#impersonal violence man.

[ghelgheli]

In contrast with professional drag queens, who were only playing at being women onstage, [Esther] Newton learned that the very bottom of the gay social hierarchy was the province of street queens. In almost total contrast to professional queens, street queens were "the underclass of the gay world." Although they embraced effeminacy, too, they did so in the wrong place and for the wrong reason: in public and outside of professional work. As a result, Newton explained, the street queens "are never off stage. Their way of life is collective, illegal, and immediate." Because they didn't get paid to be feminine and were locked out of even the most menial of nightlife jobs, Newton observed that their lives were perceived to revolve around "confrontation, prostitution, and drug 'highs'." Even in a gay underworld where everyone was marked as deviant, it was the sincere street queens who tried to live as women who were punished most for what was celebrated-and paid-as an act onstage. When stage queens lost their jobs, they were often socially excluded like trans women. Newton explained that when she returned to Kansas City one night during her fieldwork, she learned that two poor queens she had met had recently lost their jobs as impersonators. Since then, they had become "indistinguishable from street fairies," growing out their hair long and wearing makeup in public-even "passing" as girls in certain situations," in addition to earning a reputation for taking pills. They were now treated harshly by everyone in the local scene. Most people wouldn't even speak to them in public. Professional drag queens who didn't live as women still had to avoid being seen as too "transy" in their style and demeanor. One professional queen that Newton interviewed explained why: it was dangerous to be transy because it reinforced the stigma of effeminacy without the safety of being onstage. "I think what you do in your bed is your business," he told Newton, echoing a middle-class understanding of gay privacy, "[but] what you do on the street is everybody's business."

The first street queen who appears in Mother Camp is named Lola, a young Black trans girl who is "becoming a woman,' as they say'." Newton met Lola at her dingy Kansas City apartment, where she lived with Tiger, a young gay man, and Godiva, a somewhat more respectable queen. What made Godiva more respectable than Lola wasn't just a lack of hormonal transition. It was that Godiva could work as a female impersonator because she wasn't trying to sincerely live as a woman. Lola, on the other hand, was permanently out of work because being Black and trans made her unhireable, including in female impersonation. When Newton entered their apartment, which had virtually no furniture, she found Lola lying on "a rumpled-up mattress on the floor" and entertaining three "very rough-looking young men." These kinds of apartments, wrote Newton, "are not 'homes.' They are places to come in off the street." The extremely poor trans women who lived as street queens, like Lola, "literally live outside the law," Newton explained. Violence and assault were their everyday experiences, drugs were omnipresent, and sex work was about the only work they could do. Even if they didn't have "homes," street queens "do live in the police system."

As a result of being policed and ostracized by their own gay peers, Newton felt that street queens were "dedicated to "staying out of it" as a way of life. "From their perspective, all of respectable society seems square, distant, and hypocritical. From their 'place' at the very bottom of the moral and status structure, they are in a strategic position to experience the numerous discrepancies between the ideals of American culture and the realities." Yet, however withdrawn or strung out they were perceived to be, the street queens were hardly afraid to act. On the contrary, they were regarded by many as the bravest and most combative in the gay world. In the summer of 1966, street queens in San Francisco fought back at Compton's Cafeteria, an all-night venue popular with sex workers and other poor gay people. After management had called the police on a table that was hanging out for hours ordering nothing but coffee, an officer grabbed the arm of one street queen. As the historian Susan Stryker recounts, that queen threw her coffee in the police officer's face, "and a melee erupted." As the queens led the patrons in throwing everything on their tables at the cops-who called for backup-a full-blown riot erupted onto the street. The queens beat the police with their purses "and kicked them with their high-heeled shoes." A similar incident was documented in 1959, when drag queens fought back against the police at Cooper's Donuts in Los Angeles by throwing donuts-and punches. How many more, unrecorded, times street queens fought back is anyone's guess. The most famous event came in 1969, when street queens led the Stonewall rebellion in New York City. Newton shares in Mother Camp that she wasn't surprised to learn it was the street queens who carried Stonewall. "Street fairies," she wrote, "have nothing to lose."

Jules Gill-Peterson, A Short History of Trans Misogyny

[librarycards]

Spanning nearly two centuries of global history, the basic pattern of trans misogyny is much older than TERFs, or right-wing Christians, and extremely consistent. Trans misogyny is not a mere psychological and irrational hatred of trans women. In fact, trans misogyny as a concept helps explain how individuals, or interpersonal violence, can act on behalf of the state or other abstract political movements. At the interpersonal scale, however, trans misogyny testifies to the uncomfortable thickness of social bonds across hierarchies of gender, class, and race. When a straight man lashes out after dating or having sex with a trans woman, he is often afraid of the implication that his sexuality is joined to hers. When a gay man anxiously keeps trans women out of his activism or social circles, he is often fearful of their common stigma as feminine. And when a non-trans feminist claims she is erased by trans women’s access to a bathroom, she is often afraid that their shared vulnerability as feminized people will be magnified intolerably by trans women’s presence. In each case, trans misogyny displays a fear of interdependence and a refusal of solidarity. It is felt as a fear of proximity. Trans femininity is too sociable, too connected to everyone –– too exuberant about stigmatized femininity –– and many people fear the excess of trans femininity and sexuality by getting too close. But sociability can never be confined or blamed on one person in a relationship; it's impersonal, and it sticks to everyone.

The defensive fear and projection build into trans misogyny, whether genuine or performed, is an attempt to wish away what it nonetheless recognizes: that trans femininity is an integral part of the social fabric. There will be no emancipation for anyone until we embrace trans femininity's centrality and value.

Jules Gill-Peterson, A Short History of Trans Misogyny.

[theoutcastrogue]

Cartoon depictions of the homeless increasingly reflect the hostility of today’s political leaders toward people on the streets. We’ve gone from images of charming hobos with bindles to zombies taking over cities. If you consume any news at all, you’ve probably noticed that the United States is pathologically cruel to its homeless citizens. This May, the brutal killing of Jordan Neely—who was strangled to death, at the age of 30, simply because he was unhoused and shouting on the Manhattan subway—captured the national spotlight, but it was just one of many such cases of unprovoked violence. In January, two cops reportedly kidnapped a homeless man in Hialeah, Florida, drove him to an “isolated and dark location,” and beat him unconscious. That same month, art dealer Shannon Collier Gwin faced battery charges after he sprayed a homeless woman with a hose outside his San Francisco gallery, barking “Move! Move!” at her. (Predictably, Gwin got a lenient plea deal of just 35 hours of community service.) Elsewhere in the city, homeless San Franciscans have been attacked with chemical bear spray on at least eight occasions. Other assaults have been more impersonal but no less vicious. On July 14, the city of Houston abruptly closed its only public cooling center in the downtown area, potentially condemning anyone without shelter to suffer heatstroke in 90-degree weather. Among the property-owning class, the phenomenon of hostile architecture—sidewalks with spikes that stab anyone who tries to sleep, benches with iron bars, and the like—has become de rigueur. The widespread callousness and lack of compassion are both infuriating and hard to comprehend. How on Earth, we might ask, did things get this bad? [...]

Looking back at older cartoons, one of the things that stands out immediately is the absence of negative attitudes toward the homeless. In fact, during the Golden Age of animation, creators seemed to have had a real affinity for the poor and unhoused, often placing their most iconic characters in that role. There’s a wonderful 1948 Warner Bros. short called “Riff Raffy Daffy,” in which Daffy Duck is looking for a place to sleep—first on a park bench, then a trash can, and finally a furniture display in a shop window—and has to dodge the harassment of the police, as represented by Porky Pig in a little blue uniform. (Literally, the cop is a pig!) Or, in the 1950 cartoon “Homeless Hare,” Bugs Bunny’s rabbit hole is destroyed by a new construction project, leading him to unleash his usual slapstick mayhem against the developers until they put it back. In these cartoons, homelessness is something inflicted on people by outside forces—gentrification and the real estate business, in Bugs’ case—and something which can be successfully resisted. Even Disney cast a homeless dog as a romantic lead in 1955’s Lady and the Tramp, contrasting Lady’s sheltered naivety with Tramp’s superior knowledge of the world. The title invokes the memory of Charlie Chaplin’s “Tramp” films, which similarly brought dignity and humanity to the role of a homeless man. (Bugs Bunny, too, takes inspiration from Chaplin, and multiple Warner animators have drawn him as the Tramp.) In 1961, Hanna-Barbera’s profoundly underrated Top Cat followed the adventures of a gang of wisecracking Manhattan alley cats, who, like Daffy, are always outwitting a meddling policeman. At worst, classic cartoons may trivialize the suffering and danger associated with homelessness—there’s a certain recurring image of the carefree hobo carrying a bindle, which paints the whole subject in a romanticized light—but the homeless themselves are rarely disparaged or made the butt of the joke. Quite the opposite. 

It took a few years, but cartoons caught up to the Reaganite turn. In episodes from the ’90s and early 2000s, there’s a palpable shift in the way homeless characters appear compared to earlier decades. The perspective is different: we’re now seeing them through the eyes of comfortably housed characters, rather than their own. Often they don’t even get proper names. [...] This trajectory leads us, perhaps inevitably, to SpongeBob SquarePants. [..] Squidward gets accused of stealing a dime by his comically greedy boss, Mr. Krabs, and quits his job in a fit of outrage. We then flash forward to see Squidward, now bedraggled and unshaven, living in a cardboard box on the street and begging for change. [...] Mercifully, the ever-cheerful SpongeBob gives Squidward a place to stay—but the moment he’s safely off the street, Squidward turns from a sympathetic victim of circumstance into a lazy, entitled freeloader, straight out of a Reagan speech. He makes no effort to find work and loafs around SpongeBob’s house for ages. [...] Eventually, an exasperated SpongeBob writes “GET A JOB” in his alphabet soup, before shoving him (bed and all) back to work at the Krusty Krab. [...] Worst of all, though, the episode suggests that homelessness can be solved on an individual basis if the people in question simply stop being lazy and “GET A JOB.” This is the biggest myth of all. In 2021, a statistical analysis by the University of Chicago found that 53 percent of people in homeless shelters, and 40.4 percent of unsheltered people, do have jobs. The problem is that their wages are too low, and rents are too high. According to statistics from the same year, it’s impossible for someone working a full-time, minimum-wage job to afford a single-bedroom apartment in 93 percent of U.S. counties, and there are no states in which someone can rent a two-bedroom space on the current federal minimum wage of $7.25 per hour. In other words, homelessness has little or nothing to do with personal responsibility, or lack thereof. It’s a consequence of large-scale economic decisions made by landlords and bosses. [...]

— Alex Skopic

[hier--soir]

raising cain | 001

din djarin x ofc

pairing: spy!din djarin x spy!ofc rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: at a private gala in berlin, two agents slip inside, uninvited. unbeknownst to one another, and working for seperate agencies, they prepare to bring the same target to justice. the only problem is - one of them wants him dead, and the other wants him alive. who will succeed? will the strange connection they feel stop them from completing their mission? warnings/tags: modern au, spy!din can bring them in warm or he can bring them in cold, ofc is named + has short hair + is french, alcohol consumption, brief + unemotional mention of being an orphan, violence [including impersonal violence between din and ofc], descriptions of blood and injury and [briefly] brain matter, murder, very brief mention of sex trafficking, sexual tension like hello, choking [sexual and non sexual], ofc has an interesting relationship with pleasure and pain, fingering [not technically in public, but certainly not in private], kinda dom!din, explicit rough unprotected piv sex... on the floor... carpet burns... okay bye. word count: 9.7k series masterlist | main masterlist to raise cain means to cause a commotion, to create a disturbance, to make trouble. a/n: my only defence is that i've been watching too many james bond movies lately. also, for the record, i love berlin. also also, the smut in this made me blush. okay hope you guys like this one x follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part one of raising cain.

BERLIN, FEBRUARY

It is bitterly cold, and she hates Berlin.

Not because of the weather, although it never helps to visit a city one loathes while the windows are covered in a thick layer of ice and the ground a slippery sheen of sleet.

No, Cain hates Berlin because it has always been a city of business for her. Never pleasure, nor entertainment.

In the car, en route to the gala, a driver escorts her by the Staatsoper Unter den Linden, the Berliner Dom, the Altes Museum, and each one passes her by in a blur of beige architecture and pretty lights. Endeavours for another trip, another year, another life.

She pays her driver in cash and thanks him for taking the scenic route. In broken English he slips his number into her palm and asks if she will use his services the next time she visits Berlin. She smiles and nods and doesn’t tell him that she hopes to never return.

Her dress is a flimsy thing. One of satin and silk that clings to the skin of her arms, her torso. It curls around her ankles, just shy of brushing the ground as she exits the car. The air outside bites against her skin. Her feet ache and cry out for reprieve, strapped into a skimpy pair of shoes that pinch at her toes as she glides across the cobblestone path.

A clean-shaven man stands at the door, adorned in a modest suit and a winding earpiece. He requests her name, notes her face, and grants her entry with a strict nod and an all too brief once over. Handsomely oblivious to the comforting weight of a weapon at the inside of her thigh.

The venue is small, but the crowd is thick, pulsing with life; dense enough for her to mingle, to go unnoticed as she glides through the ground floor, blending into a mix of countless other women dressed in long slinky dresses. She wears black because they all do; her makeup is simple because she did not come to be remembered.

She accepts a flute of champagne from a man with a tray. Offers him a graceful smile and a softly spoken danke schön, and waits until his back is turned before tipping the golden liquid into a plant at the base of the staircase.

Chancellor Karl Weber skirts past her, one of the most powerful men in the German government, and she does not meet his eye.

She is patient; thoughtful as she surveys the room. She knows better than to move too quickly. She counts the exits and entries, the number of security guards and wait staff. Assesses the balcony that overlooks the room, curving around the entirety of the upper level, and slips up a winding staircase when she is sure no one is watching.

With every upward step, the lengthy slit down the side of her dress parts, revealing the soft skin of her legs.

There’s something intimate about the balcony space. Red velvet drapery covers the walls, hanging from the roof and spooling against the floors in soft crimson swirls. She takes in her surroundings, fingers twinkling across the gorgeous fabric as she walks. A slim door around the bend, at the other side of the upper level, reads NUR FÜR MITARBEITER; staff only.

Another, a few paces behind where she settles, leads to a small bathroom. Six private stalls, one with a thin window above the toilet, just wide enough for her to squeeze through. Beyond it; open air, a thick pipe that leads down to the street. Perfect for scaling.

Assuming a position near the bathroom, she tucks herself amongst the drapes. Lets shadows and velvet caress her skin and hide her from prying eyes as she juts out a knee and slips a slender hand between her thighs.

The pistol is dense. Thick and black, it rests heavily in her palm as she slips a titanium cylinder from her purse. Deft fingers lead the butt of the suppressor to the mouth of the pistol. Pin meets groove and she lets it spin, stroking cool metal as she twists and twists until it clicks into place.

Ulrich Meier stands four metres from the stage, eight from the bar, and two from the closest security guard.

Another man—taller, leaner—talks down to him. Speaking in hushed tones, the two of them glance over their shoulders every few moments. Careful, cunning as they talk.

And as she watches them, her face remains neutral. But somewhere inside of her chest, somewhere forbidden and secret and soft, she feels a threatening rage begin to unfurl.

Because the longer she stares, the easier it gets to picture other faces. Men and women with sallow cheeks and fear in their eyes. Countless bodies strewn apart by weaponry they had no business being close to; rigor mortis setting their horror-stricken faces in stone.

Yes, that anger unspools inside of her. Burns through her veins like ice, chilling her blood until she feels nothing but relief as she bends her elbow and lines up her shot.

Cain does not think about collateral. Cain does not think about those standing close to him, ones who will no doubt remember this night for the rest of their lives. She does not think about his wife or his children. These things do not concern her. All that matters is the mission.   

Her hands are steady around the weapon, finger poised beside the thick trigger. She takes slow breaths. Deep inhales that fill her lungs, followed by warm exhales. Once, twice, three times until she is steeled. An eye pinches shut. Her finger slips over the trigger. Meier laughs at something.

And then a heavy palm lands on her waist.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The man’s voice is a low, rasping thing.

She stiffens, grip freezing around the pistol. His breath hits the back of her neck, and a hundred little hairs there stand on end. She smells cologne, light and airy. Feels fingertips dig into the flesh around her hipbone. Ulrich Meier turns and walks towards a doorway, disappearing from sight.

“Take your hand off of me.”

“Lower your gun.”

Cain’s elbow whips backward, cracking hard against the centre of his chest. His fingers tighten then fall from her waist and she spins on her heel, the butt of her pistol colliding with his jaw.

He stumbles backwards and she advances on him, returning the gun to the holster on her thigh before striking him across the cheek with an open palm. His head hardly even turns before he’s batting her arm down with a stern shove.  

She throws a mean fist forward, but her knuckles barely graze his jaw before the heel of his palm snaps against her chin. The blow sends her staggering to the side, head bouncing off the wall with a low thwack. She tastes blood, the tip of her tongue stings, and when he steps closer she juts her knee into his groin. Feels the harsh rush of the breath leaving his lungs, exhaled roughly across her face, and snarls.

Cain wraps her fingers around the nape of his neck and digs her nails in, pulling him down to meet the knee that she drives into into his stomach. The man grunts against her chest, his hand grasping upward to wrap around her neck. He squeezes tight, dragging her toward him before rocking her skull into the wall again, holding her there. Stars burst in her vision, her nose tingles, and she spits a low curse. Music swells downstairs, a live band starting up on the stage.  

Neat curls and dark eyes dance before her. She blinks to stop the world from spinning. Firm jaw… strong nose. Moustache.  

“Din Djarin,” she rasps, voice strained from the pressure of his palm on her neck. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Recognition sparks in those dark eyes.

“Cain,” he grunts, pupils like pinpricks as he assesses her face, and then his free hand is sneaking past the slit in her dress, tapping the gun at her thigh.

“A Walther?” Din’s fingers squeeze ever so slightly tighter at the sides of her throat, callouses rough on her skin. "A little old fashioned, isn't it?"

“A German gun to kill a German cunt,” she whispers. The artery in her neck pulses and pounds, blood roaring in her ears. “It felt fitting.”

“No one dies tonight,” he grits out, and it takes everything she has not to laugh right in his face. He cannot see the way her arm is twisted between them, fingers working to loosen the tiny dagger resting just inside the sleeve of her dress free.  

“I should have known,” she smirks faintly, fingers grasping the hilt of the blade now. “The Guild do love to play around in international affairs these days.”

“Quiet,” he hisses, fingers sliding up to grip around her jaw now. His palm is hot against her lips, covering that sly smirk, the way she sucks in warm, grateful breaths. “Keep your mouth shut. Meier doesn’t die tonight. Not here.”

Smooth, careful, she presses the tip of her blade against his abdomen. Only 4 inches in length, but long enough—sharp enough—to penetrate through two layers of clothing and pierce the thick skin of his side. Thumb and forefinger tighten, begging for an excuse to press forward, to eliminate this new complication.

But then two things happen in quick succession.

Cain hears a peal of laughter raise from the staircase and glances past Din to spot blonde hair, a red dress, and slides the dagger back inside her sleeve. Moving fast, his hand falls from her face, body curling protectively around hers in a faux embrace. He tucks his face against her neck and the short hairs in his moustache raise goosebumps on her skin.

“Qu’est-ce-que tu fais?” she hisses. What are you doing?

“Shut up,” he bites back, jostling her against the wall once more.

Laughter dies down into awkward chuckles and murmured words. Cain peers over Din’s shoulder, understanding him then. Her fingers tangle in the loose curls at the nape of his neck and she watches them, ignoring how soft it is against her skin. Two women, eyes assessing them from the top of the stairs. The blonde frowns, wary; concerned.

“They’re looking,” Cain warns, hooking an ankle around the back of his.

Something soft skates down the side of her neck. Such a stark contrast to the rough grip of his hand before; a pair of lips tracing gentle kisses along her pulse point. For a moment, she holds her breath, focusing on the dull ache in the back of her skull, the feeling of his arms around her. 

“Make them look away,” he says plainly, the words a hot wash against her skin.

His palm tightens around her hip, and Cain tilts her chin upward, letting the women see her smile as he lays kisses against her throat, lips parting to form a loosely whispered oh. Through heavy lidded eyes she sees the women flush and look away, one of them giggling. But they do not leave.

Meier, where is Meier? The thought jolts through her like an electric shock, and her smile fades a little.

Frustrated, she skates a hand around his body; lets it fall to the hem of his suit jacket, rucking it up until her fingers are digging into the flesh of his ass. Round and thick with muscle, he tenses beneath her grip, letting slip a harsh grunt of surprise into her ear. The women balk at that, turning to begin their descent down the stairs at last.

Biting back a smirk, Cain’s fingers trail up up up inside his jacket, around the front of his body. Down the buttons on the front of his white dress shirt, the solid muscle beneath it, to where it meets his trousers. The tips of her nails flirt across the front of his pants, and she is certain he’s stopped breathing; entire body still beneath her touch, lips frozen against her skin. Searching, searching, she finally hums triumphantly, fingers sliding over the holster on his hip at last. Hidden beneath his jacket, she fondles the butt of his gun. Slim; inconspicuous.

“Hmm,” she purrs, lips brushing the soft skin of his earlobe. “I thought it would be bigger.”

“I thought I told you to shut u—”

Din flinches as her other hand touches the side of his face, a finger pressing swiftly into his ear canal. His head tilts to the side, trying to evade her touch, but she’s already pulling away, using his surprise to slip around his body and move towards the stairs.

She smooths fingers over her hair, neatening the mussed strands and tucking them behind her ears. Straightens the neckline of her dress, ensures her holster is hidden. From where she stands, Meier is nowhere to be seen.

Din calls after her, a low warning. She doesn’t look back, gripping the railing of the staircase as she begins her descent. The gala is in full swing, guests dancing and talking in every direction. A six-piece band performs a playful jazz song from the stage.

“There is no need to shout,” Cain murmurs, smiling when she hears a sharp intake of breath through the earpiece.

She doesn’t know if he follows her down. Keeps her gaze trained forward as she accepts another glass of champagne from another man with another tray. Drinks it this time, thick hurried gulps that wet the skin beside her lips and soften the rough scratch in her throat. She wanders, looking for the man she came here for, and in time she ends up at the bar.

“A vodka martini,” she tells the barman, slipping onto one of the plush highchairs at the counter. “Dirty.”

The blonde man grips a clear glass bottle from his station and asks, “Shaken or stirred?”

She waves a hand, unbothered. “Dealer’s choice.”

He’s short with thick hair and a reddish hue to his beard. Handsome enough. She watches him with a light curiosity as he finishes making someone else’s drink.

It doesn’t take long before Din Djarin slips onto the seat beside her, suit jacket straightened out, not a single curl out of place, and orders a cosmopolitan.

The barman pulls two frosted coup glasses from beneath the bar and Cain arches an eyebrow at her companion.

“You’ve a sweet tooth, Monsieur Djarin?”

“It seems that way,” he murmurs, turning on his stool to face her.

Brown eyes assess her face in this new lighting, pupils flicking across everything he can see. His hand reaches across the bar and peels a small square napkin from a pile. Slides it across the wooden countertop.

“Wipe your nose.”

She swipes the material beneath her nostrils and spies a small blot of blood on the fabric, crumpling it in her fist with a saccharine smile.   

“In Germany long?” he asks casually, nodding at the bartender when he places their cocktails on the counter.

“As long as it takes.” She wraps her fingers around the stem of a chilled glass, dragging it closer. “And it shouldn’t take long.”

He takes a lengthy sip, draining half the glass in seconds, and his eyes slip closed as the alcohol hits his tongue. Cain watches his throat move as he swallows and crosses her legs tighter on the stool. Feels her gun holster dig into the soft flesh there and welcomes the distraction.

“Alone?”

He eyes her for a second, gaze momentarily dropping to the low cut of her neckline, the swooping curve of her shoulder. “I was.”

“Well,” she holds out her glass to him. “It’s an honour.”

A beat passes as he contemplates her—her words, her steadfast gaze—and then he knocks the rim of his glass gently against hers.

“I’d apologise for upstairs,” he smiles faintly, posture loosening. “But I’m sure you understand.”

“There is no need,” she agrees easily, taking her first sip. Cool vodka slips down her throat and she allows a pleased purr to fall from her lips. “Tempers are frayed. Patience is short. What’s a little scuffle between friends, hmm?”

He smirks at that, a miniscule upward twitch of his lip. Friends.

“You know, I’ve heard the stories about you,” he tells her.

His suit jacket is well tailored, she notices. Tight around those broad shoulders of his, hemmed perfectly around his wrists to reveal crisp white sleeves and silver cufflinks. 

“Is that so?”

He nods. “Cain, the femme fatale.”

“Mm,” she smirks, tracing a finger around the rim of her glass. He watches the sharp point of her red nail ping against the coup. Glances down to her toenails peeking past the tip of her heels; the same colour. She wiggles them for him, and he looks up.

“Then it appears there are equally silly tales about the both of us, non?”

“Do tell.”

Her grin broadens, something like excitement splicing through her veins. “Well, I had wondered if it were true. That you have your own little… catchphrase.”  

A low scoff rumbles from his chest, and his stare cuts to where the bartender stands, mixing a drink only a few feet away. Across the room, one of the musicians onstage starts up a winding piano solo. Sparse and melodic to start, he sprinkles his fingers against highest keys on the piano, and Cain focuses on keeping her gaze on Din. She never did care for jazz.

“Do you say it every time?” she teases in a whisper, eyes lit up with mocking glee. “I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in co—”

“Stop.”

Din’s voice is harsh, a little too loud for the quiet space by the bar. The word cuts through the soft music and has a few guests glancing in their direction. Cain laughs, unperturbed by the sudden attention, and plucks an olive out of her drink. A saxophonist joins in with the pianist, and he relaxes once more. Leans into this little game of hers.

“Don’t be a fool,” he softens, reaching over to tuck a short strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb brushes the curve of her jaw as he pulls away and she fights the shiver that trips its way down her spine. “Not every time.”

She laughs again, quietly eyeing the length of his fingers as his picks up his glass. His knuckles are thick. Warm blue veins spiderweb across the back of his hand, disappearing beneath his shirt. If she tries hard enough, she can still remember how it felt to have that hand pressed against her throat, squeezing.

“And what else do they tell you about me?” she licks her lips, elbow on the bar, leaning forward to rest her chin in the palm of her hand. Eager – hungry.

“I know you’re an orphan.” He is stoic as he says it; as if unphased, uninterested. But Cain’s eyebrows lift, delighted.

“Then it must be true of you too,” she posits slyly, left eyelid dropping in a wink. “No one is more eager to accuse another of being an orphan… unless they themselves are one also.”

He ignores that, though she can see the way his weight shifts in the seat and the muscle in his jaw twitches.

“A Valkyrie.”

