as he dry heaves into the shitty toilet in his tiny bathroom in his cramped apartment. Every space is too small - it’s like he can’t get out of the interrogation room. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t. Another violent shudder racks his body as he gags again. 

His hair is stringy with sweat, sticking to his forehead, and the fingers white knuckling the porcelain edge don’t bother to pull it away or back, and he isn’t sure they can. This shouldn’t have been this hard, he’s never been this bad - not even after his first mission for Shido. But killing someone in the metaverse, they just… disappear. Palace rulers and Mementos denizens simply evaporate. Just an hour ago, he’d seen Akira- Kurusu’s eyes go dead, saw the blood drip, drip, drip down his face before his head dropped with a wet thud on the table. 

Fuck. Fuck.

Eventually, he can finally stand on wobbly legs, wandering towards his bedroom and stripping everything from his body. He’s already disposed of his gloves on his way home, for the first time finding them itchy and restrictive and claustrophobic. Now, his palms are littered with indents from the way his nails fiercely dug into them, grounding himself with the sting. 

Akechi means to take a shower. But for the time being, he can’t seem to move back to the bathroom, another wave of nausea passing through him just at the thought. Instead, he turns slowly, cautiously towards the mirror in his room. 

Strange. It’s like looking at a picture - maybe some kind of abstract film. He’s looking through his eyes, but he can’t seem to place the boy in the mirror. Their scars match, and the hair is right enough, he supposes. With his make up sweated off, his complexion is uneven, and the bags under his eyes are so intense they could be some kind of weird fashion trend. The boy looking back at him feels so removed from what he’s crafted and built up. It’s the most intense dysphoria and dysmorphia he’s had since he was still being passed foster home to foster home. This body is not his. It looks different - and yet exactly the same. 

The hand in the reflection mirrors the movements of his own, drawing over the pallid skin of his torso, fingers lingering over the scars on his chest. His posture has deteriorated, hunching as he hopes to curl in, in, inward until he swallows himself whole. 

His hip bones and ribs jut out just slightly, just muscles on bone. It’s laughable. Strip away layer after layer, turn them into walls, and this is what’s left. Some sad excuse for a person. 

His eyes scan the frame in the mirror one more time before he resolves to shower. He needs to turn the stream on as hot as it will go, and scrub every inch of skin until it’s raw. It still won’t be enough - he’s never going to feel clean again and he knows it. How had he ever thought the clip of Okumura kicking it on national television prepared him for murdering Aki- no - Kurusu?

Beaten and broken enough, under the stream his thoughts wander to where he’s been avoiding all night. Akira is the only one who’s… gotten through to him, in so long. Of course he had to go and be the fucking leader of the Phantom Thieves. That really is just the way of Goro’s life, huh? He doesn’t want Akira to be dead, and doesn’t want to have it be at his hand. His apartment feels hollow and empty, and the thoughts he’d had, that maybe one day - one day he could bring A- Kurusu here. 

It was a stupid thought, he knew it was a stupid thought, and yet here he is, skin pink and stinging under the water, body racked with sobs bubbling out of his chest. He doesn’t know how to deal with regret, the new wave of nausea. He’s never questioned himself, ever since he saw the pale, lifeless form of his mother, he’s never questioned his drive to get back at the pitiful man that is his father. It’s always been worth it, always about him, damn whoever gets in his way, damn the collateral damage. Then he’d met Kurusu, and then Sakura-chan and Okumura-san and suddenly, his actions became a painful, stark reality. 

Until then, he’d always considered his targets collateral. Stupid elites and researchers who don’t know how to stay out of the way. Each one just another disposable pawn. But, suddenly, he goes from knowing unsettling details about Wakaba Isshiki’s daughter, to seeing her. Seeing her struggling to acclimate still, but also bouncing back because she has a support system - and the Okumura girl too. 

Goro Akechi thinks he might be fucking jealous. 

Jealous! After all he’s done, and all he’s been through, he’s fucking jealous. 

There’s no surface in the world abrasive enough to scrub himself of these feelings. Instead, in some kind of weird absurdity, he shaves every inch of his body from the neck down, leaving countless slips and nicks in the way. Nothing intentional - never intentional - but certainly not being cautious with his movements by any means. He runs the razor over his skin again and again, until there’s nothing else he could possibly scrape away, even if he wanted to. 

At some point, he realizes the water is running cold. And he’s shivering.

The steam against the cold water is a strange sensation. Some kind of awful, mocking poetry about his life he supposes, meshing things that simply should not be together. Hollow, cracking laughter fills his ears, and belatedly it registers that the sound is coming from him. Perhaps it’s him that’s lost it this time. Wouldn’t that be funny? Maybe one of the little thieves have finally caved, maybe that’s why he’s reacting - he’s been bested by his own trick! That must be it, right? That he’s having some kind of mental shutdown. It’s the only explanation. 