“Common knowledge in our line of work.”

“You’re from Paris.”

“An easy guess,” she leans back, bored. 

“Your first name is Nikita,” Din says then, a teasing lilt to his voice. She considers that he may enjoy this game just as much as she does.

And that makes her pause. She lifts her glass and laughs against the rim, a soft tinkling sound that rings in his ears and has every man in earshot turning to look at her.

“You watch too many films,” she swallows with a smirk. “Think French, Monsieur Djarin.”

He ponders it for a moment, lips pursed softly, gaze darting somewhere over her shoulder and then back to her face. Takes a sip of his laughably pink cocktail and licks the residue from his lips, savouring every drop.

“Camille.”

“Oh,” she rolls her eyes, fighting back a genuine smile now. “I know you can do better than that.”

It’s his turn to wink now, and for one fleeting moment she feels oddly at peace with the idea of spending the rest of her evening at the bar with Din Djarin. A stranger, yes, but a little less so than the others that crowd the room.

In a career so harsh, characterised by its solitude, its violence, Cain is unaccustomed to the feeling of being seen like this. She knows unfamiliarity and discomfort and pain like the back of her hand. Is no stranger to a man’s grip around her throat, her life in his hands. But not this… this twinkle of implicit understanding that she can see in his eyes. Those endless brown eyes that say we are not so different, you and I.

Despite the bloodied napkin in her lap and the ache in her jaw, it’s enough to loosen her shoulders; to set her at ease.

But then he turns to stare pointedly over her shoulder, and she snaps out of it. Twisting around on the stool, Cain follows his gaze until she spots Meier across the room. He stands with a few others, shoulders back, eyes bright. Perfectly oblivious.

The barman slips to the other end of the counter, serving a tall gentleman, and Cain lowers her voice.

“What does the Guild want with Ulrich Meier?”

Din takes a sip of his drink. Keeps his eyes to the right, glossing casually over guests, the band, and then back to the asset.

“Information,” he says finally—carefully. “He’s of no use to us dead.”

She hums quietly, plucking an olive from her drink. Eats it slowly, allowing the briny taste to wash over her tongue as she watches him. When he doesn’t speak again, she squints, unimpressed.

“Are you not going to ask me the same question?”

An amused sound escapes his mouth, and he meets her eye again.

“You want Meier dead,” he muses simply. “But why so abruptly? When there is so much to be gained from taking him in.”

“That is not an option for us.”

“Why?” His voice takes on a harsher quality now, eyes narrowing. Mistrust.

“Did you know that name Ulrich,” Cain murmurs, leaning forward to avoid any listening ears. “Comes from the Old High German name Uodalrich? Uodal meaning heritage. Rich meaning king; ruler.”

Din Djarin says nothing.

“Did you do your research before coming to Berlin?”

“Yes.”

“Then you understand that Monsieur Meier is not simply an arms dealer.”

A beat of silence. His fingers tighten around the stem of his glass. “Yes.”

“He took his name personally, you see.” Her eyes float back to Meier. “Held it in his slimy little hands as a baby and said Oui Maman, I will rule. I will rule the desires of weaker men, and bring nightmares unto any woman that I can get these two hands on.”

“This is about revenge.”

“This is about justice,” Cain snaps, that calm façade slipping for a second. No more games. Din’s spine straightens. “Have you ever spoken to a human trafficking victim?”

He takes another sip of his drink and does not respond. She does her best not to remember the photos from her briefing. Not to remember the countless interviews, witness statements, and obituaries she’d had to paw through before her flight.

“Your silence is very telling,” she smiles, that easy composure returning. “But I trust that you understand my position now. Ulrich Meier will be of no help to your organisation after this evening.”

“Cain—”

“Because,” she continues easily. “When I leave this building, he will no longer be able to speak. And if you wish to get in my way… then I am afraid the same fate will befall you, Monsieur Djarin.”

A soft announcement sounds through the speakers, and they turn their heads to listen. The Chancellor will be giving his speech in a few moments. That’s her cue.

“And Weber?” he asks, the words coming out stilted, rushed. “What do you think of him? He’s known for turning a blind eye to Meier’s dealings.”

She tilts her glass, swallowing the last of the icy liquid.

“I do my best,” she places it down on the counter with a soft clink. “Not to think of men at all. Unless it is imperative to my mission.”

“And yet you’ve thought of me,” Din asserts, gaze heavy. His eyes slip down, just long enough for her to notice the way he stares at her mouth, before his eyes return to hers. “You know me. Enough to recognise my face in a second.”

“As I said,” Cain smiles, stepping down from her chair. “Imperative to my mission.”

He is still as she leans in and presses a soft kiss to his left cheek, and then to his right.

“Take care, Monsieur Djarin. I would like to see you live another day,” she says, slender hand coming up to the side of his face. Her finger taps the piece in his ear once, and she is not smiling anymore. “I’ll be in here if you need me.”

Cain coasts around the edge of the room, keeping her eyes to ground whenever an unfamiliar sets of eyes strays in her direction. Swipes a finger beneath her nose once or twice, checking to see if any blood has returned. And as Chancellor Weber makes his way towards the stage, she makes her way back upstairs, quietly hoping that Din does not follow her again.  

Halfway up, a single word crackles through her ear piece.

“Amélie?”

Surprised, she grips the banister and almost turns around. But she can hear a woman speaking into a microphone in German, performing a plain and winding introduction for the Chancellor, and continues her ascent.

“Wrong.”

Reassuming her position on the balcony, shrouded in waves of those soft red velvet drapes, she watches Weber take his place on the stage. A hush falls over the crowd and her eyes move fast, landing easily on the thinning grey hair atop her target’s head. Every eye in the room is facing the stage. The Walther is thick and heavy in her palm as she ensures the silencer is correctly in place. Old fashioned indeed.

Cain’s breathing is calm, heart rate slow and measured as she raises the weapon and aims it at his head. And then, like a little ant crawling across her skin, she feels something shift. The air gets thicker, and a suddenly familiar shiver tickles its way down her spine.

Her eyes tick up and she pauses at the sight of Din on the opposite balcony railing. Almost hidden entirely by the shadows, pistol raised. And it is not pointed at Ulrich Meier, no… no it is pointed at her. And he is so handsome, even when he’s bluffing.

Grinning now, she lets the tip of her finger lightly caress the trigger. So gently, with no intention of doing any damage just yet. Some feeling akin to glee sparks up in her chest. Such excitement. The Chancellor’s voice fills the room, swelling from the speakers as he welcomes his guests.  

Din’s face is placid, unimpressed, and then that honeyed voice drifts through her ear once more.

“Celine?”

Cain allows herself a brief laugh, eyes drifting back down to rest on the man she came here for. The target drapes an arm around his wife’s waist. She inhales deep, filling her lungs before letting the air spill from her nose. Calm, collected. All of it so easy for her.

“Wrong again.”

The Walther jerks in her hand, bullet flying silently through the air, and for a moment there is silence. Nobody moves.

And then Ulrich Meier’s wife releases a blood curdling scream, dropping to her knees and cradling what’s left of her husband’s head in her lap. Popping the silencer off her gun, Cain catches a glimpse of thick, dark matter across the woman’s chest, spilling down the bare skin of her arms, and then she is slipping away into the bathroom in search of that thin little window.

Back on the cobblestone street, sirens wail through the air, police cars and ambulances roaring past as she traipses away from the scene. A little flushed, a little exhilarated, she blends into a crowd of pedestrians, hidden in the shadows. She cuts across the road, avoiding traffic, and heads toward Unter den Linden, knowing it is safer to walk. Don’t be seen by a taxi driver, don’t be recognised, don’t—

“That was a clean shot.”

The words ring in her ear, clear as day.

Cain’s feet drag to a halt against the ground, shoulders stiffening. She turns, eyes assessing the busy pathway behind her, a parked car idling by the side of the road a few metres back. But she can’t see him anywhere. Countless unfamiliar faces wander by, jostling her shoulders as they pass, but he isn’t amongst them. He’s hiding somewhere, watching her from afar – playing his own little game now. Shivering against the cold, she turns and continues walking.

And then: “I thought I might follow you home.”

The words are so confident, so self-assured, and they send a rush of jagged heat blossoming between her thighs. Her heels clip against the ground, knees feeling a little weaker all of a sudden.  

“Would you like that?” he asks, and she wishes she could see his face. Wants to see the desire burning in his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw as those words drift from his pink lips.

“Only if you can keep up.” A little breathless, the words form a soft cloud in the air in front of her face.

Din laughs, low and dark in her ear, but he doesn’t speak again.

She walks for a long time, ambling her way down dark streets, icy wind whipping at her hair for all of half an hour before she finally reaches the street of her hotel. And all the while, she spares quick little glances over her shoulders, trying to spot him in the shadows. Her clothes begin to feel too tight, too warm, despite the low temperature, and with every step her panties cling closer to her warm, wet skin.

The hotel doorman smiles tiredly at Cain as she approaches, holding the door open wide to welcome her inside. As her feet hit the entryway steps, his eyes flit over her shoulder.

“Ein freund von dir?” A friend of yours?

When she turns, she is quietly amazed to find Din there. Gait unhurried, only a few steps behind her. There’s an easy smile spread across his face. Hands tucked deep in his pockets; the top button of his shirt undone.

“Ja,” Cain murmurs, slipping inside.

Din nods to the doorman, following her in. “Guten Abend.” Good evening.

They do not speak as she leads him toward the elevator. Her numb fingers slide against the button with an upward pointing arrow, and together they wait. Heat radiates from his body, warming the skin of her back where he stands behind her, so close yet not touching her yet. Together they slip inside when the doors open.

She presses a button, the number twelve lighting up on the switchboard, and the doors glide closed.

Soft, tinny music plays in the elevator, and they stare at each other from either side of the small space. Din’s chest rises and falls with steady, measured breaths. He watches her and she watches the buttons on the wall, lighting up in turn as the two of them travel up, up, up.

Two floors below Cain’s, he speaks for the first time.

“Vivienne,” he says. “Final guess.”

Her eyes flash to him and she smiles, the skin beside her eyes pinching.

“It’s Remy,” she reveals at last, voice so soft, so forgiving now that her mission is complete.

“Remy,” he repeats. Rolls the r like she does, hums around the y. Sees how it tastes in his mouth and steps forward, saying it again, again. Remy, Remy, Remy, Remy Cain.

“Don’t wear it ou—”

His lips crush against hers, chest warm as he pushes her back back back into the wall. His hand flies up, cradling the back of her skull to protect it from the wall. Not a third time. Despite the softness of his hand, the way his fingers card gently through the short locks of her hair, his kiss is biting. A wet mess of clashing teeth and tongues as he works her jaw open, coaxing his way inside of her mouth. A rough exhale streams from his nostrils, warming the skin of her face. His breath tastes like Cointreau and lime, and she moans. 

His hand slips up her thigh, trailing past that slit in her dress for the second time this evening, until his fingers are brushing against the front of her panties. Feeling the thick damp strip in the lace, the way the thin material clings to her centre.

“Fuck,” he exhales, and when he meets her eyes again his pupils are blown fat and black with desire. Moving fast, he tugs the gun from her holster. She pauses, eyes narrowing, but then he tucks it into the waistband at the back of his trousers, simply allowing space for his forearm to rest between her thighs.

The elevator thrums around them, stomachs dropping as the metal box takes them higher and higher through the building. A finger curls around the edge of her panties, dragging them to the side, and when he finally slides through her wet cunt she sighs into his mouth, every muscle in her body pulling taut and warm. 

His touch is lax, almost taunting as he sucks her tongue into his mouth and traces a digit over the drooling mouth of her entrance, smearing it up to make a mess of her clit. When she moans he presses down; careful little circles there, messy figure eights, a sharp back and forth back and forth back and forth, trying to see what she likes best. And the second her eyes pinch shut, a low curse falling from her lips, the elevator dings.

His hand whips out, slamming against the red emergency stop button. The elevator jerks to an abrupt halt and then he’s on her again. Teeth at her collarbone, her neck, her jaw, fingers moving in a slick blur against her pussy. Her thighs splay apart, and she leans heavy against the wall, knees shaky, trusting him to keep her from falling to the ground. 

“So fucking wet for me,” he murmurs, the words brimming with pride, and she trembles beneath his touch, needing more and needing it now.

“Inside,” she pants, lips parted and searching for his again. “Want your fingers inside me.”

Din swallows those words down, pressing two fingers inside of her with a groan. Remy gasps, bearing down on the weight of his fingers and shivering as he curls them inside of her. Stretching her out and grinding his knuckles against her entrance with every deep thrust.

“Yeah?” he goads, watchful eyes drinking in the way she moans for him, turning her face into her shoulder as if to hide how good it feels. “You like that, hm?”

Warm wetness pools out of her, dripping past his knuckles and onto the inside of her thighs. Obscene sounds fill the tiny space as he pumps in and out of her, and she catches herself glancing upward, searching for a security camera. She spots it in the corner just as he fits a third finger inside and grinds the heel of his palm against her clit, her mouth falling open with a rough groan. Her shoulders tilt forward, forehead knocking against his shoulder, and Din grunts, fucking her harder. His fingers never leave her wet clutch now, the tips of them persistently working against that soft spot at the top of her walls.

“Such a tight little cunt,” he’s saying, nipping at her earlobe, but the words blur and warble around the rushing in her ears. “Squeezing my fingers so good, you’re so good.”  

She grips the back of his neck, squeezing desperately. Her jaw aches with the strain of hanging slack.

“Tell me,” he says roughly, growing impatient. Everything feels hot, too hot; the skin of her face against his shoulder, her chest, the sizzling tension coiling in her core.

“Close,” she chokes out. Din snakes his free arm around the back of her waist, steadying her loose-limbed frame between his body and the wall. “Just a little longe—ohhh, merde.”

He shifts then, the thick heft of his cock crushing against her thigh through their clothes. He presses a finger against her clit now. And that low rub, his calloused thumb paired with three thick fingers massaging into her, is enough to send her spilling over the edge.

A hoarse cry pries its way out of her throat, body shaking against his and he works her through it, still pressing down against the aching bundle of nerves at the top of her sex. She pulses around his fingers, everything pulling tight and wet around them as she comes. Teeth sink into the lapel of his jacket in an attempt to muffle her cries but his arm is dropping from her waist, hand coming up to grip her jaw and push her back.

“Let me hear it,” he purrs, voice like silk as it washes over the skin of her neck.  

“Ohh,” she moans, uncaring now about the camera, about who will hear. Focusing wholly on his fingers on her face, her cunt, the way her entire world seems to shake within his grasp.

He holds her there, lets her shake and shiver beneath his touch until the ebbs of pleasure finally fade and she’s strong enough to stand on her own. Remy watches as he takes a small step backward, pressing one hand over the front of his trousers and three slick fingers past his lips to taste her come. Din’s eyes slip shut at the taste, lips pursing as he sucks the remnants of her from his skin. Flushed and awed by the intimacy of it, the depravity of it, she looks away.

Her fingers tremble against the button as she presses it, and the elevator shudders back to life around them. Another sharp ding rings out again, the doors sliding open within seconds.

A few paces down the hall, the key card slips easily against her door, and she presses it open, flushed as she steps inside and kicks off her heels. She discards them somewhere to the side, turning to watch him follow her in, toes sinking gratefully into the rough carpet beneath her feet.

The door slams shut behind him and he tears his jacket off, letting it drop to the floor as he makes his way further inside. And he looks so much more intimidating like this, she thinks. Domineering as he advances on her, the thick length of his cock evident against the front of his pants. Despite him aiming a gun at her less than an hour ago, despite the way he slunk through the shadows to follow her back here, this is the first time all evening that she’s felt eager to bend to his will, his desire. Her heart races, thudding heavily against her ribcage, and he grins wickedly at her, as if he can fucking hear it.

They collide in the middle of the room, slick swollen lips sliding against each other in a mess of harsh exhales and lewd smacking sounds. Her hands roam across the vast expanse of his chest, trailing down to cup him through his pants. He groans at the feeling, hips jerking forward, seeking more more more. He rips the gun from his holster and tosses it onto the bed, her Walther following shortly from the back of his waistband, and then his hands are on her too. Fat palms pawing at her body, gripping the meat of her ass and squeezing, trapping her against his chest so he can rut his cock against her stomach. Din grips the back of her head then, thumbs rough against the apples of her cheeks as his mouth devours hers.

Thick fingers drift from the ends of her hair down the nape of her neck, the curve of her spine, until they slip beneath the back of her dress. Distracting her with his kiss, greedy and lustful and dominating – she doesn’t notice his curious fingers until they’re curling around the fabric and ripping. Remy staggers backwards with the force of it, gripping his neck. He snarls into her mouth, following her to the ground as she falls. The breath rushes from her lungs and her tailbone aches from how she lands but she doesn’t care. Doesn’t even care when Din straddles her waist, chest heaving, and continues to tear satin and silk from her body. The black material practically shreds in his hands. So thin and delicate, the threads fall apart with every twist, every yank, until he’s prying the ruined dress away and throwing it towards the bed.  

Remy’s fingers work hastily to undo the buttons on his shirt, but just as she reaches the fourth one, he’s gripping her hands, pinning them above her head. Din’s free hand works open his belt, the button and zip on his trousers, and then he’s dragging them down his legs, freeing the thick weight of his cock. She gasps, eyeing the angry red tip hungrily. He’s thick and long and leaking against the white material of his shirt. Her hands push against his and she grunts when he simply tightens his grasp on her, the friction of the coarse carpet harsh against her skin.

“I let you have your way back there,” Din says, eyes blazing. “Are you gonna let me have mine now?”

Her body stills, wholly captivated beneath the heat of his gaze, the weight of his thighs over her hips.

“Yes,” she exhales, mind a blur, limbs still loose and heavy from her orgasm. “Yes, Din, just fuck me.”

“The Guild are gonna have my fucking head for this,” he mutters, fingers falling from her hands to rest heavily at the waistband of her panties.

Remy isn’t sure if he’s talking about Meier or her, but she doesn’t fucking care. What happens to Din after tonight is not her problem.

He toys with her for a moment, tickling the skin around her navel, above the band of her panties, before his fingers hook around it and—snap. She flinches as the material is torn away, her skin pinching beneath the lace.

She stares up at him, clad in nothing but the pale material of her bra now. He watches the way her chest heaves beneath it, nipples painfully stiff against the thin lace.

“It was the right thing to do.”

“I know,” he snaps angrily. He shifts back, moving down her body until he can pry her legs from between his, spreading them open on the carpet to display her glistening cunt to him. The sight seems to stem his anger a little, jaw going loose as he gazes down at the shiny swollen mess of her.

A thick thumb swipes through her folds, pinching one of them back to hold her open for him to ogle at.

“Such a pretty little cunt,” he tuts under his breath, thumbing at the flesh between her clit and her hole.

Her face heats, heart stuttering in her chest a little at this feeling of exposure. Can feel the intensity of his stare practically inside of her the longer he looks, waiting for something.

“So take it,” she says finally, patience thinning.

She fists his shirt in her hands and tugs him forward, breath hitching when he grips his cock and jerks it slowly, smearing her wetness down the length of it before notching his tip at her entrance.

He pushes inside of her in one fell swoop, hardly giving her a moment to adjust to the fat girth of his tip before he’s pressing deeper. Lips on lips, sucking the breath from her lungs, their kiss vibrates with the strength of his groan. It tastes like relief, like understanding. And for a moment it’s just that. The thick weight of him seated inside of her, his chest against hers as they kiss lazily, sloppily, smearing spit across each other faces, tasting beneath tongues, behind teeth.

“So fucking tight,” Din bites out, forehead heavy against hers.

“Mm,” she whines, face screwed up.

A dull burn ricochets through her abdomen, the stretch more than she’s taken in a while. Remy wills herself to relax, but desire has her core tightening around him, sucking him in further and further until the coarse hairs at his base are flush against her clit and there’s nothing more to take. She loops a leg around his waist and ruts up against him, and anything soft about him vanishes.

Din’s thrusts are punishing. Hard and fast, the weight of his hips rocking her into the ground over and over, until she can feel carpet burns forming at the base of her spine, the soft skin of her ass. Every slick pass of the heft of his cock punches the air from her lungs and has her eyelids fluttering.

It’s greedy, the way he fucks her. Like he’s had it before, perhaps in a past life, and been deprived of her touch for years. He fucks her like he misses her. Like he loves her or hates her or something dark and grotesque in between the two emotions. Like if this were the last thing he ever got to do in this lifetime, then he was going to do it right.

So she says, “Harder,” and he grits his teeth, fucking her into the carpet until she’s sure there’ll be littles scrapes and bruises on her back in the morning.

The tip of his cock brushes near to the end of her, and every little nudge there has her gasping in an intoxicating medley of pain and pleasure.

“There?”

“Yes,” she begs. “Fucking—yes.”

Din works her open like it’s his fucking job. Settles on his knees and drags her ass up onto his thighs, splitting her open with every brutal thrust, hands fitted over her waist in a vice.

Up close like this she can see past the collar of his shirt. Can see thick raised lines on his skin, pink and purple scars beneath his collarbones. She reaches up and lays a hand there, feels his heart jack hammering against the marred skin, and moans his name. Din, Din, Din.

And he likes that. Releases an almost pained moan at the sound of his name on her lips, leaning down to attach his mouth to her neck. He bites and sucks and kisses, leaving a trail of deep dark marks from the hollow of her throat to the hinge of her jaw.

“That’s it,” he snarls into her skin, hand lowering to press down above her mound, and that mixed with the sound of his voice makes a fresh load of slick gush out of her. Pushes her deeper into this depraved, endless pit of pleasure he’s raining down upon her.

He tells her again, say it again, and she cries out Din, head lolling back against the floor.

Something fierce begins to brew inside of her. A bright white twisting feeling that frays and sparks like a live wire, stoked by the speed of his movement, the firm press of his hand against her lower stomach. And just as she thinks she’s there, almost there, so close, a shrill ringing comes from the sofa to their left.

Din’s hips stutter against hers, head snapping to the side to pinpoint where the interruption emanates from. A little pink phone rings and rings, the sound piercing through her ears and setting her teeth on edge. She taps his chest quickly, urging him back. He frowns, opens his mouth to tell her no, tell her ignore it, but she pushes him harder, again and again until he slips out of her with a haggard moan.

He grips her waist and turns their bodies, landing on his back with a thud. Eyes trained on his face, the dark red blush on his cheeks, his swollen mouth, she reaches out blindly, snatching the phone from the receiver and putting it to her ear.

“Allo?” Remy breathes, eyebrows pinching together as she sinks down onto his cock, free hand splayed on his stomach. “Bonjour.” 

He props himself up in a seated position, resting back on one hand while the other comes up to grope at her chest. Cocky asshole. But her eyes glaze over as she takes in the tanned skin that peeks out of his shirt again, the soft smattering of hair between his pecks. Legs spread out wide on the carpet, he watches her bounce slowly on his cock, nodding in encouragement but careful not to speak, lest he be heard down the line by her handler.

At this angle his tip presses into her g-spot with every movement. It only takes a moment for that low burn to start up again in the base of her stomach. Her mouth is open wide, ragged breaths spilling from her lips as she listens to the words being spoken down the line.  

She says, “Ouais, c’est fait.” Yeah, it’s done.

Din’s fingers flex around the cup of her bra, tugging down the fabric to let one of her tits spill out. He sighs heavily, leaning forward to latch his mouth onto the skin there. Lathing hot, messy kisses against her sternum, her nipple, and then grazing his teeth over the sensitive bud. She trembles against him, hand coming up to grip the back of his head and hold his face there. He sucks it into his mouth, pulls it taut between his lips before letting it slip out with a wet pop.

“À bientôt.” See you soon.

She hangs up the phone with a rough clang, and then her mouth is seeking his out again. Teeth clash and she moans at the sharp pain, uncaring. Din’s grip on her waist tightens and he plants his feet on the carpet, fucking up into her at a break-neck pace. She cries into his mouth, a harsh animalistic sound, and her stomach is pulling tight, cramping up. Her cunt locks down around him, and when she comes it’s a low throb of a feeling. A deep swooping ache that spills from her core and spreads out through her thighs, her stomach, until her body is jerking and twitching above him.

“Fuck yes,” he grits out, white teeth flashing in her hazy vision. He doesn’t give out, spitting a mess of that’s it, fucking give it to me as her pussy flutters and drools around his cock. Her hips roll and stutter over his, the muscles in her stomach twitching beneath the skin, and Din swears under his breath. Her vision whites out, throat hoarse and head pounding as she succumbs to the pleasure. And he feeds off it.

“God, look at you,” he grunts, prolonging that low burn in her gut the longer he fucks into that softest warmest little spot. “Made to take this cock.”

“Say it,” he rasps urgently, eyes rolling back when her hand grips his throat for purchase, nails digging sharply into the skin over his thrumming carotid. “Say you fucking want it.”

“I want it,” she moans, back arching, knees on fire where they slide against the carpet at his sides. “Want your come, Din, fuck—fuck, give it to me, give it to me.”

His body practically vibrates as he comes. A thousand tiny little twitches and spasms rocking through this frame, the muscles in his thick thighs turning to tense stone beneath her. A gravelly shout falls from his lips, cock kicking hot and hard against her walls until she feels his spend begin to seep out of her around his length and pool around his base.  

It’s almost frantic, the way his hands clutch at her body, clinging to any part of her that he can. And when she thinks he might pull her closer, press himself deeper to keep painting the inside of her walls, he pushes her away, dragging himself from her clutch just to grip his length in a tight fist.

He strokes himself in tight wet movements, a few final weak spurts of his come shooting up to land over her mound and the swollen lips of her pussy. And only when he’s done, spent cock beginning to soften in his palm, does he pull her down a little. Resting wet hands over the base of her spine to feel the way she shivers, body shuddering its way through the aftershocks of her orgasm.

Remy’s chest expands with stilted, ragged gasps for air, trying desperately to fill her lungs as she folds against his hot thick frame, exhausted.

And after a few moments the foggy, erotic blur that held her mind in a vice for the past few hours slowly begins to lift. Din’s hand is on the back of her thigh, fingers splayed, tickling the skin there, and the weight of it suddenly itches. Reality drifts back in and it feels heavy on her shoulders. The clock beside the hotel bed reads 9:12 – her flight out of Berlin leaves in two hours.

His hand drifts up her back, nudging her down to rest her head against his chest. Her body aches suddenly; dull pains popping up in her neck, her jaw, her hips. She remembers the way it felt to have his palm strike her chin and almost smiles.

A metre away, her suitcase lies spread open on the floor. Clothes and lingerie and a gun peek out of the red trunk. She can see two passports beside it, stacked neatly atop one another. And she knows that his hotel room can’t look that dissimilar from his own, but it feels too much now. As their breathing starts to even out, vision swinging back into focus, this level of intimacy – having another person, even a colleague of sorts – seeing behind the scenes of what after looks like for her… it feels like a splinter in the tip of her finger. A sharp sting that won’t go away. Wrong.

Remy rests her chin against his collarbone and glances up at him. Din’s eyes are closed, lips parted as soft breaths puff out from between them. He looks tired – almost as tired as she feels.

“I’m going to shower,” she tells him, fingers brushing curls back off his forehead. His eyes are soft, warm as they open to watches her stand. Too much, that look in his eyes. Too close. “Be gone when I come out, okay?”

Remy turns, back to him as she grips the handle of the ensuite door, and for a moment she pauses. Feels the weight of the silence between them, the heady scent of sweat and come in the air, on her skin, and glances over her shoulder. Looks between him spread out on the floor and her things dotted across the room. An empty martini glass lying on its side. The blush-coloured rotary phone on the hotel sofa. Passports with different names, birth dates, home countries, addresses, and her face. She knows that has to be firm now.  

“Don’t give me a reason to kill you, mon chére.” My darling.

Din’s lips curl up into a smile and his eyes drift up to stare at the ceiling. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She slips inside the bathroom and pulls the door almost closed behind her. Twists a nozzle until water is beating down against the floor of the shower and steam begins to fill the room. Silently, she pries open a cabinet and slips her hand beneath the sink, feeling around until her fingers grasp the pistol strapped there.

Bare skin of her back flush to the wall, thighs still wet with come and sweat, she peers out through the crack in the door. Still ajar, she can see him past the wooden frame. Sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her, looping his belt through the waist of his trousers. With her eyes trained on the soft skin of his neck, on messy curls, on shoulder blades and biceps that bulge out against the thin material of his dress shirt – she leads a silencer into place over the mouth of her gun. A rhythmic repetition, the exact same as earlier. She doesn’t even need to look down. Pin meet groove, twist, twist, twist.

Din slips his arms inside the suit jacket, elbows bending as he smooths his palms along the front of it. She holds her breath as he turns, as he takes three steps toward the hotel room door, and then—pauses. Hand on the doorhandle, he does not move.

Remy’s finger rests featherlight on the trigger.

She is calm. What happens next is his choice.  

And he must know this because he does not turn around. Does not try to catch one last look at her. His fingers curl around the handle and he slips out the door, closing it was a soft click behind him. The air in the room rushes to fill his sudden absence.

Only when there is silence does she exhale, dropping the pistol onto the marble countertop beside the sink. And she smiles as she slinks beneath the hot spray of the shower head, letting it rush over the crown of her skull and drench her hair.

Her scalp stings and pink water swirls in the drain, blood slipping from a little cut on the back of her head. She pays it little mind, tilting her chin up so the scalding water hits her face too, stripping away a thick layer of sweat and blood and secrets from her skin. The silence stretches, and her smile grows. He does not come back.

Smart choice, Din Djarin.

thank you so much for reading! x

[arminsumi]

Saw this and thought... Mafia AU Gojo & Geto 👀

Share a piece of your juicy brain thoughts please, I'm collecting all the scraps 😗

PRETTY THING LIKE YOU.

𝐆. 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 — 五条悟 ⋅ 𝐆. 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 — 夏油傑

NOTE: OH TO BE IN THAT CAR 🛐 anyways, these are just... messy ideas pls forgive me!! 🥲 idk how to write for mafia stuff but i adore the idea sm i wanted to say a lil smth about it

WARNINGS — fem reader, you're Toji's daughter, err mafia stuff warning idk?? implied kidnapping, implied light use of violence, Geto calling u nicknames (sweetheart, baby, etc), i made Gojo a meanie for some reason oops, some vague semblance of a plotline lol

🍒 𝐉𝐚𝐲 — サクランボ ⋅ 𝐑𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬/𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 !

Your dad is Toji Fushiguro, he sits on a big throne in this business. Everyone knows him, everyone's scared of him — why wouldn't they be? Except for these two particular men... who consider themselves the strongest 🙄 Big, big severely inflated egos they've got.

Toji hired Nanami to be the loyal bodyguard for his precious daughter. Why? Well, to put it simply — these two men are looking to take revenge on him with you as their playing card.

Geto and Gojo are on the hunt one night for you, and you fall right into their palms. Usually the black car with tinted windows has Nanami behind the wheel, ready to drive you home after a night out. But one night it's those two.

The drive is silent and uneasy. Gojo is flicking his gaze up at the rearview mirror to check you out with those piercing blue eyes of his. Geto is talking to you in a sickeningly saccharine sultry voice, nicknaming you sweetheart, princess, love, baby, etc... and trying his best to keep you calm with simple small-talk.

Gojo? He's more intimidating than his friend behind the wheel. He will not stop eyeing you out, even when you three end up in some fancy penthouse. You blink up at him innocently, it almost makes his heart lurch — he's wondering how such a pretty face came from such a bastard.

Whatever Toji did to them in the past, they were still seething over. Seems their idea of a revenge plot involved you. But you had no idea what to expect. They didn't have intent to hurt you — well, subtract Gojo pulling and pushing you around like a ragdoll when you weren't compliant enough. But Geto always scolded him.

In fact, Geto calmed the both of you so nicely. He put on water to boil and languidly stirred tea in the kitchen. It was surreal and bizarre in some way.

"Sweetheart, we're gonna be transparent with you. We're just keeping you here for a little while to get your dad's attention. You're gonna be treated like a princess, so don't you worry — " he lifted you by the chin so you had to look up at him, "A pretty thing like you isn't in trouble with us."

Gojo scoffed. He had his arms folded. Legs crossed. Spine slacked against the couch.

"Don't mind him, princess. He's just grumpy — your old man wasn't very kind to him in his youth." Geto explained super vaguely.

Gojo chuckled, "Yeah, you're damn right he wasn't kind to me. Sonofabitch wasted me."

"Well she had nothing to do with that, Satoru, so treat her good."

He grumbled in reluctant agreement. But the second Geto was out of sight, when Gojo led you to your bedroom, he entrapped you between two arms and practically pinned you to the wall.

"Listen — princess — " he mockingly impersonated Geto, "You keep those lips shut or I will shut them for you." he threatened, breathe fanning your face.

Well, it was hard to keep your lips shut. A week later, you woke up and went into the kitchen to find Gojo with a bloodstain in his white hair, Geto with a crimson splatter across his cheek, and a gun resting on the table that towered with green stacks of money. You didn't dare ask what was going on. You just looked at them until they said something from themselves.

"Don't worry." Geto's serene smile caught your worried gaze, "Just business, angel."

"What exactly-" you began, but Gojo gave you a sharp look and Geto immediately cut you off.

" — ah-ah, baby. We've already talked about this." he cooed. His smile had the vaguest sinister twist to it, "Keep that pretty mouth shut. No asking questions."

© 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐢 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈'𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐄.

[mortytheestallion]

can i have you?

Rating: 18+ (minors DNI)

Word Count: 1700+

Warnings: Rick Sanchez x F!Reader, age-gap (older man/younger woman), unprotected sex PIV, angst, cunnilingus, fingering, canon typical violence, alcohol

“What’s that?” There’s a look of uneasiness painted on your face, a timid hand pointing at a seemingly dead robot that looks a little too much like Rick, well exactly like Rick, strewn across the garage floor in a puddle of oil.

Rick barely spares a glance over his shoulder before giving a gruff grunt.

“Morty pissed me off. It's a glorified family babysitter while I search for— while I focus on real shit.”

You think you’re gonna throw up. If that. . . thing, has been impersonating Rick for a couple of weeks then—

You can’t help the shriek that passes through your lips. Stomach churning, you don’t acknowledge the sound of glass shattering not 5 feet from where you stand. All you can do is stare at the shiny gold consisting of the robot’s body parts in horror.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Rick had already been in an irritated state like you’ve never seen. 5’o clock shadow, disheveled hair, and his lab coat seemed to be all that was holding him together.​ The mania had dissipated a couple of days ago, leaving nothing but piss and vinegar behind. 

“I fucked that thing.”

You’ve never seen Rick surprised as he slowly turns to face you, brow near his hairline. He’s speechless for the first time since he met you, yet it's gone as quickly as it came. His signature furrowed brow and twitching eye returned.

“What do you mean you fucked it?” It's full of venom. You can see his shoulders tense, white knuckles gripping the edge of the work bench. 

All you can do is stare at him, bound and gagged by your own dreadful realization. A beat passes before either one of you moves, Rick springs into action first. A string of explicatives leaves his mouth as he roughly clears the work bench, you cringe at the sound of clattering metal, but do not move. It feels like your feet have grown roots. 

It all makes sense now. The soft touches, the kindness, the supportiveness. It couldn’t have been Rick, it wasn’t. 

You can’t believe you didn’t realize it was a robot. His hands were cold, which was the only odd thing but Rick is odd. He normally runs like a space heater. You often wake up with all of your blankets on the floor, Rick starfished on the topsheet. He had been more tender though, attentive. You just thought time was changing him, making him softer. It seemed like family was making him more mellow, you thought maybe having you in his life brought out something in him. 

The shame and embarrassment washes over you like a flood. 

He picks up the robot with ease, throwing it onto the work bench like it weighs less than a feather. You’d be turned on in other, better circumstances. Your thoughts continue to race as Rick searches carelessly through boxes, throwing items over his shoulder at the workbench. He doesn’t seem to care if it hits the robot or not. 

Rick attaches what looks like jumper cables to each of the robot's nipples. You snort, instant regret shoots down your spine as Rick throws a glare at you. He presses a button and the robot jerks to life, cringing as he moans through the electrical current flowing through him.

“I thought you let me die, asshole.” He squints at Rick. His eyes widen when he realizes Rick is in no joking mood. 

“I programmed you to keep Morty busy not to fuck my gir— not to fuck her!” Rick thumb jabs in your direction, “Now I’m gonna fuck her, and make you watch.”

“Rick.” It's the first word you’ve been able to get out in a minute, the robot quietly sighs to himself during your staring contest with Rick. 

“Fine.” It comes out through gritted teeth, and he rips the cables off. The robot jerks as the light leaves its eyes. You feel a little guilty, this somewhat sentient creature dying because of your actions. Then again, Rick programmed it to be him, and it does seem to want to die. 

“What?” It's accusatory. Rick can’t believe the look on your face, you fucked a robot not him. Who are you to be on a high horse?

Your mouth is set in a grim line, tension oozes between the two of you. Rick’s chest heaves, he won’t break before you do. 

“What exactly was your plan with the robot? You thought I wouldn't initiate sex?” You break, chewing on your lip. Rick’s eyes briefly flicker towards it before meeting yours again. His hands are balled into fists.

“S-sorry I expected you to actually use that thing in your head, you know the brain?” Your mouth falls open at his jab, “Mouth o-open again? Gonna stick the dead robot dick in it, sweetheart?” 

There's tears in your eyes. All of the cautious trust you’ve built over the last couple washed away in a matter of seconds. Serves you right, you think.

He takes a swig of his flask, angry eyes betraying the calm demeanor he’s trying to portray. You can’t help it as the tears fall, you watch him soften a bit as you sniffle before the coldness returns. 

“Tears d-don’t work on me bab— sweetie, or did the robot fuck you dumb?” You know he’s just being mean because he’s hurt. 

It doesn’t make it any less upsetting though. You both stand your ground. 

You play it up a little, calling his bluff. Sniffles turn to sobs, you watch as his resolve slowly begins to crumble. He shifts his weight several times before he tosses the flask over his shoulder and moves in your direction. 

“C’mere,” his thumbs briefly wipe the tears off your cheeks before his lips meet yours. It’s uncharacteristically soft for him, a little too on brand for the robot. You push the thought to the back of your mind, enjoying how warm his body is pressed against yours. 

He gets a little rougher. You gasp as your back hits the work bench, so engrossed in the feeling of his teeth biting your neck you didn’t even notice him guiding you over. 

Rick’s hands are gripping your waist so tight you’re sure there’ll be handprint shaped bruises on your hips in the morning. The thought of it makes you moan, and he tenses slightly before continuing his way down your torso. 

He gets his hands under your thighs. Calloused hands meet plush skin as he leverages you up on the counter, you yelp as you land on the cold counter. 

“Gon–gonna make you forget all about him, sweetheart,” He mutters, rucking the material down your legs. He’s gonna show you how much he cares about you in the only way he can. He stops for a minute to grab you by the nape of your neck and kisses you, really kisses you. He bathes in the soft moans he manages to pull from you between kisses, continuing his previous goal as he bites his way down your neck and chest. 

Rick drags your ass to the edge of the counter before dropping to his knees. He bites back a curse, his joints too old to be doing shit like that but damn if he wasn’t gonna worship you in a way that matters. Matters to him.

He runs a finger up your slit, savoring how wet you are for him after nothing but a couple kisses. It inflates his ego like you wouldn’t believe. 

You mewl as he breaches you, two slender fingers twisting inside you. You arch into his touch, wiggling for as much contact you can milk from him. 

“Please, Rick, d-don’t tease,” you plead, his eyes search your face. He curls his fingers up, hitting you where you’re soft and spongy, reveling in the way you melt in his hands. Rick uses his other hand to spread your knees wide. He can’t help the noise that escapes his throat at the sight of you. 

He picks up his pace and you squirm, your hips chasing as much pleasure as you can. His cock presses uncomfortably against the seam of his pants as he feels you clench around his fingers. Beads of sweat pepper your hairline as you ride his fingers, becoming more desperate the longer he denies you release. 

You practically scream the minute you feel his mouth on your clit. Your orgasm rips through you like a live wire. Your thighs shake, momentarily blacking out as the pleasure overwhelms you. 

When you come down, Rick is staring at you intently. 

“Can I have you?” It's loaded. You know what he means, he’s asking for permission before continuing but there’s more underneath this time. He might even be more upset than you about the robot fucking, and you know Rick’s no saint. Your lip quivers. His stare never leaves your face.

You nod. He’s on you faster than you can process post-orgasm. 

He kisses you again. It's softer this time, one hand holds your jaw softly while the other undoes his belt. He desperately shoves his pants down as if having you will solve all his problems. Maybe it will.

Rick fists himself as he smears his cock against your entrance. You moan, overstimulated and fucked out. He holds himself back, it's not in his nature to go slow. Your hips buck involuntarily as he slides to the hilt, his head drops to your shoulder with a groan. 

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so tight,” He pulls almost all the way out before thrusting back in without warning, “Bet he didn’t fuck you like this, huh?” He quickens his pace and you grip his shoulders, hips dragging with what little strength you have to meet him.

He thrusts as deep as he can to get you to writhe and whimper. 

“C’mon,” He pants, “Just one more for me, honey, I know you can do it.” It's creeping up on you, twisting down your spine. He angles his hips to spear his cock into you just like you need, and it's enough. 

Rick’s hips stutter as you clench around him, gripping your hips to deliver the brutal thrusts you need as you ride through your orgasm. 

He comes shortly after with a grunt as you flutter along his length. 

“I’d have fucked a robot sooner if it meant you’d fuck me like that.”

The glare is worth it.

[vilsoo]

𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄 ⌇LEON KENNEDY

vampire!reader x prince!leon || WC: 3,626

𖤐 SYNOPSIS. you’ve had your eye on prince leon for a long time, impersonating as a sweet duchess developing an ardent relationship with him. but with your dark intentions, you crave for nothing but his blood and to corrupt him as a vampire…

𖤐 WARNINGS. historical royalty au, duchess!reader, coercion so dubcon warning, seduction, hypnosis, eventual smut, bathtub sex, marking, neck biting, blood drinking, mentions of killing, loss of innocence, kinda ooc leon, multiple orgasms.

HORRORLAND/KINKTOBER MASTERLIST

[HAUNTED HOUSE ANNOUNCER] You are now entering the Lust at First Bite live venue. This haunted house attraction depicts scenes of violence, intense loud audio, special effects, and content warnings posted. For a fun and safe experience, please follow our code of conduct: no touching live performers and decorations, no flash photography, and no eating. Do not block passageways, or this will result in expulsion. Smoking and drinking are permitted for our haunted houses only. We hope you enjoy.

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

“Your grace. There is a nice, hot bath prepared just for you in the master bathroom.”

Your gaze settles onto Prince Leon as you were reading a book on your sofa, drinking in the very sight of him. He felt his own heartbeat stomp through his ribcage from how ravishing you looked under the pale moonlight radiating from your window, dressed in your nightgown and the enamoring glimmer in your eyes drizzling into his skin, buzzing in all directions of his soul. You see him with his embellished suit off and only his white dress shirt, a sign that he would be retiring back to his chambers soon for the night.

You’ve favored each other for the longest. You knew that Prince Leon had deep, incandescent feelings for you, the darling duchess of España, but was too abashed to confess. And even though there was a lingering part of you that shares the same feelings, your heart wasn’t in the right place. No desire for love, commitment, marriage, or even the title of queen in the kingdom once Leon inherits his title as king. Only a handsome man like him can writhe you into a carnal fervor, your dark desire growing stronger like a restless, insatiable hunger…

The forbidden lust and tension between you two was tormenting to even bear every second you spend time together; you wanted him in ways that he could never imagine, all those filthy, vivid dreams filling your mind. The passion, the roughness, the danger, the urge to corrupt that sweet, innocent soul… Moments in time when you’re both alone was like playing with fire and ice, aware that such ravenous desire and yearning for each other could be intoxicating…

Prince Leon lends a hand for you as you stand before him, your beautiful, genuine smile causing his heart to flutter. “Why, thank you, Your Highness. I’ll be on my way right now.”

“No need for formalities, remember?” Leon smiled back, still holding onto your hand that his thumb involuntarily grazes your fingers. Your gaze flickers down on his hands and then up into his face, fighting the urge to inch ever so closely to feel his lips on yours.

“Right. Well, are you retiring to bed for the night?”

“I was on my way, but… if you have any requests before I go, I’ll be of service.”

Slowly letting go of his hand, your longing gaze drifts to the bay windows, a silent statement that you didn’t want him to leave just yet. Coronation is just in three days and Leon will become king. Ever since you were inherited duchess, you’ve waited so long for this very moment… Not to celebrate Leon and partake in festivities, but to celebrate your own triumph...

The triumph of finally drinking his blood.

“Will you help me unlace my dress?” you requested ever so fondly. Leon looked as if every fiber of his being seized at the question, rendered motionless and his jaw slightly slackened.

“Uh, are you— are you sure, your grace?” he stammered. “You’re comfortable with me… touching you like that? Wouldn’t we be in some sort of trouble…?”

His innocence prompted a chuckle from you, coyly slanting your head at him with the right kind of heat and ardor pooling in your flaunting eyes. Immediately his mind is haunted by the hollow embrace of your gaze. Oh how you loved enticing the prince without lifting a finger, that he couldn’t help but to get lost in you, already undressing you with his eyes.

“Oh, Leon. You said you’d be of service for me tonight. Why would I get you into trouble?” You simpered, whirling your body around to reveal your delicate frill laced corset beautifully tied into a bow. Though the prince was hesitant to even lay a finger on your enamoring body, he would forever adorn your warming embrace, urging him to please you and surrender to your unfair seduction.

“Forgive me. You know how I tend to be… wary of your grace. I would do anything as you please.”

A smile stretches across your face, emitting soft sighs of relief as Leon loosens up your dress and the pressure finally lifted from your waist. The steady pace of beating hearts and slowed breathing, his calloused hands lightly brushing against your back, the shape of your body seeping into his mind… Your body has already succumbed to this desiring aroma, addicted to each other with such burning ecstasy.

“I worry that once you’re king, the circumstances between us may change,” you murmured as Leon loosened the last section of lace, whirling around to meet his eyes once again.

He held back the urge to lean forward, to finally taste those saccharine lips of yours bathed under the moonlight, to kiss you for reassurance; even though he knew that you did not belong to him...

“Y/N. You know how deeply I favor you. Being a king may have more responsibilities, but that doesn’t mean not spending time with you. Surely that is something I won’t ever miss out on,” the prince professes, ever so sweetly.

“Oh, Leon...” Another warm, genuine smile and a soft chuckle was all you replied with, clutching your loosened dress to cover your semi-exposed chest as you made your way to the master bathroom. “If your desire to spend more time alone with me is true, will you partake in more favors for me?”

“Of course, your grace. Anything.”

You hummed. “Will you light the candles in the bathroom, please? You know I love the ones you gave me.”

Leon scoffed softly, finding your demure request oddly adorable. “As you wish, your grace.”

As he lights a match from your fireplace to transfer to your bathroom, your dress had already pooled around your ankles, completely naked as Leon saunters back and flinched in shock from accidentally averting his eyes on your bare skin. “Your— your grace!” he stammers again, shielding his face away from your direction. “Forgive my eyes, I— I didn’t know you disrobed so quickly— I will be taking my leave—“

“Leon,” you assured, also piqued by how adorable he was. “There’s absolutely no need for that at all. I still require your presence.”

The prince cleared his throat, his head still turned away and eyes fixated onto the wall. “Oh, uh— of course. As long as you are comfortable, I won’t leave your side…”

“Will you look at me when I am speaking as well?”

As much as Prince Leon was flustered from your risqué behavior stemming from nowhere, he couldn’t bring himself to disobey your commands. And though he was of much higher status, being heir to the throne, while you were of a lower rank than him, he always felt rather inclined to serve and satisfy you. When his frantic eyes drifts ever so slowly onto your nude body, the depths of his blood rushed to meet the surface of his cheeks. A slow inhale he took as if he breathed the sight of you in, effortlessly seducing his thoughts…

“What’s the matter?��� you spoke, his eyes never leaving the beguiling sight of your body as you dipped your feet in the bathtub.

“Um— nothing, nothing. It’s just… you may have stolen my breath away once again, your grace.”

“Once again?” you teased. “Ah, how could I forget your expression after seeing me in my gown during our tea party in the gardens a week ago...”

With the dandelion colored candlelight dancing off the rippling water, you submerged in the warm bath of rose petals and lavender, the sweet aroma of affection, serenity, and fondness filling the air. Leon was undeniably enticed. As if you wrapped him under a spell with such wanton lust, every soft whisper and every alluring gaze you give each other unleashing a storm of temptation. He felt inclined to feel closer to you as you washed yourself, right beside your grand bathtub, his shadow towering over you.

“Your grace. As honest as I am with you as you are with me... I believe we both know exactly why you require my presence tonight,” he mutters, beginning to unbutton his shirt.

Your eyes widened in utter shock, a facade of panic when deep down you were so close to getting exactly what you’ve wanted. “Leon? Are you— Are you disrobing?”

“Are you planning to make me beg for this? I can’t handle it any longer. And I know you can’t either,” he mutters passionately, lulling your heart from his poetic confession. “Just say the words, my dearest. Tell me what you want.”

Behind those mesmerizing shades in your eyes leave something much more desirable that Leon can sense. Your doe, heated eyes behind the blinds of time, slowly traveling up his chest and bare skin, lips parting like an invitation for him. You tried so hard maintaining your blood thirst that it took every fiber of your being to hold yourself back for years now. It was like a blaring siren overtaking your ears, your chest thundering and pounding erratically, and your gut screaming at you that it was finally time to feast on the man you’ve been keeping your eye on for so long…

“Leon… If we do this, we must—“

“—be discreet, yes. There was nobody around before I entered, your grace. Everybody else had retired to their chambers.”

You stammered on your own words as he undoes the rest of his undergarments, shielding your eyes and turning away as he dips into the rose petal bath. If only he knew your veneer bashfulness towards him, wickedly hypnotizing him with your sultry eyes and mind…

“Your grace. Is this alright with you?” he reassures. “You can, uh… turn around whenever you’re comfortable.”

Ever so slowly you face him, inhaling deeply and sighing softly at the sight of his flesh and body before you. His skin drizzled with drops of water was so beautiful, pale and mysterious, a man that walked straight out of your twisted fairytale. Your hands moved as if it possessed a mind of its own, delicately caressing him and ambling closer to the point he can breathe you in. Just how longer can you bear yourself around him?

“My prince,” you passionately whisper, inclining your neck to take in his warm bright blue eyes and the tingling feeling of his nose brushing against yours.

The bathroom was dimly lit, glinted in darker shades; somber, sultry, and sacred. All air had escaped your lungs, panting heavily and trembling lips parted like an invitation for each other. The gap between you was now inevitably thin. Leon’s hands slide down the slope of your ribs and the curves of your hip, a thrilling shiver coursing in your veins.

“Yes. I can’t begin to explain how much of a… wicked man I am for you,” he murmurs. “You effortlessly bewitch and beguile me. And I must—I must not only tell, but show these strong feelings I have for you. It torments my soul every morning and every night…”

“As does mine, Leon…”

“Tonight, right here in this bath we share… You’re my queen. I live to please and satisfy you, Y/N.”

He dips his head further, pulling you by the neck and settling onto his lips, smiling in between your passionate kiss. Hands wandering the perfect canvas of his skin, he was pressed against the walls of the bathtub as you melted into the kiss. Not only can you taste him, but you can smell his blood so up close, an inferno of passion which was also your tempestuous hell. Your heart became a cauldron, ablaze with yearning and maddening, pulsing blood lust. In a rapturous fervour, your body falls under your unquenched, carnal hunger for him.

“I love you, Y/N,” you hear him murmur. “I love you, I love you, I love you… Let us consume each other right here.”

Consume each other…

Your eyes were forced shut, concealing the wicked change of color in your eyes, emerging into your primal, vampire state. You enchant him with lips grazing against his neck, breathing slowly as his human scent invades you tremendously. He arches his neck with the back of his head resting on the bathtub’s edge, eyes closed in ecstasy from the way you drizzled his body with kisses that were soon to be your markings. Your rapacious desire, your dangerous craving and insatiable taste for blood that no one could ever know, not even the prince himself, has finally risen like the full moon. Terror was now your fine embodiment…

“Oh, Leon… I’ve always wondered what you taste like.”

You finally bared your fangs, its sharpness shining in the light of the moonshine peaking through the windows. Your piercing, cranberry-colored eyes flickered one last time onto Leon’s face like a predator feening on its prey that it just captured. His eyelids began to flutter as he gazed upon the ceiling like he was lost in his own world, somewhat contemplating the words you just spoke of. But as the candelight flickered and the air thickened, you were ready to feed.

“Taste like..?”

With no warning your fangs sink deep into his neck, draining him so harshly as you enthralled in your long-awaited bloodgasm and feral lust. His body beneath you squirmed and writhed, his eyes meeting your predatory, bone-chilling gaze as he was about to scream and shriek from the pain and terror. But you cover his mouth, hissing as he struggled to escape from your grasp until you feel his body going cold, his eyes falling heavy, his heart beating slowly, breath hitching, and his strength staggering. You kept marking him all over his neck and chest, robbing him of his delicious blood that you were sent into a frenzy, intoxicated state. A beautiful bloodgasm.