Why is that more comforting to him than accepting that he may have been attached to Kurusu? The thought is jarring, out of left field. He doesn’t need to accept that - doesn’t need to accept anything. Damn it- damn it.

He shuts the water off. 

For a moment, he considers sitting right there on the shower floor, considers sitting on the cold, hard ground until he dries off, dries up, shrivels away. Instead, he steps out of the shower, standing on his sorry excuse for a bath mat that’s just a dish towel, feeling the rivulets of water drip from his hair and travel down his raw, oversensitive skin. What’s your secret, Detective Prince? How do you exfoliate, Akechi? How do you stay so slim? How is your skin so clear? You have such a soft, young face! Do you even wear makeup Akechi?

He towels off. 

One more moment as he considers retching into the toilet again, it’s right there after all. His stomach is still churning despite being as empty as it possibly could be. But he’s exhausted, he doesn’t think he has the energy even for that, though he’s fairly certain sleep will not come either. Not that he deserves it. 

Quietly, he moisturizes his raw skin, despite the sting. Tomorrow, he has another TV appearance, where the capture and suicide of the leader of the Phantom Thieves will have just been announced. And he will make a statement against him, call him a coward. He will flaunt his assumptions about the age of the vigilantes, and he will call the death a cowardly tragedy. Desperately, he works to rebuild that walls that have crumbled tonight. The interviewers will rip him apart without his mask. 

All he can manage to put on are some soft, worn boxers before collapsing into the bed in the corner of his room. 

Idly, he wonders, now that Kurusu is out of the way, when Shido will dispose of him. How. It’s bound to happen, he can only simply hope that he gets there first. But even now, the fire is burning low. He’s tired - so, so fucking tired. This is all that’s been powering him for so long, but after tonight, he doesn’t want to do this anymore. Idly, his fingers trace the scars on his chest again. It feels dirty, and wrong, and attached to Shido. Seems he traded dysphoria for complete alienation from his body. But at least his chest is flat, right? At least his jaw is sharper, his voice deeper, his hips slimmer. At least, at least, at least. 

The affirmations are tired. It gets harder, each day to believe them, to justify any of this. He’s so angry at the world, he’s always been angry, and this has always been the only way. But each stumbling, criminal confession sits heavy on his doubt. And now it’s snapped and collapsing under the weight of Kurusu’s head hitting the metal table. 

His mind wanders, now, to the bruises and cuts on every visible inch of skin. The way Akir- Kurusu flinched when he moved, the hazy look in his eyes, no doubt from the drugs. He hadn’t even said a word, simply stared back at… back at Goro. Looked him in the eyes, lips forming a small, surprised ‘o’ as Akechi tried to monologue, to justify, to convince Kurusu and himself that this was the only way. He hadn’t flinched, hadn’t moved a muscle, even with a gun to his forehead, he’d simply let it happen. 

That brilliant boy, with so much fight in him, had just sat there. Just fucking sat there.

And Akechi, ever weak, almost thought about shooting the handcuffs off instead, defying Shido, taking him into hiding. They weren’t going to examine the body anyway, he could hide Akira at his apartment maybe, maybe he could still switch sides. Maybe it wasn’t too late for him. But as blood pooled around the guard on the floor, there was no coming back from it. He’s a murderer. Plain, clear as day. So he simply did as he was taught, did as he should have. And he shot the leader of the Phantom Thieves. 

Another laugh leaves him, weaker this time, quieter. And before long, the laughter twists and changes over to sobs. They’re rough, and his face feels gaunt and empty, like he’s taken all of the moisture out of it. 

He’s so worthless. He’s always known it, and now he can’t even muster the strength for his one cause, the one thing he’s dedicated himself to. Pathetic. All because of a stupid boy with messy hair, who was never afraid to disagree with him, who made Akechi believe, fleetingly, that he could have better, that there wasn’t just Akechi inside him, but Goro too. Akira with his stupid plush lips, stupid fake glasses, stupid competitive grin, the way he would bump his foot into Goro’s under the table at the jazz club, the way he danced his way into Goro’s life, attached there like a fucking parasite. The way he still invited Goro out, even after he said he hated him. 

And now, Akira is...gone. 

More laughter bubbles up in his chest, but this time he can’t stop. Hysterical laughter and sobs become one in the same, wracking his entire body until sleep finally, finally wins. 