“Your grace, what— what are you…?” Leon groggily whispers, rendered numb and dazed from how much blood you drained out of him. “Are you— are you gonna kill me?!”

You may have felt a little remorseful for ruining him like this, but after all, this was your mission from the beginning. Nothing but an ardent relationship that arbitrarily developed into something much deeper, where you kept holding back on the days you were dutied to drink him then kill him. You can see the betrayal and longing behind his eyes. The fear staggering in his ribs that you can feel his heart thundering. He was still under your spell, hypnotized and mystified by your seduction, which was why he didn’t react so frantic or hostile. Perhaps he was riveted deep down, stupefied beyond belief of who you really are behind your lovely facade… The poor Prince Leon was a goddamn fool.

“I won’t... If you be obedient for me,” you reassured to him tantalizingly, noticing him quiver as you ran your sharpened lacquered almond nails down his chest.

“So this was your plan all along…? Reveal yourself to me before I’m crowned king?” Leon retaliates weakly. “How were… how were you able to live without… drinking blood?”

“What do you think happened to all our prisoners in the dungeons? All the innocent civilians going missing and found dead from loss of blood,” you smirked, Leon’s blood still draped all over your lips, teeth, and chin. “You should be grateful that you’re the only man I’ve shown mercy to. And with all my markings on your Heavenly body… you may be fatigued from how much I drank, but you’re still alive and useful. For now.”

Leon growled in frustration his nose flaring and his breath hitching, unable to fathom his demise. He still couldn’t move his arms, for all of his limbs remained numb and his strength rendered docile. “Damn you! What— what is it that you really want, Y/N? I know you’re not only thirsting after my blood— I demand an answer!”

“You… you will be my consort as we terrorize this kingdom and its people together, leaving us as the rightful vampire heirs,” you taunted, seizing every nerve in Leon’s modified body. “The night we have our dinner party, our guests will be treated with a special meal— paralyzing them just for us to feed on their blood and celebrate our triumph. The more we feed, the more we become powerful.”

“I— I would never!” the prince retorts, his voice suddenly cracking from his surge of emotions washing over him. “I loved you, Y/N! This wasn’t… this wasn’t the future I wanted with you…”

“That’s such a shame. With the changes going on in your body right now, our bloodlust future together is inevitable. You already belong to me, Prince Leon Kennedy.”

Moonlight washes over his face, eyes wincing from how rapid his heart was thundering in his chest. Every nerve in his body was on high-alert, tearing inside him in such agonizing, razor-sharp pain. In that fleeting moment, with every heavy breath he takes as his body surrenders to this brain-fazing sensation, he was no longer himself. Your daunting words and hypnotism dwells within his skull, corrupting him in vulgar, ravenous ways.

Not one word was spoken as he embraced the roaring pain slashing in his body like acid. He felt enraged. He felt animalistic. He felt thirsty. He felt… plagued by such a forbidden desire, your seduction like grotesque death to him. Corrupted by lust, he is now a dark incarnate. No longer a human. No longer a king.

He was a bloodlusted man that serves his only purpose of pleasuring you.

“I— I belong to you, Your Grace.”

You smiled a wicked smile, catching a glimpse of Leon’s new fangs as he parts his lips for you like an invitation. The innocence, purity, and humanity that would pool behind his beautiful eyes is now ravaged with salacious filth and hunger. His humanity and dignity will now forever remain unobtainable. With the man you loved and favored reborn as one of the most deadliest, sinister creatures to scorch the Earth, you were an indestructible pair…

Leon tossed away his chastity, his honor, his celibacy the moment your lips clashed together, savoring every bit of each other to engrave in your minds. His immoral lust was a feast of flavors that blazed wildly like an untamed flame. A low growl in his throat as he kissed you so hard and rough, wanting you to bite down on his lips with your sharp fangs. Sensations coursed through his body, transferring to your flesh. Water mixed with blood was splashing onto the floor as Leon tried to push you against the wall this time for control, but he your affect rendered the depraved man docile. He couldn’t win over you, no matter how physically capable he was.

“Your— Your grace,” he gasped, looking down at the water as your swollen cunt started grinding against his aching cock. “Please, I need to feel you… I’ve been waiting for so long to experience this ecstasy with you…”

“Oh, my poor prince,” you feigned a pout, planting kisses on neck and behind his earlobe. “Vampires don’t make love. Vampires don’t indulge in intimacy… We only consume. We ravage. Human blood and power is our lustful cravings for eternity, but you, Leon… Your love is the only lethal drug I can inject into my bloodstream to satiate me.”

“I don’t care what I am anymore, Y/N. As a human, as a king, as a vampire, as a dead man… I’ll always be a cruel, withered man crawling back to you with maddening hunger. My lustful craving was always you. You alone satiate me more than anything in this rotten world.”

You had no idea what took over you at that passionate, endearing moment shared with Leon… but everything fell foggy as you were sitting on top of his cock and kissing him at the same time, hearing the water sloshing around as you moved your hips on him with sultry rolls. He felt better than you had fantasized before; pinpricks of electricity and intensity blossoming inside you, hearing him whimper and groan in your ears as he fills you up so good. It was a whirlwind of pleasure and torture, carnality and filth, intimacy and immorality… Your body enthralled in the exquisite affection Leon has been longing for, causing you to betray your heartless nature.

Leon as a newborn didn’t get a chance to drink a human’s blood, but this fervent moment with you was saccharine of all things. Your pussy wrapped around his cock was like coveted treasure, his prized possession, pulsing erratically inside you that he wanted to release. Holding your waist in his large hands, he’d buck his hips and fuck into you as you held onto him. Such filthy, cloying sounds you made as you threw your head back, him holding your waist up and forcing you to take all of it. He adorned you, every inch of your crevice, every part of your wicked, corrupted soul.

Orgasm after orgasm, rippling waves after waves, crying the most beautiful hymn that Leon has ever heard. You’ve never been so defeated and plagued by tenderness, by passion, by several love confessions from Leon. But you were undeniably raptured from how hard you both kept coming and coming in the heat of the moment, clinging onto each other as you made love and recited your vows in the bathtub.

“Such an obedient man you are for me,” you praised. “As my consort in our new kingdom, what else can you do for me?”

Leon, smitten and trapped in a daze by you, no longer possessed humanity. No morality, no rectitude, no virtue. As long as he can thrive off pleasuring you, he will fall to his knees and always be at your command.

“I will kill for you, Your Grace...”

ALL WORKS BELONG TO VILSOO © 2023. do not steal, plagiarize, translate, or repost/share any of my works on any social media where minors have access. original art here (artist unknown)

inspired by the bathtub scene from Queen of the Damned (2002) and “Knight of Relaxation” by Naudio on Quinn.

𖤐 TAGS. @crysugu @rinshoe @cran-berry-vodka @daddyzzlittlewhore @kimekioo @strawberrymilk4k @maidenssymphony @willsdollface @zippertwat @strawstfu @migueloharacumslut @maddietries @milestacy @blackhoodlea @bru1sedclavicle @dollicries @hehehehesthings @dvafoxxystrashcan

[autolenaphilia]

The understanding of feminism on this site is absolutely terrible. To the point where people have no idea of what feminism even is. It’s especially annoying when people on here claim to be feminists, but contradict basic tenets of feminist thought.

And to be fair, feminism is a complicated and not united ideology at all. But let’s try to explain anyway. A basic tenet of any feminism is that society is a patriarchy. Women are oppressed and exploited, and men are the oppressor class. Men gain advantages for being men, which is what male privilege is. And feminism is about destroying this system of gendered oppression, the patriarchy.

This is as basic as it gets. And that we live in a patriarchy is easily proven. Patriarchy theory is a theory, but it’s a very well-supported one. Basic statistics and other evidence prove women are disadvantaged and discriminated against, and that men prosper in comparison. Misogyny is real, it’s an oppression that definitely exists.

Yet this basic understanding consistently eludes people on tumblr, even as they claim to be feminists and say “fuck the patriarchy.” People are at best reluctant to acknowledge misogyny as being real and lack understanding of it.

Talking about misogyny will get you accusations of being “terfy” when it’s just basic feminism. Even transfems get these accusations. I’ve already lamented that many people who are anti-terf (which you should be) don’t know what a terf is. What is actually “terfy” is having biological determinist and cisnormative explanations of who women are and what causes misogyny. In reality, trans women are very much women, and have to navigate the world as such. We constitute an especially oppressed subset of women, due to suffering from an intersection of both misogyny and transphobia: transmisogyny. The recognition of misogyny as an oppression we experience is needed to explain our experiences and suffering. We are not men, and are exiled from manhood and it’s privileges due to rejecting it and not performing masculinity.

Particularly disturbing are people who claim to be feminists and yet argue that “misandry” is a real thing. It’s often not said to be “misandry”, I’ve read words like “antimasculism” (more or less explicitly) used as substitutes for the term “misandry”. It is often phrased in terms of “the patriarchy hurts men too.” That the patriarchy is just harmful gender norms that oppress all genders more or less equally.

And those who adopted this have abandoned feminism, often without acknowledging it. They have abandoned the most basic feminist tenets, such as we live in a patriarchy, a society that benefits men. The idea that men do not gain privilege from being men and are in fact hurt by it is an anti-feminist idea.

It’s an incoherent way of analyzing gender. The question of who is the oppressor class in this analysis is eluded entirely. Who benefits from oppressing men via gender norms? Feminist theory is clear about men being the oppressor class who benefit as a class from the oppression of women. It’s a basic question, yet studiously avoided, sometimes in terms of blaming it on the system, understood as some impersonal monster, not as a system that exists to benefit certain people.

It also misunderstands how masculinity works. Sure, being forced to adhere to masculine gender norms hurts, I’ve been badly bullied myself for breaking them. But even if the patriarchy hurts men, it more importantly benefits them. It privileges men, because that’s the literal definition of patriarchy.

Masculinity benefits men, that’s why they perform it. The proper performance of masculinity is needed for being recognized as a man and thus given male privilege. It gives them power over women (cis or trans), even other men (like gay men) and degendered others, the ability to commit violence against them with impunity. Men who perform it are not the primary victims of masculinity, the victims of the violence done to prove masculinity are. And privilege is what men are afraid of losing if they appear non-masculine. It’s the fear of losing their status, of experiencing just a smidgen of the horrors trans women are given everyday. Men will do violence to avoid that. I don’t wish to downplay the horrors of being an openly gnc man (especially if they are also gay or queer in some other way). but they still have a privileged position compared to women in general, and especially transfems.

Of course, men are oppressed too, but it’s not for being men. Working class men are oppressed under capitalism. A long list of oppressive systems like racism, ableism, homophobia, transphobia and so on do oppress the men who are affected by them. Men thus often find their male privilege curtailed by these oppressions, especially if they are affected by several at once. And because of this there are indeed situations where women can hold power over men (white women do often hold power over black men in white supremacist societies for example). This does however just curtail their male privilege, not negate it entirely. You just need a more complicated analysis, that takes those factors into account. Still, all else being equal, men hold power over women. It’s when comparing gay men and lesbians, comparing disabled men and women, and so on, that you can truly see the privilege these disadvantaged men still hold despite the real oppression they experience. Women are also affected by these oppressive forces, and their effect is made worse by intersecting with misogyny. Men in oppressed communities still have power and privilege over the women in that community. Their experience of oppression looks different, but that’s due to the absence of misogyny, rather than the addition of any misandry (as another tumblr post put it, and which I can’t find now, so I can’t give credit. Would love to be given a link if you can find it).

And we have to be careful when talking about oppressed men, because their experiences are often exploited to justify anti-feminism. The fact that the oppression is real is exactly why it’s useful, because it can be decontextualized to argue that men are oppressed for being men. Propaganda often lies by omission, than by outright making things up. Warren Farrell, “the father of the men’s rights movement”, used the experiences of working class men dying in dangerous jobs and as soldiers in war to argue that male power was a myth, and in fact “men are the disposable sex” or “the expendable gender.” Those deaths are real, but the context that it’s due to capitalism exploiting the working class is removed, and instead attributed to their gender. The facts that working class women also suffer and die from exploitation and that capitalist men benefit from the exploitation of the entire working class are ignored. It also eludes why women don’t die as these men do. Women are kept out of many “dangerous” jobs and the military in order to justify their subjugation as “the weaker sex.”

It’s a terrible argument, and Farrell and the men’s rights movement he helped create are openly anti-feminist and deeply misogynistic, denying women’s oppression. Yet I’ve seen variations on Farrell’s argument posted by supposedly “pro-feminist” blogs. Queer bloggers here will hold up the sufferings of gay and trans men as proof misandry is real, that men are oppressed for being men, ignoring that their oppression is due to homophobia and transphobia. And still against all reason still use the word “patriarchy” and being feminists, despite denying the analysis of society as a patriarchy where men are privileged for being men.

At least Farrell and his fellow proud MRAs are honest about rejecting feminism and believing patriarchy is a myth. I’m glad at this point that I was and am a fan of David Futrelle’s blog criticizing and mocking the men’s movement, because that has enabled me to recognize and criticize the arguments they use, a thing some people here clearly need some help with.

Often these bloggers bring up the ancient anti-feminist accusation of feminists not being a movement for equality at all, but about hating men and their masculinity. Anything critical of men as a class who holds power over women is understood as “misandry” or “terfy”, and so is any criticism of masculinity as a gender role. Criticism of masculinity are only made in the context of “toxic” masculine norms hurting men, never in terms of how it confers men power and privilege and how the misogyny of hegemonic masculinity hurts women and other people. I suppose in this kind of thinking my earlier criticism of masculinity as a tool for gendered violence is enough for them to call me a misandrist. And like I’m not. All men benefit from patriarchy, but if you are a man and don’t abuse women or are a misogynist, you are okay as a human being in my book. What else can I say?

These criticisms are not just taken as misandry, but as some kind of widespread norm, despite really only being made in feminist and queer spaces. So making a tumblr post saying “it’s okay to be a man, it’s okay to be masculine.” is seen as reasonable, despite that being literally what the vast majority of society already believes (including the feminist spaces that can reasonably be targeted by this statement). It’s a bizarre statement to make in a patriarchal society that favours men and expects them to be masculine. It again echoes MRA complaints about how society has been captured by a feminist conspiracy (with anti-semitic undertones, as any conspiracy theory has, that’s how MRAs answer the question of “who is oppressor class for misandry?” btw).

It illustrates how a bad understanding of feminist theory leads people into some rather right-wing positions, all while clinging to the banner of being a feminist or progressive. Our society is a deeply misogynist one, yet in response to feminist gains it likes to cloak its misogyny in a kind of superficial feminism. And acknowledging misogyny is a real oppression is hard when you grow up and live in a society that justifies it. It’s especially uncomfortable to do so if you benefit from it. It’s more comfortable to deny misogyny. But it’s work that needs to be done. Or else you can turn into basically an MRA while still believing yourself to be a feminist, which seems to be the trajectory of some people on this site.

[the-white-void]

"You have heard the Story."

Synopsis: A Play that was acted over and over again has finally reached a stir in script, changing the events that were supposed to happen. Will this Play finally lead to a happy ending? Or lead the play to the same script as before?

Warning: This contains mentions of violence, killings, torture, and repetitive deaths which may be uncomfortable to some readers.

One || two || three || four || five...?

Taglist: @kthehoeforfictionalmen @pix-stuff @kthehoeforfictionalmen @time-shardz @scarletttcroww @mysteriaqueen @atsukawolfcat @junkoslette @mefOrgOr @altheqo @obliviousariies2007 @mmeatt @quacking-simp @amnervous

Dreams are the manifestation of oneself. Made from desire,experience, trauma, and hate. Many things can warp the mind to elude the creature into a dream; one too familiar to let go, or the pain to make them reform. Dreams are a curious thing. It's been a long time since you dreamt. A feeling all too distant since then. 'What did dreams feel like? How do dreams make one feel?" Questions surged through your thoughts while sitting inside a cold and desolate cell.

"Why are these questions coming to me now?" You wondered as you gazed up at the ceiling, eyes wandering at every crack and fragment dangling from the stone before a loud clang echoed cutting your thought.

The sound was made when a guard thrust his sword at the bars. "Quiet fraud!!! This world doesn't need your corrupt thoughts out loud!" The guard sneered as he pulled his blade. back to its sheath.

Brushing off the guard's words, you stepped closer to the bars with a sly grin while leaning closer. "Hey, do you know how dreaming feels? It's been a while since I've had one." Yet the innocent act was returned with a clang banging into the bars.

"I said quiet fraud!!! You better shut your mouth if you know what's good for you." The guard's voice came aloud, echoing through the dungeon halls. Your face remained unchanged and unfazed by his threat, simply smiling, but yet the tone of your grin became unsettling, leaving a cold sweat down the once threatening guard.

"You know... I prefer my questions to have answers." Your tone of voice was sickly sweet, enough to come off as poison. Your eyes drew closer to the guard, your gaze piercing through his haughty façade. "Now tell me. What is it like to dream?". The guard quickly turned his back away to face you, still, he could feel his mind weighing over him as he felt his body slowly fading from his control, with your question burdening his whole being.

"What is it like to dream?"

Luck graced the guarding knight as a small figure appeared to interfere. "What's wrong? Are you alright?" A young and squeaky voice came as the figure came closer revealing itself as the Dendro Archon, along with another person wearing an expansive hat.

"Wait, Buer" the short man with a big hat came off surprised when the Dendro Archon suddenly dashed off to help the guard. Your smile faded as you saw the Archon come closer before returning, but with a different reason for grinning, then releasing the guard from his agony as he fell to his knees before hitting the ground.

While Kusanali focused her attention on the guard as Wanderer had his eyes on you, wary of your intentions as you had the guts to impersonate a being of another plane. "Why are you trying to act like a god? That won't get you anything." He sneered while keeping his distance. A low chuckle escaped your lips as you looked at him. "That's very rich coming from someone who tried to become a god." You teased as you lay your bum on the floor with your legs crossed, giggling at your little joke.

Your short statement made the Wanderer's blood run cold, if he had any. Ever since her erased himself from Irminsul, no one else other than the traveller, Paimon, and Bier could have known, yet, some imposter knew that. "How did you..." The Dendro Archon overhead you and Hat Guy's little exchange and came over with a tinge of fear behind her face brimming with courage. "How did you know all that? Ever since he was removed from Irminsul, no one should have known about that."

Your smile was unchanging as you looked up to her and giggled. "Tehehe... Maybe you could try guessing-" your voice leaving a little teasing tone as your eyes remain on the young Archon.

The Dendro Archon remains unmoving, her eyes still as untainted waters of a clear spring, the clarity deceivingly clear. "Because you've seen it before, again and again, countless times, in every loop you've experienced..." She voiced out with a tinge of pity laced in her stern facade.

Your smile was drowned out by the Lord's words, while also leaving her company confused. Standing up from your laxed form, slightly towering over the young Archon while your eyes were dead set on hers, your teasing aura vanished into a tense and trembling form. "You... remember...?" Your voice quivered as well as your eyes. Your once calm facade crumbled showing the same prey that was hunted countless times.

Walking back into the shadows that filled the cell you were locked in, turning away as thoughts and words escaped your lips in mumbles, mumbles no one else in the dungeon could understand. Facing the wall you clenched your fingers on the surface, grabbing onto what little sanity is left before madness drove your mind. "Lieslieslieslieslieslies... Even... evenifyouremember... You paused your rapid mumbling as you clenched your hands harder on the wall, breaking your nails before your blood oozed out.

Your silence filled the dungeon with a haunting flavour, like the clam before the storm, leaving the Dendro Archon and her companion uneasy. "Kusanali, we should leave this nutjob. We're not gonna get anything from them." Wanderer tries to tell his concerns, but Nahida was laser focused on getting more from you.

The silence was deafening before it was interrupted but the sound of a droplet hitting the floor, then another, and another. Your hands rested on your sides, before turning your head to the two outside your cell.

Your sudden change in form left the two alarmed as Wanderer gets in front to protect the Archon.

You were still as still a statue; in an instant, you leapt onto thern but you were stopped by the bars holding you in. Your eyes showed an insane victim conscience about freedom or a trap. "Remembering that means NOTHING!!! LIARS! You're just here to ask me SHIT aren't ya!!!" Your furious yells echoed through the hollow halls while. While your hands gripped harder on the bars, your blood continued to flow, blood of glimmering gold against the small ember of light flickering from a lamp.

"You're... The Overseer...?"

[qweerhet]

i have come to realize over the past few days that a lot of bad transfeminist takes on this website are percolating in spaces where it's presumed the transfem experience is one of either attempting to be recognized as a woman socially, or wanting to be recognized as a woman socially but not attempting (with an unspoken "yet" attached), and suddenly everything coming out of those spaces about transmisogyny makes sense.

transmisogyny never applies to men because if you're a woman, you know it already. or if it does apply to men, it always benefits them, because someone who looks like a man and occupies the social role of man could never actually be a woman, at least until they start trying to occupy the social role of woman. if a woman is closeted, she'll come out eventually. people who don't chemically or surgically transition and continue to use he/him are selfishly benefiting from transmisogyny, and don't want to come out because they benefit too much from enacting violence on trans women. transfems are always treated as failed women, and never as failed men, because being transfem means trying to be recognized as a woman. nobody could ever see a real transfem as a man, only men are seen as men, and transfems do things like use she/her and wear women's clothes and go on estrogen, which means everyone knows they're transfem. transfems who are men aren't a part of this conversation. tma people who aren't women don't exist because transmisogyny comes from being perceived as a woman.

and it's like. well. i certainly know lots of people who would directly contest & cleanly disprove your presumptions here (i mean. myself being one of them, even though i do present femme full-time!), but you'll never get the chance to have your worldview shifted, because you've made your social spaces profoundly unfriendly to them!

even if you've already made an effort to decouple transmedicalism from your theory, you still have to make an effort to actually engage with & understand the material experiences of people who don't align with current narratives about transition at all. transfems who use all pronouns and grow massive beards while on e and never legally change their names or gender markers. transneutral and transandrogynous tma people. trans women who refer to themselves as women but do not want to chemically or surgically transition or publicly use pronouns other than he/him, ever. full-time female impersonators who solely use she/her and chemically and surgically transition, but still identify as men. and you have to really engage with what we say about transmisogyny, as in, listen in good faith and understand what we're expressing about its functions in our daily lives!

or you could circlejerk forever about how being a woman is the be-all-end-all of experiencing transmisogyny and personal identification is one and the same as material conditions of privilege, to the point that personal identification automatically prescribes material privilege. and shut out a solid chunk of tma people from your gender theory permanently and irrevocably. and implicitly call a solid chunk of tma people liars for talking about daily life experiences. that's cool too, definitely won't have any negative consequences for trans community and trans spaces in the broader world or anything.

[cousticks]

between the day i picked up dazai and untold stories, i've got a lot of oda thoughts on my mind.

i could have missed something, but to me it never seems like he has any particular remorse for his past as an assassin. he seems ashamed of it at times, and is frustrated when its brought up. ashamed that his past, to him, is preventing him from being a writer (at least, in main timeline. i'm ignoring beast for now.)

and that's... interesting, to me. oda who is put on a moral pedestal, having this violent past with little regret for the lives he took on a moral standpoint outside of how it impacts his own future. and i think that's worthy of being looked at.

i really think its because oda is like this that he was able to have an impact on dazai. remember, it wasn't necessarily any form of morailty that drew dazai to oda, it was just oda's... quirkiness, per say. oda has a past of violence and bloodshed. he's dangerous. the challenge in life for him is completing his work without killing people.

he is at times horrified by some of dazai's actions, but he's not disgusted. he's not really put off by them. he's already seen that side of the world, though his was much cleaner. dazai's violence is personal. oda's was impersonal, which is probably why oda is able to reconcile it the way he was.

oda's morals aren't cut and dry "good" at all, and in a way he is rather self serving, just with a penchant for helping orphans. that's probably also why, in beast, he was able to connect with akutagawa. he wouldn't be judgmental or disgusted by akutagawa's violence. it was natural to him to simply react to it with a straight face as he does all else. and why he fit so well in the agency in general. he was in that grey area, just like everyone else. i'll always be fascinated by the way oda is put up on a pedestal in dazai's mind and by extension much of the audience because oda's morals are dubious at best. he's really grown on me as a character lately, there's a lot of layers to peel back, for a dead man.

[transmascissues]

holy crap dude, i only sent that anon because this blog is called “transmascissues” and “parents reacting way too personally” is not a transmasc issue, it’s a trans issue. “moms react with crying” and dads react with violence? what is your point? do you REALLY think that the difference in experience between transmascs and transfems are THAT different??? why do the details matter when the reasoning is the same? i am a trans man and i know exactly what you’re talking about. i just think it’s weird that you are basically saying trans guys have it worse. you’re literally ONLY focused on your own experiences and u assume youre the only one who’s gone through something like that?

jesus fucking christ…

alright, let’s do this fast so i can go back to living my life.

if you think this is about something as simple and general as “parents reacting way too personally,” you clearly don’t understand exactly what i’m talking about, even if you are a trans man. maybe if you actually read what i’m saying instead of just looking for anything in it that you can get mad at, you’d have a better understanding of what i’m referring to.

“why do the details matter” so you do understand that the details are different and you just think we shouldn’t be allowed to talk about them? that’s…somehow even worse, honestly. do you really think the way transphobia is enacted makes no difference if the intent is the same? do you really think trans people should never want to express their specific experiences and find people who relate? do you think the details don’t change the emotional experience for the person being targeted at all? do you think victims of transphobia shouldn’t be allowed to seek out people who were victimized in the same specific way and who understand that emotional experience? the details absolutely matter.

where did i say this being different from what transfems typically experience means we have it worse? i’ll give you a hint: the answer is nowhere. i didn’t say that. i have never once said on this blog that anyone has it worse than anyone else because i think that’s a ridiculous way to talk about basically any issue.

god forbid i talk about my own experiences. god forbid i make posts about the things being directed to me in my own home by my own family. god forbid i have a real life and real emotions and exist as a real person not just a robot that spits out impersonal theory. i’m talking about my experiences because they’re the ones i live with every day. you might be able to come on here and get mad at me and then go about your day, but when i log off i’m just going back to the exact transphobia i described, so yeah, i’m focused on it. fucking sue me.

if you send me anything else you owe me $50 per second i waste on reading it because this is getting exhausting and you obviously have no interest in actually listening to me.

[mylovelies-docx]

Sorry, I Love You - Part 12

I am sooooooooooooooooooooooooooo sorry for this.

Plot: You and Bucky have a good thing going - best of friends that also have more than a little chemistry between the sheets. Everything is fine until you develop feelings for the man who doesn't want a relationship. What will happen when Bucky finds out?

C/W: Angst (!!!), murder, blood, guns, violence, death.

(I PROMISE EVERYTHING WILL BE OKAY! You've just gotta trust me.)

Word Count: 2,724

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He can’t take the silence any longer. You should have been home hours ago.

All his texts go unanswered and his calls go straight to voicemail. You’ve had late nights at the HYDRA base, but never this late – never an early morning kind of late.

He knows you’re capable. Knows that you’re one of the strongest people, the best agent, the best everything, but something doesn’t feel right. He can’t feel you. He knows that’s stupid – that he isn’t psychic or empathic or whatever he’d need to be to feel someone’s presence when they’re not in the room with him, but he’s always felt you. 

He can feel you down in his bones, his body unable to forget your voice, your laugh, your smell, your body beside, on, under his own. There’s no one in this universe that he knows better, that knows him better, than anyone else. 

Used to know. Until he fucked it up. Until he fucked everything up and drove you away. Drove you so far away that you weren’t even on the same continent for months, that you never picked up the phone and called him, that you didn’t send any silly texts at 2 am like you used to. He was too embarrassed and ashamed of his reaction to contact you first. He thought it’d be too impersonal to apologize over the phone and admit how scared he was when you confessed to loving him and how sorry he is for what he did afterwards.

That’s why he sent Steve and Sam to bring you home: so that he could see you again and explain himself to you and hopefully confess that, yes of course he loves you too. He was so nervous as he watched the quinjet approach, worried that you wouldn’t like his outfit, or the stubble on his jaw, or his new haircut that he got for you because he remembered how often you’d run your fingers through it and comment on how hot you thought shorter hair would look on him.

But then he cornered you in that hallway. Felt his heart break as you told him that you got over him, that you didn’t love him anymore and never did in any meaningful way. You assured him that you could be friends again if that’s what he wanted.

Of course that’s what he wanted. Of course he wanted to be friends. But he also wanted everything else – what you had before that night at the movies and what you could have had after. He wanted the date nights, and forehead kisses, and hand holding. He wanted the quick fucks, and makeout sessions, and love-making. He wanted all of it with you.

He still does. 

But you don’t.

He will forever regret the words he said to you that drove you away and dissolved the love that you felt for him. He will never forgive himself for taking away your future together. And after that disastrous conversation with you about Petre, he feels like he’s gone right back to square one. He doesn’t know what to do with his emotions and can’t express himself properly to save his life.

He knows what you said, knows the meaning behind the individual words you spoke to him last night: that you and Petre are not together in any way. But Bucky knows that isn’t what Petre wants – knows that Petre wants you in a way that Bucky used to have you, that Bucky could have had you, and more. Because Bucky sees the way that Petre looks at you, the way his eyes follow you around the room as you say hello and chat with his family when they’re around.

Knows that Petre has already asked his mother if she knew of anything else about you before he moved forward with a proposal, if there was somewhere specific he should do it, what else to bring besides his grandmother’s ring. Petre had been across the room with Tessa during this conversation, but Bucky’s serum-enhanced hearing picked it up and he knew that Petre was head-over-heels for you because how could he not be?

He’ll also never forgive himself if something happened to you at HYDRA. Your argument from last night has been lingering between the two of you, and he doesn’t know what to do to fix it – it’s just the actual process and action of initiating that conversation and exposing his squishy insides to you that causes his brain to shut down and his mouth to spew out stupid shit. He knows that you would never turn him away for being vulnerable, but just the way he’s acted when feelings have come up… it leaves a sour taste in his mouth and he’s sure it’s left one in yours as well. 

But you were supposed to call him at lunchtime and he would have said everything he’s been bottling up right then and there. Would have blurted it out because god damn him and his stupid mouth because every time he’s tried to bring it up, he’s fucked up and he hurt you. He doesn’t want to – can’t do that to you again. If you had just called when you said you would, it would have all been cleared up by now and you’d be home and hopefully in his arms and, and, and.

But you didn’t call. You’re not home. Bucky hasn’t apologized.

He’s already called Steve and requested backup – he’d rather be safe than sorry. Now all he’s waiting on is –

His phone that he’d left faceup on the countertop before him beeps and the screen flashes with a notification. Tony finally sent the link to track your location, letting him know where you’re at. Before his heart can even beat again, another message scrolls across the top of his screen.

That’s all Bucky needs before he races out the door, not even bothering to grab a coat before the door slams behind him. Tony’s second message burns behind Bucky’s eyes and makes it hard to think.

Hurry. Something’s not right…

***

The ATV Bucky ‘borrowed’ off one of the neighbors is perfectly capable of getting someone where they’re going, but Bucky grew frustrated with the speed as soon as he raced away with it. He’d have been happier on his souped-up motorcycle, roaring down the roads and sending gravel flying, but it’d be impractical on the freshly fallen snow and hilly terrain. 

His heart stutters in his chest every time he looks down at your tracker’s location and doesn't see it moving. There’s no way you’d be sitting idly in one spot deep in the forest, nearly 20 miles away from the HYDRA base and the house you’ve been sharing with Bucky. The home the two of you have made since arriving.

He thinks of how the two of you should be at the house now - fast asleep, maybe in the same bed if he’d found the right words to tell you what’s been going on in his head, why he was being such a asshole yesterday and how he never should have said any of the shit he did – or at least phrased it better, correctly. 

Every time Bucky remembers your fight last night, he feels the air leave his lungs and a fist form in his throat. The way your face had crumpled when he said you could be together again but then immediately shifted into a flat stare, no emotion evident when you told him that he was the reason that could never happen. Your broken voice when he tried to approach you again when he followed you home. The wrenching, muffled sobs he could hear you trying to smother across the hall as he laid there wide awake, his own tears soaking the pillow.

If Bucky could turn back time, he never would have asked you to be friends-with-benefits. His emotions were all over the place and he was still relishing his freedom, his autonomy that had been returned to him. He didn’t think he wanted any kind of committed relationship back then because he thought it would suffocate him, make him feel like he wasn’t his own person anymore, that there was someone that he had to answer to again.

He should have known that you wouldn’t have made him feel that way – that you are the exception to every rule and that you always helped build him up, never once did anything that made him feel suffocated or out of control. He’d been the one to initiate your friendship, he’d been the one that sought you out for no-strings-attached sex. You’d only ever been there for him, followed him when he needed to get away from the others, listened when he needed to talk to someone. Loved him when he didn’t want to be loved.

And what did he do with that love? He threw it away, crushed it under the sole of his boot in that alley way, let you walk away from his life when you should have worked it out together.

When he’d finally gotten his head out of his ass and realized that all the late nights, deep conversations, the comfort and warmth he felt in your presence: that was love. He didn’t recognize it at the time, but he knew that you were important to him, that you were the only one he could spend so much time with and not become overwhelmed. It took you leaving for him to realize everything that you did for him, all the support you offered. 

He spent a lot of time with his therapist after that. He used to be so angry at you and he knew it was unfair, that it wasn’t logical to be so mad at someone for falling in love, but he was. His therapist listened to his deepest, darkest, most wretched feelings about you, about himself. They helped him to realize that he wasn’t mad at you, that he was only frightened of the love you had for him and the feelings that brought up in him. He didn’t realize he found himself so unlovable and broken that he didn’t think anyone could love him like that. Could love him like you do. 

Did. Love him like you did until he ruined that love like he always knew he would, deep down. It took a lot of time and effort, but he finally understands what he feels for you. 

But now it might be too late.

Bucky is only a mile out from your location when he hears the barking of dogs and men yelling to each other. He pushes the ATV faster, dodging between trees and ducking under branches. Seconds later, Bucky sees lights bouncing off of a decrepit shack and agents wearing HYDRA uniforms scrambling around. 

He takes one hand off the handle and pulls his pistol from the waistband of his pants. He clears the treeline and jumps from the vehicle, ducking and rolling onto the ground. The ATV flies forward and knocks down one of the agents. They all turn to investigate the commotion, and Bucky starts firing.

He shoots one, two, three people off of their feet and they collapse onto the ground in pools of blood. Realizing at this point that Bucky is a threat, the others around the cabin pull their weapons out and aim for Bucky. He clears the next six with one shot each, leaving only two standing and no bullets left in his magazine. Bucky launches the empty pistol straight into one of the assailant’s temples, sending him sprawling. At the same second the pistol leaves his hand, Bucky sprints at the remaining HYDRA agent and slams his metal fist into their face, blood and bone splattering.

Grabbing the gun from this last agent, Bucky grips it in his fist and enters the building. Pivoting side to side, there’s no one immediately in his line of sight. He can see blood spatters around the room, in front of the bookshelf and desk, and a pool of it right in front of him in the archway between rooms. Bucky can hear someone just on the other side of the wall and he adjusts his hands around the gun, finger hovering over the trigger. 

Quickly rounding the open archway, Bucky finds his worst nightmare.

He sees you lying motionless on the ground, your warm, red blood steaming as it puddles around your body. A HYDRA operative stands over you, gun poised and ready. 

Without another thought, Bucky unloads the weapon. He riddles the final agent with bullet holes, ensuring that their finger will never pull the trigger on you. He doesn’t watch as they fall, instead running towards you with only one thought in his head: Please. Please be alive.

Bucky reaches your body where you lie on your side, facing away from him. He quickly rolls you onto your back and watches as your head lolls from the motion. 

“Y/N,” he calls hoarsely, placing his hands on your cheeks and patting quickly. “Y/N. Doll, wake up.” 

Your eyes remain closed and you don’t move. Heart in his throat, Bucky places his fingers on your neck.

Nothing.

“Oh god,” Bucky whines.

Nausea roils in his stomach as Bucky places his hands one over the other on your chest, fingers interlocked. He begins compressions, forcing your heart to circulate what little blood remains in your veins. He feels your ribcage creak and groan under the pressure, knowing he will break bones but hoping the effort will revive you.

Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. 

Bucky removes his hands from your chest and uses them to tilt your head backwards, opening up your airway. He clamps your nose shut and presses his lips over yours, forcing two breaths into your lungs. He returns immediately to chest compressions, counting up to thirty again and repeating the process.

“Come on, doll. Come back to me.”

It feels like hours that Bucky crouches over your body, working hard to manually pump your heart and keep your brain oxygenated. He doesn’t know how long you’ve been without a pulse, but he’ll do anything to give you a chance at survival.

A loud whirring sound comes from outside and Bucky can hear boots hit the ground. He panics for a second, wondering how he’s going to keep you safe while also keeping you alive, until he hears Steve’s voice.

“Buck? Y/N?!”

“In here!” Bucky yells frantically.

Multiple people come barreling into the kitchen where Bucky is administering CPR. Shock and dread wash over everyone’s faces at the sight in front of them, but Bucky doesn’t have time for them to stand around. You don’t have time.

“Help her!” he cries, lungs and muscles burning. “Please!”

Natasha tries to rush forward, but her booted leg slows her down. Steve and Sam collapse on either side of your body, Sam pushing Bucky out of the way to start his own compressions. Bucky thunks to the ground, his body exhausted from the fear and effort of the last little while.

Wanda runs in, using her powers to suspend the regeneration cradle in the air and bring it over to you. Tony and Nat help Steve and Sam lift you up off the ground and into the machine as Bucky watches your cooling blood drip, drip, drip from your body.

Wanda’s face is wet with tears as she picks the cradle back up with you inside. Using a pulse from his palm, Tony blows a hole in the kitchen wall. Scraps of paper fly off the table and land near Bucky. Wanda takes you directly outside and into the waiting quinjet, Nat and Tony running alongside her. 

A blast of cold air from the open wall slams into Bucky and chills him to his core. He looks down at himself and finds his hands and legs covered in blood. Your blood. One of the pieces of paper catches his eye as it turns red where it lays on the floor. He scoops it up gently and tries to make out what is written.

Bucky can tell instantly that it is your handwriting, but it’s nearly illegible now. He can barely make anything out, and what he can rips his heart to shreds. A wet hiccup tears out of Bucky’s throat and his hands start to quake uncontrollably as he stares at your words.

In case these are my last words,

Don’t be sad. I wish that I could  have spent the rest of my life with you. I just want you all to know that I love you. so , so much. 

“I’m too late,” he whispers. “She’s… she’s…”

Steve and Sam grab either of Bucky’s arms and drag him to his feet. 

“We’ve gotta go, pal,” Steve says. “We’ve gotta get her to Helen!” Nodding his head, Bucky allows his friends to lead him outside and onto the jet. 

He watches you lying in the cradle, not moving, the entire way home.

Part 13

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[prettyboykatsuki]

ROTTEN FRUIT, CHERISHED SWORD | TARTAGLIA / AJAX

✮ tags ; fem!reader, dead dove: do not eat, yandere!childe, genshin canon adjacent, stalking, force, mild depictions of violence / physical struggle, mild injury, delusion, obsession, forced intimacy (one instance, not nsfw just kissing), choking, blood (reader bites), small age gap, power imbalance / power struggle, reader is a street orphan + member of the fatui 18+

✮ wc ; 6.3k 

✮ a/n ; thank you to the beloved @bitchkiss for commissioning this from me and allowing me to post!! had a lot of fun with writing it. i have a few left of my first round but i hope to open them again soon.

✮synopsis ; childe can’t tolerate the fact you’ve left. he has no intentions of letting things stay that way.

It’s the most intimate moment you’ve shared together. Childe recognizes this with a bitter sense of irony. The soft spritz of oil from a ripe orange stains his fingers, noiseless and fragrant as it tickles the back of his throat.

You’re formal to the very end. You’re standing across from him, between you his desk (though it feels like miles) with your badge sat on the glazed cherry wood. Spick and span, so shiny it borders dazzling even though you’ve been wearing since you started so many years ago. Like you’ve taken care of it with honor, even though it’s not much more than a carved hunk of metal. 

You bow your head first, then give the Fatui salute in a well-practiced steady motion. Childe keeps peeling the orange. Childe looks down at the desk and stares indignantly at your badge. 6 years together, and you’re leaving him. 

He clenches his jaw, and he can feel some of the blood in his veins make his nerves throb. 

“Thank you for everything, Captain,” Your voice is smooth as you speak, not a hint of devastation in it “From today on, I will no longer be serving the Fatui Harbingers.” 

He finishes peeling his orange and discards the peel in a nearby bin, before sitting on the edge of his desk. He blinks, feeds himself a slice of fruit, chews and swallows before talking. He’s worked hard. It calms his nerves to go through each gesture slowly. He shouldn’t ruin it like this, even though the anger building inside him stokes every time you talk. 

“Pierro has approved your dismissal?” 

“Yes, Captain. Due to my great contribution to the Fatui and my involvement in the early seize of Snezhnaya, I’ve been permitted permission to depart.”  You repeat, still not lifting your eyes to look directly at him. You’re focused on his steel-toed boots, a mark of your life as a soldier “I’ll be issued a new identity and sent somewhere overseas.” 

“And what do you plan on doing once you leave?” 

“I’m hoping to look for my master.” 

“You mean the man who taught you the sword?” 

“Yes, Sir,” You reply, voice softening. How agitating it is you hold so much affection for that worthless old man “I owe him a great deal. I’d like to contribute something of my savings towards his living expenses,” 

“Well aren’t you loyal? I commend your efforts to be searching for him so many years later. Any leads?” 

“No Captain, none,” You say, and then another wave of emotion passes through you “But if my memory serves me, he’d be living somewhere in the jungles of Sumeru.” 

“What an odd change of pace,” 

“He never liked the cold in Snezhnaya.”

Childe gives you a tight lipped smile that you don’t catch since you’re still looking down. He sighs, words muffled as he eats another slice and clicks his teeth. 

“Still so impersonal with me,” He chastises, pushing his bottom lip out in a frustrated pout “After all we’ve been through together. Lift your chin up, at least?” 

This is the only thing that gets you to look at him. You do as he asks without hesitation - not out of submission but loyalty. Your smile is small, humble, thankful. Childe feels strange looking at it. Your usual coolness fades, tapers itself into a warm and graceful set of features. It’s worn. 

Your joy is weathered and battered, bruised by countless atrocities.

 In more ways than one, it’s the thing Childe loves most about you. 

Childe knows the details of how you’re stained. Like a toddlers plush toy that goes everywhere with them, it is easy to tell that something has happened to you. But, to be loved is to be changed, isn’t it? There’s nothing wrong with being different. So long as it’s him making you different. So long as he’s the one who orchestrates it, enough to bend but never enough to break. Childe knows you. It’s the job of a captain to train his soldiers. It makes his feelings towards you more potent, how well you can endure even the worst of it. You’re not timid, not fearful.

 Your eyes are as crystal clear with honesty as they were the day you met. 

Even bruised, even anguished, even tortured - there is something about you—so stark in your earnesty. You remind Childe of the fireflies he’d seen in the lands of Sumeru some time ago. To keep you in a tight glass, sealed off from flying far from his reach. The brightness that seems to surround you makes him reach for you even in the bitter dark. He’d never want to suffocate you so he pokes holes in the lids. Lets you breathe, lets you see the world outside of glass. 

If a firefly spends enough time in captivity, glass walls can become religion. A widely accepted belief, indoctrinated certainly. There’s something to see but nowhere to go. That’s always what he wanted you to believe. 

Had it all been for nothing in the end? The thought is sour, makes his mouth tighten like he’s swallowed rotten fruit. 

“Sorry, Sir. Force of habit. I really am very grateful to have met you. You’ve saved my life more times than I can count.” 

“And yet you abandon me like this. I’m really hurt, you know? Didn’t what we had mean something to you?” 

You crack a pleasant smile - it’s a rare right, and it’s always genuine. You’re usually icier than the blizzards in Snezhnaya, the same neutral expression has stayed on your face for as long as he’s known you. You’ve been like that since you were 17. Back then you were much more hardened. He doesn’t blame you. A street urchin, robbing and stealing for food and shelter. Childe knows the story like the back of his hand. 

When you met for the first time - your hair was cut short and your clothes were so baggy. It was impossible to tell back that you were a person, no less a woman - you felt like one entangled body of anger. 

The Tsaritsa would’ve killed you had you not shown such great prowess. Underneath all the filth was a vision. A vision of Anemo, and incredible precision in wielding the ways of wind. 

You’d gained useful skills during your time on the streets. But you were unpolished and violent. The Fatui watched you like a storm cloud lingering over the horizon. A typhoon waiting to swallow the world the minute you had the chance.

Back then, Childe wasn’t fascinated with you in the way he is now.  You were just a brat he had to train. Pierro had put you into his possession on the basis of Childe’s cruelty. It was an endurance test and Childe had always believed you would fail. He’d put you through countless trials, each one more merciless than the last. Your expression never faltered, never changed, never suffered.

The first time Childe noticed you was after the death of your comrade. You were 18 then and it was the first time you’d ever lost someone you’d been attached to. The expression you wore - rough, hard, emotionless, crumbled into pieces in front of him. You cried at a shallow grave, the first and last time he’d ever seen such an expression in his life. Back then, he only comforted you out of curiosity. What exactly would you do? 

But you braved your face. Despite all he’d put you through, you bore no resentment towards him at all. You’d wiped the tears off of your expression and looked at him solemnly. Silent but thankful and terribly honest. 

It’s that honesty that drew him towards you. 

You were angry, sure - but your righteousness made you different. Unlike the many street rats lurking in the Fatui, driven by money or greed - you were driven by simple things. You hated owing favors. You could be polished into something beautiful. Something interesting, more so than the rest of Fatui goons that flitted around him like gnats.  

He’d spent the last 6 years doing just that. Not always intentionally, but always careful. 

You’ve grown into something beautiful - poised while being unruly. A mortal paradox that he’s grown to be more fascinated by each passing year. He’s taken time to know the things that make you tick. 

Yet you're leaving. He didn’t chain you by the neck fast enough in his attempts to be careful and now you’ve taken your own leash and walked right out of his grip. A shame. Childe is really so hurt by such a thing. 

He doesn’t let it show on his face of course. You’ll be remorseful if you see him, but the pity won’t soothe his feelings this time. He has to remain calm so he puts on this delightful act to hide the hurt.

“I suppose you do mean a lot to me, Captain. In a different way.” 

“Well,” He steps towards you, but you don’t back away. The proximity, strangely, doesn’t bother you. You are only this permissive towards him, and he counts it as a minor celestial blessing. He doesn’t know if you trust him that much or if you are simply naive. Maybe both. Maybe neither 

“What way is that, pray tell? Maybe it will soothe my sorrows.” 

“Well, you’re the only person I truly knew and admired. If that counts for anything,” You flush when you tell him this “My master was a great man but all things considered he was more like a father. But I really think very highly of you and your abilities, Sir.” 

“What a nice girl you’ve become.” He says back, just to see the startled flush on your features “Isn’t that something?” 

You make a face at him, displeased. It almost distracts him from how irritated he feels when he remembers why you started with this conversation in the first place. 

“You talk about me like I’m a kid,” You show him just the slightest bit of attitude. It’s a step in the right direction, sends a chill up Childe’s back that he doesn’t dislike in the slightest “I’m all grown up alright? Don’t look down on me.” 

He gasps in faux offense “I would never. It’s strange, you know? You’ve changed a lot. I don’t hate it though,” He gives you a once over - hands you a slice of orange. You lean down and grab it with your teeth, chewing and swallowing. 

It’s those little acts of naivety that draw him to you most. 

“When are you meant to depart, my dear subordinate?” 

“Probably within the week,” Your voice is just a touch somber. “After I’ve got everything moved, this may very well be the last time we see each other.” 

“It’s a shame then, really. I would’ve preferred being your comrade for much longer than this.” 

“We’ll always be comrades, Captain.” You salute him one more time, this time with a smile “I’ll never be able to forget you.” 

“You’d better not.” He says with a deep sigh, making you laugh. 

Yes, it’s not as if Childe was ever really going to let you. 

__

You disappear from his sight in an instant. 

The first few weeks after your absence, Childe buries himself in his work. Pierro praises him for his sudden loyalty to the harbingers - but carrying orders is the only way he can work out his frustration without taking it out on civilians.

He plans from the day you leave to find you eventually. But he knows from the start it’ll be no easy feat. The nature of the business is that relocations are hard to come by and top-secret. If someone is to relocate and change their identity, no one in the Fatui knows where they end up. The only person who’s informed about the drop off locations is Pierro, and it’s not like he’s going to hand that information to Childe regardless. 

But that’s different from knowing exactly where you’ve relocated. You’re a smart girl - too clever and too familiar with the Fatui to let them handle something of such importance. Your agreement was this: new money, new documents, new identity - but re-establishing your life would be completely and totally up to you. It makes sense. You’ve gained an incredulous amount of enemies in your time working in Childe’s care - and the matter of relocation is a delicate one. Most of the Fatui are deeply hated across Teyvat. 

You’d have to relocate somewhere small where you can make use of your skills or survive on your own. If Childe knows you at all, you would’ve chosen the latter. A self-sustained life where you don’t have to depend on anyone unnecessarily suits you well. After all the blood and gore you bore witness too, isolation was like a second skin. 

From the minute you disappear from his line of vision - Childe thinks about finding you. He thinks about what he’ll have to do to make it reality, and what will happen when he does. The  minute you’re within his reach, he won’t be foolish enough to let you go again. 

There won’t be any concerns about morals or abuse of power - this time, Childe will possess you completely. 

Pierro tells Childe: There's a recruitment mission, it will take up to a year and you’ll be traveling all over the world to carry out various orders. 

It’s bait. Pierro just wants Childe to get his hands dirty, and he knows that the 11th won’t be able to resist the temptation of finding you. Childe agrees despite knowing this. There is no order he can’t fulfill, no thing he can’t commit too - if it means there’s any chance to find you again. 

If it’s for you, he can do anything. 

___ 

For months, Childe soaks his hands in blood trying to find you. 

Cheap intel is easy to come by but reliable intel is not.

His first mission in Mondstat. A small nation and one of peace - it’s difficult to stir up any trouble there when Diluc is around. Childe does his best to steer clear of him, since there’s no group the Dark Knight detests so much as the Fatui. 

Recruitment in a small, quiet nation happens in slums. Orphanages are prime for this endeavor. A proxy pays a fee for adoption prices and word of the Fatui spreads through the darker corners of the city. Once the word of their presence spreads far enough, another message follows. The Fatui will pay greatly for intel. They’re looking for a woman in her early 20’s. If the information proves reliable, you’ll be paid a hefty sum. 

Mondstadt, the city of peace, lives up to its name. The Fatui occupation of the slums doesn’t disrupt anything in the local government. It’s inline with Pierros orders. There’s something important about the city according to the Tsaritsa. 

Of course - none of this is especially important to Childe. Once his role has been fulfilled, every minute is spent chasing leads and following trails to whichever path leads to you. It’s a compulsion. Each time he receives a knock on his office door, he feels his pulse rise all the way into his throat. He knows objectively that most leads are worthless - that people are simply trying to squeeze money from the Fatui in order to survive. 

The piercing, celestial anger doesn’t settle with all the objectivity in the world. No amount of searching seems to lead back to you and his patience is already dangerously thin. 

Of course Childe knew embarking on this endeavor would not be fruitful all at once.

Your speciality had been stealth from the beginning. If anyone knew how to disappear into thin air - Childe would first think of you. It doesn’t soothe him. Knowing it will be difficult to find you, and knowing especially that you don’t want to be found - none of it soothes the bone deep ache for you. Each night he carves the desire out of him, it won’t help him in his journey to carry. 

But each morning, there’s a bruising sensation in his ribs that reminds him of the wound process. Each night he bore the injury of loss and there is nowhere for him to find evidence of it happening. Only the aftermath, and more pitiful breadcrumbs that he tries to trace back to you.

Childe chases the tail light of a firefly across every corner of Mondstadt. He turns over each chipped brick of dilapidated buildings, hunts down every one who even knows your name or any of your features. He rifles through cheap shot intel and thins out the swarm of greedy idiots through beatings.

Among the cheap dirty tricks, he finds one lead. From a child, no less - a boy who isn’t any older than 13.

 In his office, two Fatui drag in a pair of siblings.  

“I know who you’re looking for,” He says, slow and careful - on guard. There’s a little girl trembling behind him, shaking like a leaf. A big brother, through and through “I have proof.” 

Childe takes interest immediately. This little boy reminds him of you, crystal clear eyes. Truthful. Childe leans on the edge of his desk. 

“Proof? What, like a picture?” 

“N-no,” He swallows. He reaches for something inside of his cloak, and the guards immediately stand to attention. Childe puts his hand up telling them to stand down. When there’s no longer any threat, the boy pulls something out of his pocket. A piece of paper with something drawn on it, and a coin within it. 

Ah. The paper bears your signature, and the coin is yours too. To be more clear, it’s a coin relocated agents are permitted to carry once they depart. It’s a signature of honorable dismissal, and a promise from the Tsartisa guaranteeing your protection in case of more Fatui encroachment on the land. There’s an honor system. It’s rare that dismissal even happens given the nature of the organization. Agents with outstanding records get three total. 

Childe can hardly believe it. But he does, because it’s you - and it’s something you would do. It’s not like a 13 year old boy would be able to coerce it out of you. It’s yours. You gave it to him. 