[zutaras-where-its-at]

Zutara Month Day 1: Vigilantes

Summary: Centuries ago, it was common for humans to hold power over nature. Now, those with the rare ability are called ‘elementals,’ and they are feared by society. It’s a good thing, then, that Zuko wears a mask. [modern au // part 1]

He can’t hear a damn thing over the rushing of his own blood in his ears and the harsh breaths rattling his lungs. The skin of his cheeks feels damp underneath his porcelain mask, and beads of sweat trickle from his jawline, down the curve of his taut neck, and into the hem of his black shirt.

With a grunt of effort, he vaults over a metal trash-bin and stumbles into an empty alley, all the while willing his legs to function just long enough for him to find a place to rest. The bullet wound in his left bicep throbs viciously at the thought.

“Shit. Fuck.”

Police sirens jab at his barely-contained panic, but the faster he sprints down the alley, the quieter they become. The pain in his arm has evolved from sharp stabs to a pulsing kind of hell that demands all of his attention, and as he nears the end of the alley, all he can afford to think is—get it out get it out get it out.

It is due to this overwhelming agony that the only thing Zuko will be able to recall from this moment later on is the pounding of his stuttering feet, a neon green sign with the words ‘veterinary clinic,’ and the harshness of the fluorescent lights after he stumbles in.

The waiting room is empty, which isn’t incredibly surprising considering it’s 11:30 PM on a Tuesday night.

A tinkling bell attached to the door announces his entrance. He leans his good shoulder heavily on the wall beside it, attempting to focus on inhaling and exhaling deep breaths. As his vision starts to blur, he can’t help but bitterly think that every movie he’s ever seen has grossly understated the pain of real gunshot wounds.

The tapping of footsteps manages to distract him, and he looks up to see a woman stepping out from behind the receptionist’s desk. Through the narrow holes of his mask, he just manages to make out her pristine white coat, golden-brown complexion, and wide blue eyes before she is half-dragging, half-pushing him towards the back of the clinic.

Before he can even protest, she’s guided him into a plastic chair and has cut through the blood-soaked sleeve of his shirt with a pair of medical scissors. She sits on a stool to his side and dabs at the now exposed wound with a wad of gauze, face tight in concentration.

“Are you injured anywhere else?”

Her voice is soft, but as clinical as the rest of her. When he shakes his head in response, the world briefly tilts on its axis.

The doctor huffs. “Well, technically I’m not licensed to operate on human beings, but this hardly seems like the time to observe protocol.”

The latex gloves that he doesn’t remember seeing her put on are already smeared with his blood, but she hardly looks fazed as she prods gently at his wound. He manages to see a fleshy crater of oozing red about the width of his pinky finger before he turns his head away.

“It looks like the bullet entered and exited your body without hitting your bone or shattering into multiple pieces, which is good, but we’ll need to take an x-ray in a minute to determine how severe the damage is.”

The thought of a bullet passing completely through his arm has him feeling more than a bit nauseous, so he resolutely stares at the framed poster on the wall in front of him—it’s a picture of a cute kitten dangling from a tree branch and the words ‘hang in there’ printed across the top—in order to distract himself from his rolling stomach.

The doctor is doing something to his arm that makes it ache, but he remains still. She mutters a regretful, ‘this is gonna hurt,’ before a cold cotton ball swipes over his wound and a sharp stinging sensation floods his senses.

He winces when she repeats the motion but is assuaged by the fact that she cannot see his face behind his mask.

Finding the motivational cat poster a little too morbidly ironic to adequately keep his attention away from the pain, he turns his gaze to the good doctor. Her thick brown hair is pulled back into one fraying braid that trails over her shoulder and tickles his forearm. She’s younger than he had initially thought, and he takes careful note of her heart shaped face and button nose. If it wasn’t for the firm set to her jaw or the disciplined steadiness of her nimble hands, he would have assumed her to be some intern with a proclivity for misplaced self-confidence.

She begins to sterilize the exit wound on the opposite side of his bicep, and he can’t help but reflexively flinch away from her touch. The sudden movement causes the first wound to leak more blood that quickly runs down his arm in crimson rivulets. Her hand jerks back and she inhales once through her teeth.

He expects her to grit her teeth and continue meticulously cleaning his wound, but she only looks hard into the eyes of his mask with an expression he can’t quite decipher. Her stillness is ominous and out-of-place, and he feels the muscles in his back tense in reaction to her heavy scrutiny. He mentally prepares himself and thinks that, if it should come down to it, he can probably incapacitate her and hightail it out of the clinic before the cops show up. Though, a small part of him thinks that he just might pass out from the effort it would take.