Childe grips the coin into his hand. There’s a lingering presence. He closes his fist around the metal, paper crumpling underneath before kissing his closed fist. 

“When,” He takes in a sharp breath “When did you receive this?” 

“A few weeks ago,” He replies, visibly relaxed now that Childe seems to recognize its legitimacy  “She s-stayed with me and my sister for a while. And protected us. Nobody messes with us anymore. She s-said that if the Fatui come, to give them this and they won’t bother us.” 

“And you’re trading it in for money, you precocious brat?” Childe says with no real malice in his voice. The kid stiffens, but he can only laugh in reply “Well, I’ll respect the young lady's wishes. I like kids, after all.” 

Childe makes eye contact with his underlings, and they salute him. 

“Give them as much money as they ask for. And issue them another coin, but make sure it’s one of mine. I’ll be keeping this one,” 

They speak in tandem “Yes, Captain.” 

“You should be very grateful, kid.” Childe says, reaching his hand out. He’s in a good mood, hands patting the heads of both kids. 

“You’ve experienced something truly invaluable, and it’s brought you great fortune. Go give prayer to your Archon for the blessing” 

__ 

He traces your steps back to Liyue. He only knows this after interrogating those kids for a long while. Liyue is the easiest route to Sumeru, so Childe mostly works on a hunch. 

He likes Liyue. It’s easy enough to recruit there since the Fatui already have a foot in the door, and beyond that - the citizens are warm if you’re respectful. 

“Excuse me, maam,” Childe waves a hand at the woman working at the fruit stand near the harbor. An older woman and Liyue local, with gray hair and warm eyes “Would it be alright if I asked you some questions?” 

The woman pauses from her task, squinting her eyes momentarily before humming. 

“Sure, sonny, I don’t see why not,” She replies, continuing on with her work “Are you a foreigner?” 

“Yes, ma’am I am. And I’m looking for someone who I heard passed through here recently.” 

“Oh? Who’re you looking for?” 

“A young lady. Early 20’s. A bit rough and about ye high,” He says, vaguely gesturing to your height. He gives a little bit more detail on your features and the woman listens to him carefully before her eyes widen with realization “Sound familiar?” 

“Oh, her!” The woman smiles, sitting behind her set up with a knife in hand. She grabs a melon from her stall, balancing it on a cutting board. She wets her knife with water and wipes it, the reflective metal shining in Childe’s eyes as it goes through the fruit in one solid push. “Yes. She stayed here for weeks, though I don’t have any idea where. She came in every morning to buy something from me.” 

“Could you tell me a little more about it?” Childe urges, trying to mask the desperation to know in his voice. The old lady hums pleasantly “Anything about her or where she might be headed?” 

“Well, she said something about Sumeru,” The old lady relays, cutting the melon into thin slices - ripe and sweet “She had thought about visiting Fontaine, but decided on just Sumeru for now. Said she was looking for her Father. How do you know that young lady, might I ask?” 

“A friend from childhood,” Childe relays, a half truth and lie of omission. He dawns an expression of embarrassment and sincerity.  “I’ve been looking for her all of my life.” 

“Well, aren’t you quite the romantic? Was she your first love, dear boy?”

“Yes. Something like that. I had heard she was in Mondstat and then she came here, but it seems like I keep missing her. And I don’t want to lose sight of her again, after all we’ve been through.” 

The old woman's features soften, as she holds out a piece of fruit for Childe to take. He accepts, taking it graciously and with a soft word of thanks. 

“To be young again would be a gift indeed,” She sighs wistfully “I admire your tenacious spirit. I’m sure you get  a little closer to finding her each time you search. If it’s meant to be, I’m sure you will.” 

Childe takes a bite of melon. It’s rich, mostly sweet and the slightest bit sour. The juice dribbles down his chin, and coats his mouth with the not-quite satisfaction. Sweet, but not sweet enough. Close but not close enough. 

“Did she mention anything else?” He asks, wondering for more details “Or leave anything behind?” 

“You sound like you miss her,” She says brightly before shaking her “Forgive my memory. The only thing I can remember was that she was preparing to settle down. She took seeds and supplies with her. After that, I didn’t see her again.” 

“How unfortunate. But if she plans to be in Sumeru, then it seems like I have to go find her there,” 

“You won’t be staying here long then, young man?”

Childe reaches the last of his slice, wiping his mouth with the back of a gloved hand. 

“I don’t think so. But I’ll return someday. And if I find her, well,” He gives her a smile, picking a peach off of the stand and dropping a bag of Mora on the table “I’ll make sure we both come and thank you.” 

__ 

Sumeru is Snezhnaya’s opposite. 

In composition, in sight, in taste and in sound. The sweltering heat of the jungle, the plush of green, the wildlife that lays among the thickets. In all the ways that Snezhnaya is cold and precise, Sumeru is warm and bleeding. Each corner of the great nation bleeds into self. Culture bleeds into art and art bleeds into politics and everything is threaded together like vines of ivy through metal grates.

They are foreign lands to Childe. He’s spent his time across the world in other nations, but not Sumeru. The other Harbingers occupied it for years before Childe had the chance - and he does his very best to not trifle into Dottore’s territory. 

(There is memory of another harbinger, like the faintest whisper of a ghost.)

But he can’t be sure of that. All he knows is that it’s his first time spending any time there for longer than a few days. It’s his first time there on a mission, to spend time among its people and make deals with the other mercenaries that roam both the desert and forest. 

The Fatui are not particularly fond of the Eremites. Unlike other groups, there is no easy way to subordinate them. There are more intricate hierarchies and laws among them, laws of survival that do not cross over well to the Fatui. The Eremites have an honor system that many Fatui find foreign.

 It’s not impossible to find common ground - but it’s difficult. If they are to stumble upon the wrong group of Eremites, they could very well end up in a losing battle. Sand is much like snow. If you don’t tread carefully, if you aren’t prepared - one step could leave you buried beneath soil before you could think twice. 

There is one thing that both Eremite and Fatui bastards share completely, and that is greed for power and wealth. 

Recruitment in the Sumeru region is difficult. But any information can be found if your pockets are heavy enough. They’re an efficient bunch since they don’t require much training. 

Childe will have to look at his own books later. How much time, money, manpower he’s allocated in his relentless search for you. How many mountains he’s climbed, how many fights he’s gotten into, how much trouble it’s been. Mora is nothing, but altogether - your disappearance has cost a hefty price. 

Still, you were telling the truth - as was the Eremite who found your new location, and the woman in Liyue who sold you fruit and the orphan boy who held your signature. 

A trail of your very own light, the feeling of a cool breeze - everything that Childe has worked for has ultimately led him back to you in the bleedings lands of Sumeru. 

A few weeks ago, he received new intel from an Eremite he’d recruited at the beginning of their stay. A 17-yr boy with a gift for the sword that had no particular loyalty to any other group of Eremites. A capable loner. Childe’s mission was simple - 

(“There’s a woman you must find. 

If you find her, I’ll give you anything you please.”) 

Like a miracle, in 3 weeks time - the same recruit had returned to Tartaglia’s door with a photo of you. 

(“You…you found her.” Childe mutters. He’s overwhelmed with too many emotions for anyone to show on his face. “Where?” 

“In the jungle.” The boy says, voice cool and neutral “It looks like she built a shelter for herself and stays there. She wasn’t anywhere near the city,” 

“No wonder it’s been so difficult to find you.” Childe mutters to himself before looking back up again “Can you lead me there?”

The boy rifles in his bag for something. A parchment paper that unravels to be a map with a line drawn on it. 

“I thought this would be easier.” 

Childe holds the paper in utter disbelief, staring at the line draw. A path forward to you.) 

Last night, he departed alone into the jungles and followed the path carefully. The map was well marked with rest points and stops, and it wasn’t difficult to trek it once he was outside of the city. He’d gone alone with nothing but the clothes on his back. Eager and impatient, restless to find an oasis in the desert that has been draining the life out of him since he’d arrived. 

Childe finds you at dawn. The sun has to rise completely but the world is lit, soft blue encasing it like a blanket. Off the beaten path is a cottage - a shelter built from jungle wood with a small animal coop and a garden. There’s a single light on in the kitchen, and enough windows for him to see what’s inside. 

Many things overwhelm him once he catches the light on your face. You must’ve been awake for a while, because there’s no sleep left on your expression. Nothing but clarity, brightness, familiarity that Childe must’ve been searching for months now, maybe half a year. 

The world feels like it’s stopped moving for him to take a step forward. It’s dark enough that a firefly draws past him, and Childe feels his body move nearly against his will. 

He walks through the mud, through the dirt and grass - following the path to your door until he’s towering in front of it. He stands at the wood for a long, long while - in silent contemplation, before a sick sense of joy flutters through him. 

A sense of sickness that parades around in his mind. Almost childlike. It’s been a long game of hide and seek, but Childe has finally found you. 

He knocks on the door, lets each hit ring before he stops. And he waits. 

You open the door without questioning it. Perhaps there’s someone from in town who visits you often enough that you don’t think to question it. Either way, you open it.

And when your eyes land on Childe’s expression, everything shifts. 

He can practically feel the immediate apprehension. The confusion that you can’t make sense of, the feeling of bitter dread. Childe knows you like the back of your hand. Knows every little detail of your discomfort. You’re more confused than you are concerned for now, and your eyes are brilliantly honest like they’ve been from the start. 

He’s giddy. The pure sense of euphoria is entangled so deeply with months worth or frustration, and he’s wound so tight he can’t help but grin down at you. You blink at him. 

“Captain?” 

“Comrade,” He says, voice a touch light “How have you been?” 

He doesn’t offer you any more explanation than that. You stare at him and he stares back, greedily at the sight of you. He’s missed you, really - missed everything about you so much it feels like some part of him is ticking, preparing to detonate. You step back and Childe nearly steps with you. 

He’s worried it will scare you off, so he refrains. 

“What are you doing here, Captain?” 

“Well,” He says first, contemplative “It’s a long story. Could I come in first?” 

“Oh, of course,” You reply, because you presume it’s something important. You trust him enough to let him “Please, come in.” 

So he invites himself in. You direct him to a small dining table with two wooden chairs. There’s sliced Zaytun peaches sitting on a ceramic plate. You pour Childe a glass of water hospitably, before sitting across from him with a look of concern. It’s easy to tell what you’re thinking - that there must’ve been some reason for him to come find you and that it must be important. You’re waiting for him to tell you that and soothe his nerves. 

But being with you now, he finds he harbors no such desire. He eats a peach off of the plate in front of him. They’re sweet to the point it makes his teeth hurt. 

He gives you a stare as you look back at him, and the two of you sit in uncomfortable silence. 

“I’m glad I finally found you,” He says conversationally, looking down at his hands as he speaks “You didn’t make it easy, you know?” 

“...You were looking for me?” 

“Looked all across Teyvat for clues. I expected that, though. You were always good at disappearing when no one was around to see, comrade and I admired that about you,” Childe says with a sigh, shaking his head “I was very devastated to see you leave,” 

“So you went searching for me? Why?” 

He laughs hard as you ask him that, he almost can’t help it. 

“Well, that’s the thing,” He says, taking another piece of fruit. Relishing the sweetness, almost as warming as the sudden proximity between you two “After all the years I’d spent crafting you into an excellent soldier, I thought it’d be a shame to let you disappear,” 

He looks at you. Watches as your face changes. 

“All those times I’d saved you, been a mentor towards you, taught and trained you. I’ve watched over you for so long and cared for you so fondly, and you disappeared just like that. I try not to be too bothered by things,” Childe laments, leaning back in the wood chair “I’m a patient man, for the most part. I’m an older brother, so I’ve always tried to be responsible. But there are some things I like to keep for myself,” 

“...Captain, what are you talking about?” 

Childe stands to his feet and walks over to you. The feeling of fear starts to build in you, mild but present in your vague tremble. You falter. He can tell from the way you stand. You must feel that something is wrong and your eyes show your distrust. Childe can’t stop peering into them, can’t stop searching for your every feeling wishing to pull them out of you and examine them.  

He pulls away the chair behind you, letting it fall to the floor. He backs into you slowly, into the wall behind you where you stand underneath him. You’re afraid - tense, but not unwilling to fight. 

“Did you think,” He whispers, voice filled with satisfaction “That every time I saved you was a coincidence?” 

He stares down at you. Your eyes widen. 

“I was just so fascinated. You can be really innocent sometimes, it's just adorable. But you’re also extremely direct and brutal. Naive but also completely trusting. I’ve never met a ruthless mercenary who was so forgiving.” Childe reaches for a piece of your hair, bringing it so carefully to his lips “I’ve come to love that about you. I just wanted to see if you could really endure all that. And you did beautifully. Really.” 

“What the fuck are you saying?” 

“When Valentin and Ilya died, you came back so crushed but your eyes,” Childe says, peering into them - hand reaching up to your cheek. You try to push him back. He feels the force in it - but he’s stronger than you by a lot where it matters “These eyes stayed the same. Clear and bright. A gaze that only spoke truth. It was mesmerizing. I’ve always been fond of beautiful things.” He says wistfully. 

You push back. Your strong enough that Childe can feel the weight of you movements as you try to get away from him. You think of many clever moves, like going underneath him. You’re quick but he’s quicker. He pins you against the wall, cages you in with his body - his legs locks yours so you can’t use your knees. He traps you, just like he always wanted too. 

It feels better than he could’ve pictured. 

“I didn’t plan for them to die so brutally,” Childe begins, his voice against your ear. He can feel how your heart races through your skin, the painful pulse of each of your nerves as anger torrents inside of you. “I knew they were underskilled. I thought they’d only come back injured, but I was wrong. Torn to bits right in front of you. When you came back I thought you were completely broken but,” 

He looks down at you, and you look up. There is burning, violent hatred in your unchanging gaze. He smiles at you affectionately, and it jars you enough that your own face changes in response.

“You looked at me with this same expression. Melancholy but crystal clear. You can’t help it can you? Not in the slightest. Time and time again, you came back and suffered tremendously but  that never changed about you,” Childe whispers against your skin. Lets his lips brush against your neck, and your bare shoulder. He feels your body move hard trying to get him off of you, but you remain in place “One day, you’d get exhausted. And when that happened, I would help you. Take you into my own care. You could do whatever you wanted as long as you were with me. That was the vague inclination” 

“You sick bastard.” 

“But you ran,” Childe says. He releases you momentarily, trades his body in for a hand around your throat. You claw at him but the pain is easy to endure. “All that effort, and you decided to disappear. I was so annoyed with that, you know? I love you after all. Enough to empty every well of resources to find you. I searched for you in every corner I could look.” 

With gloved hands, Childe hooks one of his thumbs into your mouth before hooking the other one - prying your jaw open completely. It shocks you enough to render you helpless - motionless as your hand rests on his forearm. When your mouth is open, he uses one hand to keep it that way. His gloved fingers violate your mouth, thumb brushing over the ridges in your teeth. He grabs your tongue with his thumb and forefinger, pressing it slightly like he’s reprimanding you. It’s warm and hot, making a chill run up his spine. 

“But I won’t make that mistake again. From here and now, I’ll make sure you never leave my side. And with you next to me,” He presses his lips to your cheek while your mouth is pried open. He can feel your teeth dig into the sliver of skin exposed from his glove, biting hard enough that it punctures and bleeds. Childe is unfazed by it, almost a little fond at how hard he can feel your canines digging into his leather gloves “From now on, everything you do should be with me at the forefront. I’m being a little selfish, but it should be alright, yes? You’ve been under my command for a longer time, so you’re used to it.” 

“Captain,” Your words are muffled by his fingers in his mouth, a touch sad - a touch betrayed, but not terrified. Angry like you want to kill him. To rip him apart with your teeth but too confused to do so much as move. Not scared of him despite everything that he’s just admitted. And your eyes, of course, remain unchanged “You fucking bastard. You rotten fucking bastard, they were—” 

He pulls his fingers away from your mouth, cupping your face in his hands instead. Your reaction is refreshing. 

“Kiss me, won’t you?” 

Your response is to bite but Childe catches your mouth anyway. He holds your chin and keeps you under him and kisses you hard. He lets his hands circle around your waist, completely ignoring all the attempts you make to run. He kisses you, and your mouth tastes like blood. His blood, mixed with the faint taste of peach. Iron and sugar, perfectly entangled in the soft, warm heat of your mouth. You kiss like a dream. 

Your cold stoicism melts under the weight of your shock, and you’re so startled you give in only slightly. Childe kisses you in apology. Childe kisses you because he loves how dreadful you find it. Because no matter how much it disgusts or sickens you, he can’t help but be addicted to the feeling of your lips and skin. He’s sure the coming months will make this newly explored affection a most miserable vice. 

He wraps around a hand around your throat again, teeth nipping along your cheek before kissing the indentation of his own canine. His other hand clamps around your wrists, pinning them above your head as he cages you in once again. 

“I’m not an opponent you will ever be able to best unless the Archon’s themselves come to kill me,” He whispers, faint and loving as he makes sure to look you in the eyes.  “So stand down, soldier - and let your Captain lead you to paradise.” 

[escelia]

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! Here's part 3 (or chapter 4) of my fic Not So Normal. After this installment, I'm planning on uploading the series to ao3 as well as Tumblr so stay tuned for that link to drop!

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Masterpost

Not So Normal pt3

TW: vague, brief descriptions/mentions of violence, vivisection, and panic attacks

It had been a total accident. His parents were supposed to be halfway to a science convention by then. When Danny floated through the floor and into the kitchen he hadn't expected his mothe- he hadn't expected Maddie to be there. He should have expected the gun in his face a moment later, but definitely not the hole she'd put in his chest before he'd even gotten a word out. It happened so fast. The shouting and shooting, the thermos…

He'd come to on the exam table in the lab, wrists bound, bright light in his face. He could barely make out the figures just beyond it, though he knew exactly who they were. He'd begged and screamed and cried, anything to get them to listen. Jack had gotten Maddie to take a breath and listen for a moment as Danny tried to get it through to them that he was their son!

"I'm Danny, it's me! I'm still me! Please, mom, you've gotta believe me!"

They believed him. He never thought that would make it worse. They became curious in a way they weren't before. Less angry about the dastardly spook they thought had been impersonating their son and more eager to tear into the science experiment they believed legally belonged to them. They called him an abomination that was no longer human and gripped their scalpels with cruel excitement on their faces. He remembered screaming for hours.

Only Clockwork would be able to say how long he'd been like that. All Danny had known was that he was tired and weak, his throat was dry and his entire body ached. He'd been in human form for the whole thing, and though it was much more painful that way, it kept them from getting to his core. He would only ever be grateful for that.

Eventually it was Jazz that had released him. Jack and Maddie had stepped out for dinner believing his restraints would hold his weakened body. They'd been right, he couldn't have escaped on his own, but Jazz had snuck down to the basement right after they'd left and shoved him through the portal, telling him not to come back, it wasn't safe, but to contact her when he knew he was okay. She'd locked the portal's blast door behind him. There, drifting in the vast green of the Realms, he cried and cried until he felt himself fall through a natural portal.

He'd dropped into a dirty alley with a painful thud and couldn't suppress the cry of pain as rocks and dirt pressed into his wounds.

"Oh my god, are you okay?" He'd heard a man call. Gentle but firm hands helped him sit up, his own hands busy keeping his chest closed and smearing the blood and dirt that already covered him. The man gasped in horror as Danny begged for help.

Turns out the man that found him was none other than Bruce Wayne. He was alright as far as billionaires went; far more sane than Vlad at the very least. When Bruce asked what happened all he could get out was that his parents hurt him and he never wanted to go back there. Bruce had decided then and there that he would keep Danny. They'd taken pictures of the damage for court, thinking they would need to build a solid case since Danny was healing up well. He even called in a few favors with his lawyers. The Fentons, though, oh they helped plenty.

"Dr's Fenton, how do you plead?"

"Guilty! That thing is a monster! It belongs to us! That's our experiment! It's fooled you all! You'll see, just wait!"

Several of the officers around the courtroom had to restrain them as Maddie screamed and flailed. Jack was fuming. But much more docile than his wife. The pictures and testimonies had been enough to prove them guilty of child abuse and neglect, but their outburst all but sealed their fate as unsuitable parents. That day, Danny found a new place to call home, and a new family he was ready to die for.

~~•○•~~

Today was the day! Er- night! Tonight was the night! Danny was finally going out on patrol with the bat clan officially. After the events at the warehouse and his family finally learning about his past as Fenton and Phantom, Bruce has asked Danny if he was interested in patrolling with them. Damian had vouched for Danny, doling out thinly veiled compliments about his fighting prowess. Bruce decidedly kept that info to himself. The enthusiasm with which Danny responded had Bruce regretting asking, but it was clear that Danny had been itching to get out there and fight some crime.

Due to his experience, he'd been paired with Nightwing for the night. Dick had cheered at finally getting some one on one time with Danny, pulling him in for the kind of suffocating hug only an older sibling could provide. They had an absolute blast that night. Dick would show off, doing fun, dangerous looking flips off of buildings before firing his grappling hook at the last minute. And Danny could keep up, even as he swung through the air. It made Dick cackle in delight. Quietly of course, they were very stealthy, thank you! (Dick had to be shushed over the coms several times, and Danny was able to keep his laughter to a quiet snicker.)

They'd been on a roll with Danny being able to cover so much ground from so high up. In just the first few hours they'd stopped at least three muggings, recovered a stolen car, and prevented a bank robbery before it had even begun. Hearing his father commend him for a job well done over the coms made him glow with pride. He'd never had so much fun on patrol before. It made his core vibrate with glee.

"Danny, are you… purring?" Dick asked. He heard the others gasp over the coms.

"No! No, now way, I'm absolutely not purring! What gave you that idea?"

"He purrs?" Tim guffawed over the line, and Steph began to giggle uncontrollably.

"Absolutely not!"

"I've found he purrs when he's incredibly happy or content, just like a cat," Damian explained. He could hear the smirk in his voice.

"Aaawwwwwww! I'm happy spending time with you too, baby ghost!" Danny was smothered with another hug.

"Betrayed. By my baby brother! I cannot believe this."

"Settle down everyone! We're still on the clock," came the gruff, authoritative voice of Batman.

Sobering up from the moment, Danny and Dick went back to patrolling. It was starting to get quiet in their area, the others reporting incidents in their own sections of the city. It gave them time to grab a snack before something new popped up.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself," Nightwing began, taking a bite of his granola bar.

"I am," Danny replied. His snack of choice was a pack of fruit snacks. "Patrolling in my old haunt was exhausting. It was just me and my two friends out there most nights. Fight after fight after fight… I have a sense that lets me detect the presence of other ghosts, and it seemed to go off nonstop there. I was lucky if I got eight hours of sleep in a week, let alone a night." He paused to pop a few snacks in his mouth. Dick was quietly attentive, munching on his granola bar.

"Here, I know I've got someone to watch my back. And it helps that humans are much easier to handle non-violently than ghosts."

"I'm glad you like it here, Phantom," Nightwing said with a smile, using his codename. Danny smiled back, getting ready to toss a few fruit snacks into his mouth but stopping short when a chill unfurled on his chest. He gasped, dropping his snacks. Seemed like their break was over.

"What's wrong?" Nightwing asked alert now, eyes flicking around the area to perceive the threat.

"Get behind me."

"What?"

"Just do it! You're not equipped to fight ghosts!"

At the word ghost, the coms erupted in chaos. Danny shouted at them to stay clear, he could handle it just fine, it was probably a small fry anyways. Dick followed his directions, getting behind Danny but not cowering. No, his big brother was covering his back. Sure enough, about a minute later, three large glowing vultures rose over the edge of the rooftop.

"Awe great, it's the birds with the hats! What do you want?"

"Good evening to you, too, King Phantom," one of them snickered. Danny just scowled.

"Plasmius sent us to, and I quote, 'knock some sense inta ya.'" another one said, making air quotations with the tips of his wings.

"I'll have you know I've got a thermos here with your names on it and no access to a portal. How does an extended stay in Soupland sound?" Danny waved his thermos threateningly at them, a sarcastic smile on his face.

"How does taking your little friend here hostage sound?" The last one threatened, perching his claws on Dick's shoulders. Faster than Dick could blink, Danny had spun around, ice shooting out to freeze the two other two birds, thermos pointed like a gun, while clawed fingers wrapped around the third one's neck. The bird squawked in fear.

Frost swirled dangerously around his aura, and Dick swallowed nervously in the face of its intensity. Danny's eyes were glowing a furious, toxic green, and even though the glare wasn't directed at him, he could feel its anger. Dick had seen him like this at the warehouse, sure. But now, this close, Dick truly understood the sheer power that Danny possessed, the majesty that was this eldritch creature in front of him. Somehow, all he felt in his presence was safe.

Danny growled at the ghost clutching at Nightwing, squeezing until the talons loosened.

"Why did Vlad send you?" He questioned. Absently, Dick thought he reminded him of Bruce in interrogation mode.

"He's mad some other guy adopted you or something, the same usual psycho spiel!"

"What's he planning!"

"I don't know! He was going on about how you're supposed to be his son and was throwing things. He wanted us to come rough up you and your new family. He's real mad, but that's all we know, I swear!"

It was silent for a moment while Danny absorbed the information. He regarded the vulture with cold eyes but didn't release him. He should have known Vlad would try something like this. His adoption wasn't super public but it wasn't like it was a secret either, so he'd been bound to find out. Most ghosts respected him too much as King now to threaten anyone Danny considered family, but Vlad always had his ways. He'd have to take care of it without getting the others involved.

Making up his mind, he hit the button on his thermos, sucking up the frozen ghosts and the ice along with it before swinging it around and shoving the end on the last one's beak, trapping him too. Dick sagged in relief once they were gone and Danny made a fuss about checking his shoulders to make sure he wasn't injured.

"Phantom, what was that about!" Bruce's voice was strained over the coms, likely because he didn't know what to do or how to help. Damn, Danny had forgotten that the others could hear them. At the time it had been a brilliant idea; Danny infusing the coms with ectoplasm meant that not only could Danny use them without causing interference, but they were now some of the most secure lines of communication on earth. There went his plan to keep his family out of it.

"Just some unfinished business," Danny replied, trying to sound unbothered. "The hostiles have been apprehended, and there are no injuries. We're good to continue patrolling."

Dick eyed him skeptically.

"Absolutely not. Turn in for the night you two, we'll debrief at the end of patrol," was Batman's stern order.

"No way, more are bound to show up-"

"Which is why you'll need to teach us how to fight them. We'll need you level headed for that, Phantom. Head back to the cave. We'll talk later."

Danny pouted. He could be level headed and still finish patrol! He could! At least that's what he told himself while he clenched his fists to stop them from shaking. Dick put a comforting hand on his shoulder. It was cold.

"Why don't we have Agent A make us some hot chocolate and we'll tuck in for a movie while we wait for the others," he suggested. The ghost searched his brother's face, seeing concern even underneath his domino.

"Fine," Danny conceded. "But I get to pick the movie."

By the time the others had gotten back to the manor Danny was curled up on the couch, chilly toes tucked underneath his brother's thigh and hands curled around a warm mug while the credits for James Cameron's Avatar rolled on the TV. Damian reached over the back of the couch and gave Danny's shoulder a squeeze, pulling him from his post hot coco daze. They had a meeting to get started.

~~•○•~~

As everyone settled around the meeting table in the cave, Damian made a beeline to the seat next to Danny. He would never admit to anyone that he'd been jealous that Danny had been sent out with Richard. Logically, he knew there was no real reason for Brother to come with Father and himself. He wasn't getting dethroned as Robin, and he had enough experience that Father could trust Danny out with a patrol partner. Still, he'd wanted to be there for his first experience patrolling as a member of the family. After the events of the evening, he wished even more he'd been there.

He'd heard of this Vlad before, and never in a good light, though he knew nothing more than that Danny did not like him. It was clear he'd been a source of great stress before he had come to them. Damian was frustrated that he couldn't be there to put their assailants in their place. It looked as though Danny had never mentioned Vlad to anyone else. Damian didn't know if he was proud or concerned by that. Instead of voicing his thoughts on the matter, he leaned in close to Danny's ear to whisper.

"Are you sure we're not blood related?" Damian asked with a smirk.

"What?" Danny whispered back, confused.

"When you were questioning the, what were they, birds? You sounded like Father." Danny turned to blink at him, trying to process the comment. "It is a compliment, Danny."

"Oh!"

"What are you two whispering about?" Tim asked from across the table. He'd leaned one hand onto the table with the other on his hip like an amused mother who'd caught her children conspiring.

"It's none of your concern, Drake." Danny chuckled and shrugged at him, miming zipping his lips shut.

"Alright, mission report, Phantom," Bruce interrupted, approaching the table and throwing a folder down. "What was tonight about?" Danny took a deep breath to keep himself calm.

"An old thorn in my side. The vulture ghosts were sent by a guy who used to bother me back in Amity Park. Had this crazy idea that if he killed my family, he could have me all to himself as some little heir to his evil empire. Seems he heard about my adoption."

Bruce frowned deep at that. So he was a threat to be concerned about. Good thing he'd done some research on ghost weapons then. He tapped the folder.

"If he'll be sending more ghosts to attack us, then we need to know how to fight them. I've taken the liberty of doing some research on weaponry. DalvCo is willing-"

"Absolutely not!" Danny stopped him short. Bruce barely stopped himself from groaning. It had been a long night, and now was not the time to be argumentative.

"We need weapons. This isn't up for discussion."

"That wasn't a request, Bruce. As High King of the Infinite Realms, I forbid my family from doing business with DalvCo and, subsequently, Vlad 'Plasmius' Masters, who owns it." Bruce's face contorted with understanding after his words. The others were quick to catch on. He heard Dick grumble about how the name wasn't even clever, and it made Danny smirk.

"Besides," Danny continued, a sly grin overtaking his face. His teeth were a little too sharp in his mouth. "I have a much better plan. Tim, how do you feel about mad science?"

Tim's eyes gleamed, and his grin, teeth less sharp and far more human, matched Danny's.

"You can build weapons?" Damian guessed next to him. Danny glowed with pride.

"Of course I can, I'm Daniel Fenton-Wayne, after all!"

~~•○•~~

Meanwhile, in Soupland

"I told you we shoulda just told him what was up, then got outta there."

"How was I supposed to know he was gonna ice you two?"

"Oh, please, the ice was tame. He souped us! He said he doesn't have access to a portal and he souped us!"

"That's what we get for threatening someone close to our King."

"Exactly, we shouldn'ta done that. We're too old for this!"

"I may be old, but I'm not deaf. Stop shouting in my ear, loud mouth!"

"Well, then get your wing outta my face, flabby feathers!"

"In case you haven't noticed, IT'S FROZEN!"

"We coulda been on a tropical southern island by now if it weren't for that Plasmius jerk pitting us against Phantom."

"Yeah!"

"Yeeaah!"

"We should work for the King from now on."

[hwan-g]

DAYS OF CANDY. seo changbin

pair. bouncer! changbin x fem! reader (+ seungmin, chan, minho) | genre. slight gang activity, bad boy, infatuation at first sight, angst, smut | warnings. profanity, brief violence, depictions of toxic/abusive behavior, mentions of murder, mental struggle, age gap (unrelated to plot), unprotected sex, dirty talk, pet names, generally flawed characters | word count. 14.9k | in the same universe as route 66 and midnight diner but can be read as standalone.

synopsis. a lot of things happened in motel rooms, even more happened between him and girls like you, girls that ride on his bike and have him by the balls.

It was an ordinary night, when you made the wrong choice.

You’d heard of the reputation Route 66 had built for itself, knew how hard it was to get past the two infamous bouncers at the door, and of that one incident on the 16th of February, the one that made it on the news and forced the club to shut down for a whole month. The owner, Bang Chan, refused to give any statements, and the entire ordeal was soon forgotten, swept under the rug by people that refuse to acknowledge the existence of gang activity in their city.

You had a high school friend that worked there as a bartender, someone you’d been quite close to once, but drifted apart from when you first got together with your boyfriend. Minho still called you sometimes—he hated texts, hated how impersonal they were, and would rather hear your voice instead—just to see how you were doing, if you still worked at the same retail store you started at right after graduation, and that he hopes you’re doing okay, that he’s only a phone call away if you ever need him, and you know you can always just come visit me, right?

You knew that, wished you could say it was easy for you to do that, but that was merely denial talking. You worked a full time job that took up most of your time, and when you weren’t selling clothes, you were washing and folding them, you were consumed by a man that refused to let you take one step away from him, an apartment that felt more like a prison than a refuge. There had been a social life once, but that seemed lifetimes ago now, nothing but a distant dream. There had also been a time where your boyfriend was your whole world, and you’d love for nothing else but to be in his presence always, stuck to him like glue, but that had also withered away somewhere, and died. 

Freedom seemed like paradise now. Being alone, elsewhere—you prayed for it every night before going to bed, even in your sleep. It was detrimental that something gave, and soon. You wanted to call Minho again, wanted to ask how he was doing for once, and not the other way around. No more rushed interactions, or seething looks; hands as fists, skin on skin, anger as teeth—

There was a birthday party at Route, your boyfriend’s brother was turning twenty-eight, and had invited seemingly every person he ever came across. Of course, that wouldn’t run on 66; all who entered that door had to be handpicked especially by the two men guarding it, and that was no easy task. You’d been once, a quick drink with a coworker on a regular Thursday, which turned out to be a confessional session with Minho until two in the morning, at which point he declared you entirely too drunk to return home and left his shift early to take you to his house and let you sleep it off in his bed.

Lee Minho was a good friend. He cared for you like no other man had ever done in your life, and it was not an obvious thing for him. You had to earn his respect, his time; not everyone could do it, certainly not many were willing to, and even fewer actually succeeded. It was effortless with you because you actually tried, you took the extra mile, and you never demanded anything of him. You just were, orbiting around him, once a sun to his planet, now an old survival instinct. He had lost many family members over the years; you’d held his hand as his parents passed away, held him when he cried, stayed on the phone on graduation day as he told you he wouldn’t show up, and could you pick up his diploma for him?

Many times you wondered where it all went, how it came to this. He’d been your closest friend for so many years, but as you stare at your boyfriend already picking a fight with the brown-haired man you’d come to know as Kim Seungmin, you realize that you let him go—let it all go—for a stupid, stupid boy that had sucked the fucking life out of you, and could just not stop doing it to anyone he ever interacted with. You’d been so naive, so incredibly dumb. 

It made sense now, what you really had to do. But how you did it—that was your first mistake. You thought you were destined for a mundane life, an ordinary existence. No one could’ve prepared you for this.

“Say, should I call the cops on you, or fuck you up myself?” An extremely muscled man appeared through the underground bar’s entrance, black locks falling over his forehead, obscuring dark eyes. “I’ll be nice and make it your call.” 

He locked eyes with you for a single moment, before his hard face turned its attention back to your boyfriend currently gripping your arm so tight it felt like all blood circulation had stopped. His strong arms flexed, the skin veiny, rock solid in the white button up, and his chest looked ready to pop out of that black vest with the business tie, all formal, all currently stirring something incredibly dark within you.

If you had a voice, you’d beg him to make that call, plead with him for a chance at freedom. But you didn’t, you couldn’t possibly find it at that moment, as the other man flashed his gun discreetly, a deadly warning to your boyfriend’s ominous words. You had to give it to him, no matter how sick to your stomach it made you—he had ways to hurt people, ways to make them disappear. He liked hurting you the most, his precious girl. Sometimes in ways that couldn’t be visible to the naked eye.

“Time’s ticking, fuckface,” the seemingly older guy threatened, getting closer to his target’s face. You whimpered, looking down to hide your discomfort, but not before you noticed him studying the movement. “Let her go.”

“Fuck out of my face, before you regret it,” your boyfriend snarled back, and shook you forward, yet refusing to release you. “You go inside, find my brother and tell him these two assholes are giving me trouble.”

Brown-haired boy laughed as the other one smirked. “Are we giving him trouble, Seungmin?”

“I don’t believe so, Changbin.” But both guns were glinting in the night sky, their intentions clear.

Changbin stood with both arms crossed in front of him, menacing, terrifying. “We just wanna be your friend, pretty boy. Let the girl go, so we can chat and braid our hair, yeah?”

If he’d only loosen his grip, then you could tug and pull away. Your brain’s autopilot had been turned on since before you left the apartment, there were responses but no reactions, and you were pretty sure both men could tell you’d been through this many times before. You always made it very apparent, in hopes someone would finally help you, someone would dare. It wouldn’t always be like this, but you had to make it happen. The man’s attention on you whispered of many things, but freedom—freedom was the first one promised.

“You’re the funny one, aren’t you?”

The smirk widened, a hand resting on the metal against his rib. “Perhaps we should let the pretty thing next to you decide that one. Last warning.”

You saw the exact moment you vanished from your boyfriend’s mind, his touch leaving you at once, murder written across his face as he got close to the bouncer, a punch ready to land, the violence you were so accustomed to coming to a climax, finally, a firework taking flight, a missile bomb launching—

The sound of clicking, multiple gasps from behind you, and then you saw it. Smooth black underneath his jaw, Changbin’s finger on the trigger, head tilted, smile wicked, sinister, his friend mirroring him, standing a breath away, on the ready—they were going to shoot, they were going to do it, they’ve done it before, you can smell it off of them, the gunpowder, the crime, the sin. You almost reach out, but for what? You wouldn’t stop it, you didn’t care to. You’d let it happen and slip past his caving body to find Minho, to announce you were free, to drink yourself oblivious and swear you’d never again become prey for men to feast on.

The end, so close.

“Walk away before this gets ugly,” Changbin stated, contained anger and ice cold amusement both evident in his tone. “We turned away your entire entourage, there’s nothing for you here.”

“Johnny, maybe you should go—”

The malicious eyes were on you again, once beautiful, holding so much in them, and you remember yourself wishing you could drown in all of it, for as long as possible, until eternity ceased. You loved this man once, with all your heart, but he was nothing short of a stranger to you now, and if he had died just moments prior, the thought of being glad for it scared you to your fucking core.

What sort of person had you become next to him? No more.

“I should go?” he asked incredulously, and his lips curled. “Fuck it, stay here for all I fucking care. No one will ever come back for you, (Y/N),” he spat, pointing a single finger at you, already walking backwards, away from you, forever. “Remember that.”

Both bouncers moved in front of you, hiding you from your, now, ex boyfriend’s view once and for all. You hadn’t even realized how much you were shaking until Changbin reached a hand out to take your fingers in his, his touch warm, the rings he wore cool against your skin, a juxtaposition. The red neon signs above your head made you dizzy, the weight of what had just happened pushing on your shoulders, tearing you from the inside. Three years of your life, given to a man that had left you as quick as a bullet.

Perhaps you should’ve killed him yourself. Now the moment’s wasted, there will be other victims, more misery—and your stuff, all of your things were in that apartment. Who was going to retrieve them, where were you supposed to go?

Was this a bad idea? If you pushed past them, maybe you could yell out, try to reason…until you figured how crazy that sounded. Still, a sick part of you wasn’t ready to be abandoned by him, and could not stand the thought of being alone. Tears blurred your vision, and you squeezed Changbin’s hand one time, eager for direction.

“Is Minho working tonight?” you question quietly, the music from inside the bar slipping through the cracks of the steel door.

Seungmin had gone back to his post, profiling people and opening the door for them once he received their money. Changbin had pulled you to the side so gently you’d barely noticed you’d been moved. The metal was gone, and its owner was searching to meet your gaze, to ask if you were okay, but to no avail. Your eyes were glued on his boots, the leather of it, the shoelaces tying up to black pants that fit snugly around toned thighs. He was handsome, a faint thought that shouldn’t have crossed your mind at a time like this, but you couldn’t look past it, either. He smelled of amber and he’d just popped something in his mouth.

You look up just in time to make out the red of his lollipop. Raspberry. It clicked against his teeth as he sucked on it; you were so near to him the stick of it was grazing your lips. You faltered, and took a step back. He let you, but he never once let go of your hand.

“He’s not, sweet thing,” he replied softly, giving you a curve of a smile. Draped in red, he appeared dreamlike. “No one’s gonna hurt you, yeah? You’re safe with me.”

You nod, but you can barely hold his gaze. He chuckles, sensing your struggle. Your throat is dry, your heart in shambles; you could really use a drink or two, before you made another terrible mistake. You needed to call Minho, let him know of your situation. Perhaps he would understand, and let you stay at his place until you figured what to do with your belongings, and the lease on your name. You couldn’t risk going yourself, but Changbin, maybe, if you could find the guts to ask something like that of him—

It didn’t feel right to involve your other friends, the ones not related to weapons and abuse, the ones that will never know what has happened to you, what will always remain part of your story, no matter if you’ve escaped for the time being or forever. Johnny was the vengeful type, and he certainly would not let it go. Anger had made a monster out of him, and everyone would pay for your insubordination. He didn’t take well to change, certainly not when it involved you. It was simply a matter of time.

You took a deep breath, your chest rising and falling deeply. The bouncer in front of you rested his hands on your arms, rubbing soothingly there, waiting for you to speak, to tell him what to do.

“I have to go, I need to—I’ll—thank you,” you stumble through your words, turning to leave, hysteria bubbling in your chest, anxiety for what would become of you. “How could I ever repay what you did for me…”

“You can start with your name.”

Your eyes snapped to meet his. His mouth was moving, tongue rolling the lollipop around, and his hands dropped from your skin, as if he sensed how overwhelmed you felt. You were grateful for that small action, though a part of you wanted it, no, needed it, back. It felt grounding, real, like if it wasn’t there you’d float away somehow, incorporeal, a ghost. 

Before you can even think about it, your fingers reach for his forearm, and his warmth wraps around your bones at once, the skin there, so human. Changbin seems alarmed, but remains patient with you, understanding. Your mouth is dry, but you try to swallow anyway, and his weight shifts, his gaze never drops, Seungmin is calling him—

“Yes, Kim?” he answers, but the connection is not tethered.

“The boss wants you in the back. Hey, beautiful, can I see an I.D—”

“He can wait,” he grunts, and that’s it. He’s back in your world, the one where your hand on him is the only thing keeping him alive, your eyes staring up at him the only way he’d prefer to die.

Fuck him, he’s the one in trouble, isn’t he?

“Sure, he can,” you distantly hear the brown-haired man mutter to himself sarcastically, after the two girls entered through the door. “He’s widely known for his patience.”

It brings you back to Earth. “You should go,” you encourage, smiling awkwardly, fingers unwrapping themselves hesitantly.

Changbin shakes his head, takes the stick out of his mouth. He faintly smells of red syrup. “I really fucking shouldn’t. Where are you gonna go? Do you have a place to stay?”

“I’ll figure it out, you honestly don’t have to worry about me, I can—” But you could do what? There was no way for you to finish that sentence.

He straightens his back, and it somehow makes him taller, more formidable. There’s something unreadable swimming in his expression, something between anger and compassion, and it knots your stomach, because the last thing you want is for someone to feel sorry for you. This is why no one knew, why you never said anything—you hated the pity, the charity that would come out of something like this.

A victim. You weren’t one.

“You’re with me. I’d be the last person that saw you tonight, and if something were to happen to you, I wouldn’t be able—” he stops, sighs. He looks back to where Seungmin is standing, and brings those thunder eyes back to haunt you. “Just. Please, answer the question. Do you have a place to stay?”

It’s not what you expected. This man cares, he’s like Minho. But unlike him, there’s an edge to Changbin that you’ve never seen on anyone else, like he’d tear himself apart to help you, do whatever was physically possible to make sure you’re safe. It was kindness, pure and unfiltered, and a sense of principle that no one has ever shown you before. It felt warm, like him. So, you accepted.

“(Y/N),” you blurted out, moved by his persistence. He blinks. “My name is (Y/N).”

His smile is a thousand watts. “Nice to meet you, sweetheart.”

“She’s Minho’s ‘special girl,’” Seungmin declares, eavesdropping. “All I know about you has been against my will, darling, know that.”

Changbin smirks, and lights up, digging his elbow in the bouncer’s rib. “He means he’s charmed,” he says apologetically, rubbing his neck.

A smile breaks out on your face, and you wonder how is it possible to feel at home with two people you’ve practically just met? Your heart was beating right out of your chest at the thought of spending more time with them. So much so that you nearly forgot all about the bad.

It still lurked though, waiting for the right moment. For both of you.

“Another one, is it?” Bang Chan commented teasingly, counting money against the counter. “Are we collecting them or what?”

You blushed, as Changbin sprung out to wrestle his boss in your defense. Route 66’s owner laughed a throaty sound, and surrendered, coughing and fixing his black button up. You noticed his square jaw, the sharp gaze—the girl staring at him from up on the stage. There were questions, but for some reason you had no voice to ask them.

“It’s nothing like that, Bang,” the bouncer next to you stated, rather embarrassed. “The party of twenty that we sent off? She came with one of them.”

To that, Chan perked up. There was another girl working the bar, smaller and much quieter looking than the first one, and she smiled at you when she caught your eye. You smiled back politely, and turned back to the man talking to you. The place was dark, drenched in neon, but you could still make out his face, it was so sculpted.

“You’re Minho’s friend, yeah?”

You stuttered, shy. “Y-Yes. I thought he’d be here today.”

Chan measured you. “Personal day,” he explained simply, but his fingers were still moving across the bills. “Why’d you bring her to me?” he addresses Changbin without bothering to properly look his way.

“She has nowhere to go. He was violent with her.”

You heard the hum all the way where you stood. It sounded disinterested, and for a moment you felt yourself questioning what you were exactly doing there, with a bunch of strangers that didn’t owe you anything, but then you remember the black-haired man’s words, and you remain in your place, uncomfortable.

“Take her to 103,” the owner declared. “I’ll contact Lee, see if he answers. The room has been paid for the weekend, so rest, okay? If you need anything, tell Lover Boy here. I’m sure he'll oblige.”

Changbin audibly groaned, slapping his palm over his face. “Can you shut the fuck up?”

“Just saying, baby.”

“I’m going through the back door,” he ignored the pet name, grabbing you by the wrist. “Let Min know.”

Chan was already tuning out, the girl you saw earlier now whispering to his ear. She moved like a cat to you. Or a snake. It felt mystical to watch her.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s already aware,” was his last comment before you rounded the corner to the storage room.

There were two bikes parked in the back. Both a shiny black, though one was longer, vintage. The alley was dark, the bushes along the line of the club’s property well-kept. Your arms unconsciously folded over your upper body.

Changbin mounted the aged motorcycle, turning the ignition switch, the angry roar of the engine and bright lights making you flinch. The chain hanging from his pants dangled, the metallic sound drawing your attention, before your eyes traveled to his biceps, displayed in full force with the way he hunched over the handlebars. You desperately tried to hide it, but your breath was stuck in your throat, your heart jumping at the view.

He was ridiculously attractive, and this wasn’t like that. He’d made it clear, and you— you’d just got out of a messed up relationship. You didn’t need this. And yet—

“Come here, will you? I promise I won't bite.”

Of all things, this was bad in a completely different, yet just as torturous way. You still did it anyway; you passed your leg over the seat, you put your arms around his muscled body, leaning into him, and if your nose caught his burning scent or the berry flavor of his candy you told your silly heart to suck it up and turned your cheek. But ignoring it was futile—there was this intense sizzling between you, and it’d be a flat out lie to say he didn’t feel it, because at every red light, every all-way stop and traffic junction he squirmed and cleared his throat in a manner men only do when they’re rock hard and in need of relief.

“We’re not too far now,” he spoke after a while, taking a left turn and readjusting your hold with one of his hands. His long fingers were cold but sure in their touch. “You okay?” His head turned to show his profile, the soft, dark curls bouncing in the wind, and what was the question again?

“It’s a nice night,” you comment, not able to form any other coherent sentence.

He nods, and takes off again, this time speeding down the road, making passes on cars, taking yellow’s, and never once looking back after that. The sky was pitch black, not a star in the city, and most businesses’ had closed for the day, leaving gas stations and fast food places all on their own, though even those were sparse and far between wherever you were going. There had been a moment, though small, where you doubted his intentions, doubted these people and their words. But these people were Minho’s people, and there was never any doubt about him.

You really wished you had taken your phone with you. It seemed like a good thing to have in a situation like this. The thought of where it is, or rather whom it’s with, made your skin crawl, and your mind wander. What was Johnny doing right now? Had he left the apartment already?

Staring at a spot on Changbin’s vest, you realized he’d just entered a parking lot, a motel named ‘Starlight’ coming into focus, its teal color and neon letters hard to miss. He killed the engine and waited for you to get off, before demounting himself. You lingered a bit as he adjusted the stand of the bike, and cracked his neck. Thin black ink ran down the side of it, lightning or veins, you couldn’t quite make it out from your distance, but before you could analyze it further, he motioned for you to follow him, extending a hand and recognizing what he’s doing.

Your eyes met as his jaw clenched, and his arm fell. It felt like intuition or will, and he was rejecting it all. You should’ve felt glad he was repressing himself, but all you felt instead was empty. You shouldn’t want this, you kept repeating to yourself. He’s just being nice. He’s just being kind. And it was those things, but it was something else, something that was neither your fault nor his; attraction, maybe, or just the simple fact that he felt like the calm sea, enveloping you with the promise of peace. And freedom—he set you free. Call it naivety, and perhaps it was.

You didn’t care.

That was your second mistake.

“It’s not much, but Bang’s family has owned this place for forty years,” he explained to you as he greeted the older man at the reception desk, and got the key that opened ‘Room 103.’

You climbed the rusty metal staircase to the first floor, and followed him closely as he passed the rooms by, all the way until the end of the hall. The breeze was colder up there, but you could spot a tiny star or two. You were far, so much farther that you’ve been in years, and it felt good. Nothing for miles, no one close to you to know where you were, to look for you. No one that cared enough, anyway.

“You won’t kill me, right?” you ask almost absentmindedly, the sky too mysterious, too beautiful to look away.

Changbin unlocked the door and chuckled to himself, forcing his head not to turn your way.

“Not if you behave,” he couldn’t help the suggestive tone, though. “I’m kidding, sweetheart,” he softened up and quickly added when he heard your breath catching in your throat.

He stepped aside to let you walk in the room you’ll be spending the night in, and hesitated to trail behind you. A lot of things happened in motel rooms, even more happened between him and girls like you, girls that ride on his bike and have him by the balls. His dick was so hard it was painful to walk, and there was no excuse for it. He was awful, but there was no intention to go through with anything. He’d bid you goodnight, leave his phone number on the nightstand, and walk out. That’s how it should happen, and that’s how it will happen. You’d been through enough, it was clear to see. 

Changbin was not going to force his own bullshit life on you.

“In case of anything you can call me immediately. I’ll answer,” he told you as you sat on the bed and fingered the phone’s cable. “If you want me to go get your stuff, say the word,” he added, sensing your uneasiness.

Your chest expanded and your lips curved, but the smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I don’t want to put you in any more trouble, Changbin. This is enough. Thank you.”

The bouncer shook his head, furrowing his brows in refutation. “You haven’t put me through anything, sweet thing. Let me do that for you, yeah? I’ve dealt with many assholes in my life.”

“Don’t you have to go home? It’s late, I wouldn’t want to keep you—”

“Don’t have one,” he cut you off, and smiled faintly to relieve the tension his words carried. “Tell me where yours is, I want to make tonight easier for you.”

You couldn’t help the pregnant pause after that. Your mind ran, the simple fact that he’d told you something so personal like it was nothing festering into a million different thoughts, all ending with the same question mark. Where did he live, then? At the club? Not possible, right? Then, where? Would he want to spend the night there, with you? You had nothing, even this much was borrowed, but perhaps he could share it with you. If it was allowed. You knew it was risky, and that you couldn’t ignore this for long.

It’d be wiser if he left now and came later when you were asleep. You had to remind yourself this was temporary. If you were to engage in these feelings, they’d take you somewhere you’d have to deal with for way longer than a couple of nights, and you weren’t sure that was a good thing.

He looked like he was thinking the same thing.

The tattoo on his neck was definitely lightning striking, the black of it creeping before cracking down on him, and disappearing underneath his collar—underneath. You wanted to see, run your fingers on it, figure out where it reached. It wasn’t normal, and it certainly wasn’t sane.

But you wanted to, nevertheless. It was a hungry want, an inevitable want. If it didn’t happen right now, it would happen someday, soon, as soon as you both stopped fighting it, a primal instinct. It was because of how he looked and what he’d done for you, how freedom would now seem like a raspberry lollipop and a smooth gun.

“I need to go,” he said, his eyes flitting from yours, body turning away. “I need to go before I do something I regret.”

His pleading tone tugged at you. You put your tongue between your teeth so you wouldn’t respond. He’ll go bring you your clothes and your phone, and he’s going to leave you alone. You ran it over three times in your mind, before it sounded convincing enough to go with.

“You can stay,” you manage to get out, and then you realize it doesn’t sound right. “After, I mean. If there’s nowhere else to go.”

Despite his best intentions, Changbin can’t help but melt at your words. Bless your heart, sweet thing. I was right to help you.

“I’ve had my fair share of Starlight nights, sweetheart. I’m sure you need your privacy,” he leaned by the dresser to write something on the pad by the TV. “You don’t gotta worry about me, yeah?”

It still didn’t feel right with you. “Thank you can’t possibly be enough.”

With a hand opening the door wider, he gave you one last smile and a quick wink, before popping the lollipop back in his mouth.

“It’s enough for me. I’ll be right back.”