Blood is still flowing steadily down his arm when she finally breaks eye contact and leans back slightly on her stool. His feet shift subtly into a position more suitable for supporting his weight, but before he can move, she’s speaking again.

“I don’t know if elementals have some kind of honor code that they follow, but if they do, I hope confidentiality is part of it.” And then she scrunches her brow and raises her hands to hover over his arm.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows he should have been more suspicious—maybe even expected this. After all, a strange masked man with twin dao swords and a bloody arm had quite literally fallen into her humble animal clinic, and she had hardly blinked an eye. That should have been his first red flag.

But Zuko is still wholly unprepared for what he sees next.

Her hands don’t touch him, but he feels a strange pulling sensation in the core of his arm and watches dumbstruck as his flesh strains under his skin and knits itself back together. Tendons re-attach, muscle stretches over empty space, and tissue melts back into one mass of skin and bone. Not even thirty seconds pass before he is staring at raw, pink skin, and a fully functioning arm.

She lowers her hands into her lap and chews on her bottom lip.

He flexes his arm experimentally, partly to test out its recovery and largely to stall for time.

His mouth is dry when he finally speaks.

“A secret for a secret.”

She startles at the sound of his rough voice, gaze automatically searching for his. “He speaks.”

With a shrug that he hopes passes for nonchalant, he cocks his head to the side. “You’re an elemental.”

“Blood and bone. At least, that’s my best guess. I’m only an open elemental to those closest to me.” She crosses her arms over her white coat. “And now, you.”

“Like I said, a secret for a secret. Plus, you saved my life. I owe—"

“You owe me nothing. If anything, I’m just repaying a life debt.”

Underneath the mask, his eyes narrow in confusion. His silence must speak for itself, because she clears her throat and sits up straighter in her seat. Her voice is quiet, almost reverent, as she begins to speak.

“A few weeks ago, my brother Sokka was out drinking with a couple of friends. On their way home, they got cornered by a bunch of assholes who thought their guns made them some kind of gangsters. It wasn’t a fair fight, and considering my brother doesn’t know when to quit, it probably would have turned out pretty ugly…but luckily, a real-life masked superhero just happened to be in the right place at the right time...” Her eyes flash purposefully to his and he inhales sharply through his nose. The skin around her mouth softens, the corners of her lips quirking up just the slightest bit. “If it wasn’t for him, I don’t know where my brother would be today.”

He doesn’t know what to say. Guiltily, he thinks to himself that he does not even remember saving her brother. But her eyes are pinning him in place with their gratitude and he swallows his discomfort.

“You don’t know for sure that that was me.”

She laughs. “My brother went on for days talking about the ‘badass elemental that shot flames out of his fists,’ and he took the liberty of describing in vivid detail every five minutes exactly what this ‘badass elemental’ looked like.” She reaches out and taps the forehead of his mask. “I’m pretty sure it was you.”

“I don’t do this to get life debts out of anyone. You don’t owe me.”

She purses her lips and he barely stops himself from staring at them. “Why do you do it?”

“I—I don’t know. Call it a hobby.”

Her lips tilt up again, and he allows himself a quick glance down. “Dangerous hobby.”

“Dangerous world.”

She sucks in a breath and opens her mouth, but the faint sound of sirens cuts off her response. They sound at least a few blocks away, but he’s already crossed the length of the examination room and opened the window by the time she stands from her stool.

It’s not until he’s halfway outside that she speaks up.

“I’m Katara, by the way.”

He turns his head just enough for her to make out the profile of his mask against the city lights.

“Thank you, Katara.”

And then he’s gone.

[genkirou]

A Third Party (Masamune X MC X Yukimura)

They insist so vehemently that they hate each other, but when your Lord Masamune and his famed Sanada rival collide, a fiery spar turns a different kind of heated, with you caught in the crossfire…

WARNING: Kind of NSFW-ish(not fully smut but maybe I’ll write it someday) and OOC a little bit I guess

Also, tagging @thedaydreamingotaku, sorry if my writing’s disappointing lol but I hope you like it^^

Seven hells, who could be training in the middle of the night?, Masamune asks himself as he walked the halls of Tsutsujigasaki Palace. The Date clan had come over to negotiate trade alliances with the Takeda in the dead of winter(not the best idea, in hindsight), and had been invited to stay with them while it was too snowed in to navigate out of Kai. Kojuro had left the evening feast early in search of Lord Takeda Shingen. “He probably just wants to discuss wrinkle treatments or chronic back pain or whatever it is old people like to talk about,” Shigezane had helpfully supplied before leaving to flirt with a maid who caught his eye. You had accompanied him for a while with your comforting presence and sweet smile; he was grateful for you, your acceptance of all of him, the person who showed him things he never knew of. He was contemplating this, unaware that he was blatantly staring at you, when Kirigakure Saizo had asked to borrow you for a bit, to which he had agreed in a fluster, snapping out of his thoughts. Masamune had excused himself shortly after you had left, feeling a bit awkward all alone in the main hall. Now, having been woken up in the dead of the night, he wanders about, looking for the source of all the noise. He spies a lone figure training in the courtyard, against the light of the moon. Of course it’s him, he thinks to himself with a grudging fondness. No one else is diligent or stupid enough to be out here practicing at midnight.

A loud, “hey, Date!” snaps him out of his thoughts. The idiot that was on his mind mere seconds ago is now in front of him, holding out a wooden practice sword with that customary shit-eating smirk on his face. Sanada Yukimura.

“What do you want, Sanada?” he demands rhetorically, already knowing the answer.

“Spar with me. You’ve been sitting around all day; your lazy ass could use the exercise.” So he did notice. Masamune takes the wooden bokken with a small smirk, already feeling the adrenaline singing in his veins.

“When you lose, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Yukimura barks out a laugh.

“Ha! Sanada Genjirou Yukimura doesn’t lose! If anyone’s being warned, it’s you, Date,” he retorts. With wicked anticipation sparking between them, the match begins.

The thrill of the fight soon turns all his attention on his opponent, and Masamune finds himself honed in on Yukimura’s every detail: the blazing fire in his ice blue eyes, the stretch and pull of his muscles, the sweat that runs in rivulets down his neck, even with the winter weather, disappearing into the hem of his too-loose hakama… wait, what-

Masamune gets the sword knocked out of his hands and the wind knocked out of his lungs as Yukimura disarms him and pins him down. It’s much too hot all of a sudden, in a way that’s not quite uncomfortable, as the blue-eyed man presses him into the ground. He feels the heat bloom in his cheeks, silently grateful the moonlight can’t entirely capture his blush.

“See, Date- I, ah, warned you that- that you’d lose,” Yukimura manages to say, gasping for air. Masamune’s had enough of this. Damn you, Sanada, what are you doing to me?

“Get off,” he replies shortly, not really having the physical or mental capacity to say anything else at the moment because there is a sweaty, panting Sanada Genjirou Yukimura on top of him and it’s doing things to him that it really shouldn’t be-

“Hmm? Why? Could the one-eyed dragon possibly be surrendering?” Yukimura gloats at him, and his voice, oh god his annoying damnable voice, he really can’t take any more of this-

Masamune reaches up, grabs the spearman’s face, and crushes his lips against the other’s. He tries to pull away, really he does, but Sanada’s lips are just the right amount of chapped and he tastes salty and sweet and so Sanada Yukimura that he can’t bring himself to stop.

It’s only when he feels, rather than hears, the man above him gasp that he pulls away, immediately regretting whatever the fuck he just did. Yukimura’s face is bright with his blush, blue eyes full of shock and Masamune, you’re an idiot, what were you even thinking-

He nearly bites Sanada’s lips so hard they bleed when he feels them on his again, and feels his resolve shatter. He sits up, sending Yukimura toppling off of him. “We can’t do this here,” he hisses quietly. Yukimura blinks, fixing him with a glazed stare, mind hazy with the events of just a few seconds passed. Masamune sighs. Gods, why him, of all people? “Where’s your room?”

I wonder who could’ve been causing all that commotion, you think to yourself as you walk the halls of Tsutsujigasaki Palace. You had been accompanying Lord Masamune at the feast, until Saizo pulled you aside to ask if you could take a hammered Lord Yukimura back to his chambers. Puzzled as to why he would ask you of all people, you agreed nonetheless. You giggled to yourself as you recounted the stark contrast of the Sanada spearman’s blush to his sky-blue eyes as he begun to insist he could make it back himself, avoiding your inquisitive gaze. He had been so adamant on escorting you back to your room before returning to his own, claiming that a lady shouldn’t be alone at night. When Saizo had teased him about the implications of his statement, you could’ve sworn one could cook an egg on his cheeks. Lord Yukimura can be so cute. You had smiled and thanked him, stopped in the doorway of your chambers. The young Sanada had stared at you, seemingly transfixed, before shaking his head and practically running off to his room. Frowning, you try to discern why he did that. Does he not like me? Your heart sinks at the thought. You hadn’t given him a reason to dislike you… Clearing your head of these thoughts, you notice a light at the end of the corridor. Hm? Who could be awake at this time?

Your curiosity wins out over rationality. Inching ever closer, you hear muffled voices coming from the inside of the room, one significantly louder than the other. Stopping in front of the door, you peek though.

And almost faint from the shock of what you see.

Two bodies sprawled out on the bedding, a tangle of limbs belonging to none other than your lord and his rival. You watch with shameful captivation as Lord Masamune’s hand tangles in his partner’s hair, causing Lord Yukimura to let out a strangled gasp. He retaliates, slipping his tongue into the other man’s mouth and swallowing the heated moan from Masamune’s lips. You gulp, feeling a lustful heat spread between your thighs. It’s so so wrong to watch them, you know this, so why can’t you look away? At a particularly loud groan from Lord Yukimura, you try desperately to hold in your own, but to no avail. The desperate noise slips past your lips, and both men freeze at once, slowly turning cornered gazes to the doorway. Shit. You stare at the both of them, and they at you, for what seems to be an eternity, none of you able to process what in the hells is happening.

You realize, jolting back to your senses, that they both look mortified, every inch of skin almost crimson from their blushes. It could always be from something else, the dirty, lustful voice in your head whispers, and you mentally berate yourself for thinking such impure thoughts about you Lord and his- Rival? Lover? You aren’t so sure anymore, but one thing you are sure of is the fact that you’ll probably go jump off a cliff in shame afterwards if you don’t die of embarrassment first. Ohmygod what have I done whathaveIdone-

“AAA-mmph!” Lord Yukimura barely manages to let out a scream before Masamune’s hand is over his mouth. He can’t look you in the eye right now; you wonder if his face will ever revert back to its original colour.

“Please do not speak of this to anyone,” he whispers, voice low and ashamed, but you blink, because you can still hear the arousal thick in his voice, the way his eyes rake down your body, even as he looks down in embarrassment. Milord Masamune… likes getting caught? This new development is not good for your filthy mind, the thoughts running through it enough to put even the most erotic of novels to shame. Smirking, you feel a sudden confidence simmering in your veins, and speak, without any mental filter, a sentence that would have resulted in offing yourself any other time. Now, you feel unabashed, if only for a moment, for what shame is there in voicing what you really want?

“Mmn, well, I’ll only truly be able to keep a secret if I’m an accomplice, no?” Your eyes widen as you finish saying it, realising what the hell you just said. The bloom of your cheeks, though, haven’t even a second to heat in response before you hear the muffled moan from your right. A turn of the head meets your eyes with hazy blue ones. Once, they were as clear and blue as the summer skies; now they’re dark and veiled, twilight over the silhouettes of restless bodies. His face is flushed, his breath heavy, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen anything sexier than these two beautiful men in front of you, staring at you as if drowning in your eyes and body. Yukimura is the first to speak, barely managing to get his words out through his stuttering, voice husky with conflict and desire.

“B-b-but won’t you- I- we… we don’t want to hurt you; i-if you end up regretting this, I’ll take full responsibility, but-” you giggle and approach him, pressing your lips to the back of his hand. He gapes at you, a mix of adoration and voracity simmering beneath the thin surface of his crimson skin. You smile at the two men before you, so caring and considerate, always thinking of your well-being before anything else.

“How could I regret this?” You lovingly kiss Masamune’s eyelid, the one so often hidden by his eyepatch, and feel a shudder of excitement run through his body.

“But are you sure-” you press a finger to your lord’s lips.

“Yes,” you say, drawing the word out, making it clear: you want this. “Very sure. There’s no one I’d rather be with than you two.” You lean into Masamune, feeling his eyelashes brush against your cheekbones. “Milord… may I kiss you?” He swallows, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, vaguely wondering how its skin would taste between your teeth, on your tongue.

“Please…”

Masamune’s mouth is soft and pliant under yours, tasting of mandarins and summer. Your lips glide against his, parting his lips and slipping your tongue into his mouth, eating up his moans, as soft as summer breezes. There’s another taste, not his, but Yukimura’s, mixing in your mouths and it’s enough to make you dizzy. You try to pinpoint what exactly this flavour is, but Masamune, noticing your expression, pulls back. “Is something wrong?”

“Not wrong, milord, but this taste…” You glance at Lord Yukimura, lust clear in his hazy eyes from watching you and your lord. His face catches fire when he registers that you’ve caught him staring, but before he can stammer out an apology, you claim his mouth with yours and swipe your tongue across his slightly parted lips. It tastes like… dango? Briefly, you contemplate who else he might have been kissing with a taste like that, but he groans and pulls you into his lap, taking your lips with passionate desperation, and whatever rational part of your mind disappears.

His kiss is so different from Masamune’s, with a searing intensity that leaves you breathless. His hands run all over your body, seeking out every inch of your skin. You moan and feel the heat pool between your thighs when you feel him press against you through the hindrances of clothing, rocking you with his hands splayed on you hips. Through the heavy cloud of lust lingering in your mind, you vaguely sense a hard chest against your back and lips against the shell of your ear. Lord Masamune traces down your throat with his fingers, whispering a rough, husky “may I?” and all you can do is nod, your moans and gasps muffled by Yukimura’s lips.

Masamune presses his lips to your throat; gently at first, growing bolder with each sound you make. You can’t contain the soft mewl that escapes you when he laves his tongue down your throat, and he moans in response. Yukimura chuckles against your lips; you huff and draw his bottom lip into your mouth to shut him up. You feel your lord mirror the motion, teeth sinking gently into the base of your neck , sucking a bloom of red into soft, sweet skin. You hiss at the slight sting, though not in displeasure. He offers silent apologies by teasing at the mark with his tongue. It’s at this moment that Yukimura pulls away from your lips, and you almost whine at the loss of contact until you see him lock gazes with the man behind you, whose lips rest at your throat.

“You think you can best me, Date?” he pants, a smirk spreading across his face. Masamune merely raises an eyebrow at the comment, but you can see the flicker of challenge rising in blue and green irises.

“I don’t suppose it’d be hard,” he murmurs, his breath fanning your skin. Both men turn to you, timid anticipation in their eyes.

“May we?” They ask in unison, Yukimura’s hands on your hips while Masamune’s wander your torso. Two voices, undemanding, but with a hint of pleading to their voices to which you can’t help but give in. It was never a hard decision, not when you had started this, wanting to see where you ended up. You smirk, watching the two men’s faces warm with heat, and give your resolute reply.

“Please.”

[gmara4serious]

Prince and the Evolution of a Concept Cocktail

(This piece was published at http://www.abitofterrific.com/blog on February 27, 2017.)

What does the name “Darling Nikki” evoke in you? Is it the indignant arousal on Apollonia Kotero’s face as she watches The Kid’s electric writhing in Purple Rain? Is it Tipper Gore’s peculiar insistence that the concept of “masturbating with a magazine” is inappropriate for her 10 year-old child? Or is it simply The Purple One himself, His Royal Badness Prince Rogers Nelson, and the blistering guitar solo of “Computer Blue” giving way to the atonal sweaty thrusting of strings and keys that introduce our favorite “sex fiend”?

Now take all of that emotion, sweat, scent in the air and the first time your LP of Purple Rain started spinning in your grandma’s basement and turn it into a cocktail.

How?

Behind the bar, ideas can come out of nowhere: The lingering taste of a cough drop mixes with the taste test of a white wine and voila, a mint melon white sangria. It comes in clumps: one day, a vodka infused with blood orange gets added to a Moscow Mule and then three shifts later a lemon-cranberry kombucha top is added to the recipe and it becomes The Cosmonaut. Or you just think of something that might be good. You grind away at it, adding ingredients, subtracting ingredients, consulting your coworkers, giving up on it, coming back to it, and giving up again until it becomes something you don’t hate.

What I like to do, using all those methods, is work from a concept. It’s a method that will almost guarantee an endless number of deeply humiliating failed recipes, but now and again, you hit one out of the park (with a little help from your friends), and you can justify pulling a drink idea out of the ether and/or your ass. What do I mean by a concept? I’ll let the craft cocktail bible Death & Co: Modern Classic Cocktails do the heavy lifting:

“Sometimes a new drink will be born out of a simple stroke of inspiration, be it an ingredient, a flavor combination, a song, a movie, a mood, or just about anything else. Such cocktails, created to express a unified idea, are what we call concept drinks.”

Some may find this idea daunting, but I pooh-pooh that. A concept drink is your personal expression of an idea in cocktail form. It’s your interpretation. The only way it can be wrong is if you don’t like it. Whether or not it’s up to par for bar service is another question entirely, but I have faith in you. If this all seems very abstract, don’t worry, it is. Take advantage of that.

Here’s an example mixed in with concrete.

Prince makes me think of purple and lushness. A juiciness melded with an otherworldly sensation. Like listening to When Doves Cry with headphones on, letting it vibrate your spine out to your fingertips. His sexuality was strong, but never threatening. His music made you want to FUCK but not fuck like clocking in on a Sunday night after Westworld; Prince makes you want to fuck like you know it won’t last and can’t last, so you grind and push and lick and moan like there’s nothing in existence but your bodies.

So obviously it’s a lot to consider.

Darling Nikki makes me want to start with a strong base, something clear, steely, high in alcohol. Let’s piggyback off another Bookstore Speakeasy cocktail, the Tiny Dancer, and begin with a muddled cucumber slice and Plymouth Gin. While the muddled cucumber adds the softest suggestion of a mouthfeel, Plymouth, a classic that dates back to 1793 (it’s a breed and a brand all to itself), has a blunt smoothness that insists on its 82 proof and doesn’t let you forget it. It’s a gin for bold martinis (it was Churchill’s preferred gin) made up like a world-weary working class warrior on a dressed up night out. Plymouth is like drinking perfectly smooth plate glass; harsh rivulets of alcohol riding in your mouth that level off into clarity.

Plymouth alone as a base, however, is too cold, too angry for something like a Darling Nikki. It’s supposed to be a funky time in a spinning castle, not anonymous bondage set to German industrial music in a cold meat locker. To soften the edges without tarnishing its core, the base is split 1 to 1 with Pimm’s No. 1. For those unfamiliar with Pimm’s, first of all, my condolences, and second, Pimm’s is a gin-based lightly-spiced liqueur from England. It’s technically a “fruit cup”, a British highball drink usually topped with lemonade or ginger ale, so its low proof (50) and gently dark spice made it ideal to cushion the Plymouth from the coming waves of sweet and sour in the cocktail.

Now that I have my foundation, it’s time to furnish and design. Quick, what does this make you think of?

I think of changing teams, just for a second.

What I want now is purple complexity in the second layer of this cocktail. I go with three ingredients: first, Creme Yvette, a violet liqueur deep and rich in blackberry, raspberry, cassis, and other subtle flavorings. Second, Creme de Violette, the flipside to the same coin as Creme Yvette, with a highly floral nose and delicately sweet, almost medicinal taste. And thirdly, Lavender Simple Syrup, a cordial so simple and elegant, you’ll regret the entirety of your life when you didn’t have it: Take one part hot water, one part plain cane sugar, mix, then cover the surface with dried lavender. Let it brew for 10-20 minutes. Strain out the leaves. Done. Magic floral deliciousness. We go through quarts and quarts of the stuff at the Bookstore Speakeasy and people speak in tongues at the taste of it.

Now a quick recap: what we have is a lovely violet cocktail with the backbone of Plymouth Gin, the even spice of Pimm’s, the crisp sweet of muddled cucumber, the deep berry sweet of Creme Yvette, the floral shine of Creme de Violette, and a grounding flowery sweet from the Lavender Simple. Where to now?

At this juncture, the concoction is too sweet and juicy, to the point it would become overwhelming after three or four sips. What it needs is a hint of sour, a mid to upper level sweetness, and a touch of dry.  For the sour, we go Lemon Juice. Easy peasy. Adding lemon to nearly any cocktail will tighten the fat and trim away any excess salivation. For the upper level sweetness, it’s a little trickier. We have several heavy hitting ingredients already so what the cocktail requires is something strong in proof, a tiny touch of the astringent, and a sweetness more along the lines of an apple, rather than a berry. Enter Art in the Age’s Rhubarb Tea, a shockingly light 80 proof liqueur that tastes like your high school combination of Arizona Tea and purloined vodka from dad’s cabinet. And finally, we finish with sparkling wine. The dry bubbly ties off the top like a little bow and no garnish is necessary (obviously, don’t shake the cocktail with the champagne in it unless you want to lose an eye).

Last consideration is the glass. I settled on a martini for a touch of elegance, but a champagne flute will suit the Darling Nikki and all that grinding you’re about to do as well.

All in all, it took several hours worth of experimentation across three shifts to complete the recipe. I had a great deal of help fleshing out the finer details and flavors, so credit for this cocktail goes as much to the Bookstore Speakeasy superstar bartender Neil Heimsoth as it does to myself. It takes a village to raise a killer drink.

The only truly important part of the process is to have fun while doing it. My favorite part of the craft cocktail creation machine is workshopping with customers on a slow Wednesday night. Who doesn’t like free drinks and contributing to something new? In an industry like ours where we thrive on hard work and creativity, the real gift isn’t in the fat checks and phone numbers written on napkins; it’s in sharing warmth and ideas between the stick.

Now drink, be merry, absorb art, look at the sky, smell the sweat in the air, feel the viscera at your fingertips, and make me a cocktail.

The Darling Nikki

1 oz Plymouth Gin 1 oz Pimm’s No. 1 0.5 oz Creme Yvette 0.5 oz Rothman & Winter Creme de Violette 0.5 oz Art in the Age Rhubarb Tea Liqueur 0.5 oz Lemon Juice 0.5 oz Lavender Simple Syrup Muddled Cucumber Slice

Shake Top with Sparkling Wine Serve in Martini Glass