Babel is playing on TV, a half forgotten movie about people on vacation, but you can’t even bring yourself to focus on the actors’ faces, much less their words. One line sticks out to you then, ‘Why did we come here?’ but before the weight of it registers, you swing the door wide open, throwing yourself out into the cold night.

The roaring sound that drove you away from your old life. That unique black paint on an expensive, vintage motorcycle you couldn’t stop thinking about. You’d never been on a bike before, had never trusted anyone enough to get near one. It had surprised you; how easily you trusted Changbin, how blindly you followed him into fields of darkness. He could’ve turned out dangerous—he could’ve threatened you. Any sane person would’ve kept their distance, assessed the situation, and gone home. A boring, uneventful life is a life nonetheless. There were bad parts, sure; decisions that were made that could’ve been prevented, people that took advantage of your kindness, but overall—it was fine, it was manageable.

Somehow, you refused to acknowledge the abuse, even then. You protected the part of you that wanted to deny, that wanted to go home and forget about it all. Johnny told you, though, he did—“no one’s coming for you, no one.” Meaning you’re unwanted, meaning you never mattered anyway, silly girl, and what are you talking about? You’ve no home, no returning.

The black-haired man carried a duffel bag across his torso, keys jingling between his fingers. You’d been smothering in that strange room, inked paper on the nightstand, fingers pressing on the digits again, and again, and again. Dialing, then putting the receiver down, a game with no winner. A phone call away, he’d said, but it’d been three tortuous hours and he’d been nowhere to be found. You were stranded in a motel outside of town, no way to escape. Your mind ran, and it ran fast, so to see him walking towards you, to witness him staying true to his word, when no other man had been able to, when nothing was for certain, and fear crept like an ocean wave—it shocked you; shook you, hand over mouth, feet pulling you back to the confines of that space he left you in, door left ajar, only so your lungs could fill with sharp wind, with bright stars peeking their way through.

Changbin was hurt. You saw that, too. He will come to you, face swollen, and you’ll deny, deny, deny.

Because that could’ve been you. Because it would’ve been bad for real, and you will never, ever admit that to yourself. Because that game did have winners and losers, and you were so obviously losing, every.single.fucking.time.

Your love had been a bad love. You don’t blame this man for condemning you.

“Sweet girl?” His voice is rough.

He pushes the thing separating you, and there it is—a cut above his brow, an angry gash on his cheek that will bruise later—you knew this, you did—blood on his white sleeve, scratched up knuckles. You’ve learned to look for the injuries first, but when did that start? Since when have you been covering, hiding, alert, so very sensitive to your own body, to reds and blues and purples?

What the fuck is wrong with you?

The only thing you can say— “I’m so sorry,” head low, quivering.

Changbin finds you on the bed, a reprimanded child, and stares. He looks an ugly sight, that much he knows, but it had nothing to do with you, everything to do with the motherfucker that got to call you his. That apartment had been a mess, beer cans everywhere, smashed picture frames and mirrors—it hadn’t come easy, losing you, it was clear to see, but your ex boyfriend wouldn’t give you up without a fight, and it was far from over.

Still, the bouncer pushed through the door frame, and searched for your belongings. Landed a good punch or two, missed a few, knocked out some teeth. He’d dealt with monsters before, and he wishes he could truly tell you what he’d meant, why he said it. Not much scared him anymore, nothing stopped him. If you have nothing to live for, you go all in. Every moment matters, yet doesn’t at all. An avalanche, a landslide. A suicide mission.

Changbin had seen war, and had returned from it. Retrieving a phone was childsplay to him.

He nears you, drops the bag with your stuff right next to you on the mattress. He crouches in front of you, and despite himself—he grabs your hands. How devastating it is—to know you’re going to lose your heart. How thrilling. He searches for the pretty eyes that looked at him back at the bar. He wants to talk to the girl he freed, the girl that offered what was offered to her. 

The selfless one.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” he consoles you tenderly. “Did a good deed for a girl that’s worth it. No tears, yeah?” Your tongue comes out to wet your petal lips, and you meet his gaze. He smiles at you, masking the wince it elicits out of him. He wants to keep smiling for you, nevermind the ache, nevermind the effort.

“You should see the other guy.”

You laugh at that, still half crying, and Changbin can’t help it, doesn’t want to. He wipes the tears away, cradles your face in his big hand. You’re so warm under his touch, so beautiful. He wants to do everything for you, wants to stay beside you as you tackle life. But he’s got nothing to provide, even less to his name—he doesn’t deserve you, doesn’t think anyone does. You’ve been through a lot, your sadness tells him. It ripples through his chest, tightens his gut. He’ll stay if you keep him around, though.

He’ll stay, aware of what he can’t have. He sees himself in you, strangely.

“Does it hurt?” you ask, afraid to touch the liquid fire blazing on his features. “Thank you. Thank you.”

He thinks to tell you he can’t really feel pain, not anymore, but you don’t seem ready for that. Instead, he shakes his head, deflects. He reaches for the bag of food, and doesn’t tell you about the nasty stares he got from the people at the overnight deli, either. They don’t know him, they only see what they want to see. Chan taught him that. And fuck them, anyway—that was Seungmin.

“Eat something. Try to get some sleep,” he balances himself on his boots. “Your phone is in there,” he nods at the bigger bag. Misses your skin on his. “Is there— What else can I do for you, sweetheart?”

He’ll never forget the way you looked at him then. For the remainder of his days. 

Someone who could care for him, like his brothers, but a girl. You. His own girl. He’d seen the others, how easy it’d been for them. Destiny, or fucking love at first sight, that bitch. He saw and waited patiently for his turn, fists clenched, teeth gritted. The possibility knocks at his heart, beats at his scalp. It could be anyone, but it’s you, he’s sure of it. Until you, there’d been no one, no real prospect. He knows this by how much he wants to stay, by how your fingers felt on his own, how your eyes melted into his. There was attraction on both ends, yes, but he was in no rush.

No rush, and yet one touch from you—

“Where are you gonna go?” You don’t make a move to check your phone, or even make sure Changbin had picked up the right clothes. You just stare at the bloody spot on his shirt, and plead for this to happen.

The amount of self restraint he possesses surprises him. He curses it.

“I’ll figure it out. That’s what I do.”

“Stay.”

He can’t help the chuckle that comes out of him. It’s ironic, really; he would kill to spend the night with you, and there’s no reason why he can’t, except you’ve been hurt so fucking deep, the scars are visible to him without even being there, and how is that even possible. He knows because they mark every part of him, similar ones, and they never heal. They just remain open, gushing, pouring out, and what else can he do but repudiate their existence—it’s haunted him for years.

He’s ashamed of his own homelessness now. Embarrassed of what he’s done, how it’s cost him, how it’ll continue to do so, unless he makes a choice. The choice. But how to take your own life?

“You and I both know how that’ll end, sweet thing.”

You’re a dream; you blink, and then you’re moving, up and closer, hand reaching out, attempting to grab, to hold onto, to insist. You’re stubborn, of course you are. There’s a flame in you he likes. You know how to survive, yet your softness is intact. He wishes he could say the same thing. He wishes he could hold you with no hesitation, no doubt in his mind.

But Seo Changbin ruins things, and he does so knowingly, despite himself always. Especially pretty girls like you, girls that don’t know any better. He’s seen it happen, he’s terrified of it happening again.

“It doesn’t have to,” you say, and he desperately wants to believe it. He’ll even wrap his hand around yours, pretend for a moment or two. “It’s just sleep. You’ve done so much for me. Please.”

He sighs, hates himself for falling into your words only because they sound sweet to his ears. He knows you’re wrong, knows his nature, knows what’s taken place in this very room many times before, and even then, even fucking then—

There’s no shame in him, truly.

“Sweetheart…” he studies your face, memorizes the creases, the lines, the smoothness of your cheeks. “You need someone that can take you home. Someone to take care of you good.”

“You did. You have.”

“I’m crooked. You don’t know what I’ve done… what I’m capable of.”

“I trust you,” you press on, squeezing his fingers, and it’s because of that gesture that he caves.

His lips curve sideways, and he’s itching for candy again. Your words are bitter, are syrupy, and clean, ambrosial. It’ll sting like a bitch when you leave, when you find out the truth. ‘Cause you will, sooner or later. You’ll have to.

Changbin nods, admitting defeat to humor you. “You impossible fucking girl. Fine. A compromise, then.”

You’re elated. You’re glad he’ll be safe, at least for tonight. The least you can do for him.

“I’ll stay until you fall asleep,” he states, putting some space between you again, and pushing curly hair away from his face. “But you gotta promise me right now that you’re going to eat.”

You don’t miss a beat. “I promise.”

His voice drops, then. “And that you’re never going back to him. Or to that apartment. Hell, I’ll find you a job, one where he can’t fucking find you,” his jaw clenches, hands busying themselves with the blankets, throwing them on the bed, anything to release the tension building up. “I’m never letting that son of a bitch near you again.”

“He’ll sure as fuck be damned if he ever steps foot on Route, I can swear that.”

It felt strange to think yourself separate from Johnny. To think you could exist without him and him without you. The bad was there, but there’d been good too, once. It never outweighed and it didn’t matter, anyway, it’d settle in your brain someday, but your heart felt uneasy just by the mention of him. You’d spend so much time convincing yourself you weren’t a victim, that you forgot to see it for what it was—a codependent, extremely toxic environment.

You had to remind yourself that the bruises on your side were still real, and that they would take at least a couple weeks to disappear. For some reason, you hoped Changbin would never see them.

You hoped he would kiss all of them better, away.

Changbin had you shower, and change, staying outside the door the entire time, staring directly at your face and nowhere else. He supervised as you ate, and tucked you into bed after you’d brushed your teeth. No one had done any of this for you before, and you kept trying to communicate that to him. He’s plenty capable of taking care of you, of anyone that comes his way; he’s generous, he owns a heart that beats, that bleeds. That’s more than some people can claim, certainly more than what you’ve encountered, and for that you’ll never forget him, no matter if he decides to keep away from you, to land you softly on your feet and disappear without a trace afterwards.

He changed you, in some way, and that will always belong to him. How many people can say that?

There were dark circles forming around his brown eyes, wrinkles on his previously perfectly pressed button down. The tie around his neck was coming loose, like he’d tugged at it a few times already. This man had really fought for your honor tonight. He fought for you like one would for his own country; for freedom, for release. For prideful reasons, and yet so utterly selfless in the act. It was all for you.

But what did he get out of the deal? A transaction had yet to be made. You wanted to give something in return. Even as he turned off the lights, and lowered the volume on the TV, even as he made sure all windows in the small room were locked, you thought and thought. What could he want? What was missing from his life? You wanted to learn more about him. Sleep was not of essence at that point.

Knowing him was.

“How did you meet Bang Chan?”

Changbin lifted his head, a mass of muscle sitting on a tiny chair in the corner, a figure hard to miss, demanding to be acknowledged, to be seen. He held his phone in one hand, the bright screen illuminating part of his rugged face. Who was he texting? Is there anyone waiting for him, somewhere? The knot in your stomach turned and turned. You kept him here without thinking, too blinded by your own feelings.

“That’s a complicated question to answer,” he said a few moments later. You couldn’t make out his expression, but his tone sounded clipped. “He found me, or I found him. We’re both high school dropouts. I was working on cars, bikes, just any… thing, really, trying to get by, and one day he came by looking for a job. Shit happened,” he chuckled at that, but there was no humor behind it. “Yeah, a lot of shit happened. And five years later, here we are.”

“Doesn’t sound complicated to me.”

“Because I saved you the bullshit middle that no one wants to fucking hear, or remember.”

You clasped your mouth shut, immediately turning apologetic. You didn’t mean to assume, only to figure out. He seemed to sense your silence, its reason, and you heard him exhale through his nose in mirroring remorse, saw him lean forward on his forearms.

“I’m sorry, sweet thing,” he half whispered. “You didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry.”

You closed your eyes, let his voice wash over you in the silence. “I’m sorry, too.” For this. For things you had no control over that happened to him. For things that will continue to happen.

“Ask me more.” An invitation.

You obliged. “And Minho?”

“At the bar. He was the first person Chan hired.”

“How old are you?”

There was a ghost of a smile in his gruff voice now. “Twenty-seven.”

Your heart fluttered. You put a hand over your chest, above the blankets, hoping, wishing your breathing would even out, your thighs would stop pressing against each other. He said nothing, spoke only when prompted, when so many quiet things ran between you, muttering, electricity through a cable, buzzing, excited, dangerous, eager.

“Changbin…”

A pause. “Sweetheart.”

“Do you— Do you like me?”

Another exhale. Inhale. He looked ready to pounce. To run for the hills. You focused on his face.

“More than I should,” he replied honestly. “More than I’m allowed to.”

Your eyes involuntarily closed again, the tension thick, hovering above you like a cloud full of rain. You wanted it to pour, to smash down on you, to crack you open and overflow you.

You wanted him to come closer. To stay forever.

“I allow you,” you murmur. “There’s nothing holding you back.”

Another one of those signature breathy laughs of his you’d grown to want more of. They stretched his handsome face, widened his molasses eyes. This man didn’t laugh a whole lot, that much was obvious. But when he did—God, was it a sight to behold.

“That may be so, darling,” he mutters hoarsely. “I’m holding myself back. You don’t want to deal with the shitshow that comes with me, and I’d never put you through it for the sake of having you.”

A heartbreaking realization. Perhaps you heard wrong. Tears swell up, chest heavy. You beg for sleep now.

“I’m not worth it,” you assume bitterly.

He taps his boot on the carpeted floor. He’s impatient, a bird taking flight. You truly meant it. You’re not holding him back; nothing is.

“Because you’re worth it,” he croaks, voice full of something you can’t quite pinpoint. “Because you’re laying there, so fucking close, and I can’t touch you. I’m afraid to even get near you.”

You swallow, throat dry, all choked up. What does it mean, that you’ve never wanted anyone as much as you wanted this strange man? What does it mean that you had to come out to the desert to find out?

“Why don’t you have a home?”

Changbin springs up, carrying a terrifying purpose in his stance. He’s going to walk out, he’s going to leave, and it’ll all be your fault. You’ve cornered a lion, and it will show you its teeth.

The truth is he’s suffocating. Jesus Christ, he’s never felt this before in his entire goddamned life.

“I burned it down.”

And no matter what he does, he can’t not want.

He’s out the door the next, phone on speed dial, pressed against his ear.

Minho answers a beat before voicemail. His voice is unassuming, a little drunk, a little slurred. The bouncer leans his temple against the cool of the wall, listening to the wind brush past mountains, past roofs and rock and still awakening man-made trees, and he wonders how helping has ever worked in his favor.

How he does it regardless, all knowing. This has been the worst one yet; worse than revenge, worse than faking your own death. His heart was involved this time. This thing he never compromises, this thing he forgets that exists sometimes, bigger and more fervent than ever.

It came back to bite him in the ass, full force.

“Can’t I have one single fucking day to myself, Bin, what is it now—”

“Take her. I beg you—take her.”

There was background noise on the receiving end. Perhaps he was in one of those parties of his again, the ones Seungmin warned him against. Changbin had no use for caution, no reason why he should be scared. What the bartender was into—he had no interest in it, could care less for it, unless Minho was having a hard time there. Besides that, he had enough to worry about, enough on his plate. Always on the brink of overflowing, yet never quite. 

This was different. This was the almost that could tilt it all over.

“Take who, Changbin? Are you drunk, too?” His friend laughs, he knows nothing. He didn’t answer his phone to Chan.

“(Y/N). She came to Route with her boyfriend. All Hell broke loose, so I brought her to Starlight.”

“You’re fucking serious.”

Changbin rolled on his back, fist against his mouth, staring up at the night sky, at the stars you were so transfixed by. They had no reason being so bright; of reminding him of innocent eyes, and rose petal lips. He searched in his pocket for a lollipop, unwrapping it with his teeth. Cherry flavored, the color of your cheeks getting out of that shower.

Closing the bathroom door behind him, he’d accidentally caught a glimpse of your legs, those silky things that carried the rest of you. He wanted to wrap them around his neck, he wanted to run his hands up and down the length of them, feel the skin there, and up, up, up, to your cunt, to your fucking soul—

“I don’t know what to do with her, Minho. With myself. I’d never seen her before, I never thought—”

“You said Starlight, right? I’ll be right there. Give me about forty minutes.”

“Don’t— Fuck, don’t really take her, Min, yeah? I just… I need you, man. She needs you, too, I think.”

His friend the problem solver. Similar to Bang Chan, but different in texture. Where the owner was rough leather, the bartender was velvety soft, safe to fall on. With Chan you never knew, it was calculated, it was for the Greater Good, it was give and take. You called Minho, he’d rush over, scold you later.

“I’m fairly sure she’s in good hands, Bin. Keep an eye out, yeah? You’re dealing with the Sharks now.”

He saw that. The tattoo on your ex’s neck. Chan knows how to deal with those better, no bloodshed, no mourning. Changbin just keeps them out, turns them away. If they don’t listen, words don’t matter to him, they don’t count. He’s got a shiny gun under his vest for that. It’s best you never find out, that you never know.

But you will. That’s inevitable, too.

He popped the candy in his mouth and waited. Johnny, was it? His threat rang in the bouncer’s head, shit he’s heard a million times before. Only thing was before he had nothing to lose. Now, he has you. He found you or you found him, that’s how people enter his life, so what? Why the fuck would he give you up? Changbin has killed for his chosen family. 

What’s once more? No motherfucker is immortal, himself included.

Only difference is that Seo Changbin doesn’t legally exist anymore. He’s dead. Nothing more than a goddamn ghost.

He won’t dare go back in your room, not without Minho. Your friend will know how to handle you, this, how to better—properly—take care of you. If anything, you’ll choose to go with him, stay over at his place for the time being. Changbin will still trail after you like a surveillance shadow, recording all your steps, memorizing the movements that make you, your nose scrunches, your gentle hip swings. You move like water where he’s nothing but fire. He can only be put out by you, can only diminish himself, evaporate on contact. 

None of it changes the way he feels about you.

He’s not sure how long he stayed out there, awaiting the familiar sound of the MotoTec Cali the bartender owned, but he saw it before he heard it, his thoughts too loud, overwhelming every one of his senses. Minho pulled up next to his own Davidson, taking off his helmet and kicking the stand in place. The motel’s sign shone brightly against his pale complexion, and it took his friend a couple of seconds to make out Changbin’s figure on the balcony, leaned over the railing, candy sticking out of his mouth like usual.

“About fucking time,” the black-haired man muttered under his breath.

“Talking shit?” Minho joked loudly, and climbed the stairs. He was obviously tipsy.

“I’m just glad you made it in one piece, Lee.”

Minho’s face was glowing, but his eyes were dilated, worried. He glanced towards the door, and then back at his friend, at his injured state, assessing the situation.

“Me too,” he agreed, before growing serious. “Is she okay?”

Changbin nodded. “She’s fine, he didn’t hurt her.” He took the lollipop out of his mouth, lip stinging. “He pulled a number on me, though.”

“Yeah, no shit. Johnny owns a boxing gym. Don’t underestimate him.”

The bouncer scoffed, spitting on the ground, a piece of his mind on what he thought about that. “He’s a bitch I left moaning on the floor. I got a few of her things from her place,” he neared his friend, lowering his tone, “I’m not— I don’t want her going back there, Minho. Chan let her stay here for the weekend, but you… can you take her in? Until I find her some place nice?”

The burgundy-haired man furrowed his brows, tilting his head in question. “You’re going to find her a place? What’s it to you?”

“Fuck you.”

Minho smirked, and patted his friend on the back, quietly opening the door. “You better keep her close, Seo Changbin, eh? She’s precious to me.”

You were asleep, hidden under a pile of blankets, stirring momentarily only to turn.

The two men looked at each other, then looked back at you. Should they wake you? Best to let you rest. Minho needed to talk to you, though, despite the bouncer’s disapproval, followed by a backhanded slap on the sternum. They went at it soundlessly, before Changbin shook his head and pointed an accusatory finger the older’s way.

Minho sat by you, fingers tangling in your hair fondly, caressing your head. You hummed, not all there. He tried again, this time shaking you softly, hoping your eyes would open just enough to recognize him.

They did.

“Minho?” You mumbled, unsure.

“It’s me, pet. Wake up for me, will you?”

You sat up abruptly, rubbing at your eyes. Changbin glared at his friend, arms folded over his massive chest, leaning against the window broodingly.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, but wrap your arms around him anyway.

He hugs you back tight, breathing in the fresh scent of your hair. “Bin called me. I got worried.”

“I…” you look at the man by the door. His expression softens upon noticing your stare. “I’m okay, Min, I… I left him. I did it. Changbin helped me.”

Minho smiled encouragingly, pulling back just a bit to look into your eyes. “Did he now? I’m so fucking glad, pet, that’s great news.”

You nodded, but your lips curved downwards, concern spreading across your features. “But it’s  not, really, is it? Johnny’s vengeful, he… well, you see what he did,” you turned towards your battered savior once again, biting on your lip thoughtfully. “I don’t want him coming after you, I don’t—”

Minho shushed you, bringing you into his arms, hand rubbing on your back soothingly. “Trust me, baby, we can take care of ourselves. We deal with people like him more often than you’d think.”

“Don’t we, Changbin?”

The bouncer said nothing, but the smirk on his face was in full effect. His gaze ran down your soft cheeks, to your exposed neck, to the shirt falling off your shoulder, and he felt his blood boiling, his dick getting hard all over again at the mere sight. Cursed to know, but unable to follow through, his body betraying him…

Heaven and Hell were teaming up against him in the form of you; the sweetest thing he’s ever come across, the only thing that could genuinely threaten his very existence.

“He’s going to take you to work tomorrow, okay? Let me make some arrangements, and I’ll come for you Monday. You can stay with me for as long as you’d like.”

His heart shouldn’t have stopped the way it did when your eyes snapped to meet his, full of surprise, questioning, scared. You thought he was getting rid of you; that you’d been a burden to him, and he was gladly wiping you off his hands and onto Minho’s. Couldn’t be fucking further from the truth, but how was he supposed to voice those words?

I’d put you in my pocket if I could. I’d fucking carry you on my shoulders, if it meant I’d be able to keep you. Fuck his damned heart, his sappy brain. Truth of the matter was—you’re his girl now. A dead man claimed you, and once that happens, everything acquires meaning, everything matters.

He’d have to live vicariously.

“Thank you,” you said, and that was that. You were disappointed, your lids heavy with sorrow, and Changbin would have to talk to you, he’d have to explain.

He couldn’t bear seeing you this way. Not when he first laid eyes on you, not now that he knows what that stirring in his chest meant. Your sadness wrapped around his throat like a chain, squeezing, choking.

Minho noticed the tension between you, felt it in his bones. He couldn’t quite understand how the two of you came to be so close in the few hours you’ve known each other, but he won’t pretend to know how a heart works, its inner secrets, the way it just seems to pick and keep picking. He rises from the bed, leaning to kiss your forehead, and he thumbs your chin, smiling down at you one last time.

“Get some rest. You’ve nothing to worry about, you’re cared for.”

You nod only so he won’t insist, and with that he turns to leave. Changbin passes an arm over his shoulder in goodbye, but his eyes never leave your frame. You’re curling into yourself, blanket over your body, trying to shrink, to make yourself smaller so as to not take as much space, so as to not become too much of a responsibility.

He was getting angry for you. Angry that this seemed to be a familiar practice for you, a trauma response. He wanted to beat that fucker’s face in, gauge his eyes out, tear his arms off. Murder came easy, but this? What he was fantasizing about?

You had to be a specific kind of fucked up to do that, and Changbin has never claimed to be a good person. He was the man you went for for your dirty work, the gruesome stuff, the things no normal person could handle. He did it if it was right, if the intention behind it was justifiable. Scum was meant to be cleaned off, and people like Johnny were just that. A smudge on his bike. Dirt under his shoe.

“Keep me updated,” Minho tells his friend, and waves at you, before the door closes and you’re left alone.

You don’t speak.

Neither does Changbin. Not at first.

But your being angry with him? He decides he doesn’t like it. Not one fucking bit.

“You understand why you can’t come with me, don’t you, sweetheart?”

You lay back down, turning away from him.

“I understand.” Soft, weak.

He cracks, scatters to reach you, to not let you slip through his fingers. He wants your eyes on his again. He wants your naked shoulder, the curve of your face imprinting on his palm. He realizes, violently, that he needs you. That if he doesn’t have you he’ll go fucking crazy, insane, absolutely ballistic. The pull you have on him is too strong, the attraction too big, the feeling so intense it makes him want to tug at his hair and scream at the world for shunning him.

You don’t need more than a few hours to fall in love, it turns out. A girl can smile at you and that’s…it—you’re done for the rest of your life, now. No one had warned him about that, but he had witnessed it. In the way Seungmin looks over at the bar, even when the door is closed, like he can see right through it. How Chan doesn’t seem a separate person from that woman; how when she’s around, he’s alert, astute, awake to everything.

Fuck him to Hell, he should’ve paid attention. They don’t call it Route 66 for no reason, he’s sure of that now.

“Don’t make me say it, (Y/N),” your name on his lips sounded important, sounded real. He whispered it again in hopes you’d look at him again, in hopes he’d get to hold your hand once more. “You don’t want someone like me, you don’t need this… Minho knows you better, he’ll—fuck,” he pressed the heel of his hand into his eye, suddenly exhausted. “You’ll be okay there. I won’t have to worry.”

For a while, you left him alone with his words echoing back to him. It scared the shit out of him, how terrified he was of never seeing you again, how each passing second of your silence sliced through him like a knife.

Then, you mercied him. You spoke.

“I didn’t mean to be ungrateful. You’ve done so much for me, and I’m incredibly indebted to you, Changbin,” you kept that same tone from before, and he had half a mind to forcibly turn you, to swoop you in his arms and never let go. 

“I just don’t know how to shut my heart to you. I don’t know why it’s telling me to stay, why it’s pointing to you so desperately…”

He did it, then. Passed his arms right under you and brought you close to him, closing the gap that’s been eating him alive. You gasped, hands clasped against your chest, and looked at him, looked at him, looked at him. He drank you in, nose nuzzled against your neck, taking every inch of you in, strong arms tightening around you, lips on your skin.

Lips on your skin. He groaned, and dug his face at the nape of you, ashamed of his weakness, afraid of his inability to control himself. The last thing he wanted was to scare you away. But you… he had no defenses left. He should’ve left when he had the choice.

There’s no choice now.

“The things I want to do to you, sweet thing…” he gravelly muttered. “I’ve been lonely my whole fucking life. I never expected to find you, a thing like you. A girl for me, just for me…” One of his hands traveled up to your cheek, keeping it there, your body fully placed on his lap now. You were consumed, engulfed in flames you had no intention of extinguishing. “Do you feel how hard I am for you, darling?”

His hot breath fanned across your face, raising goosebumps. You nodded, mind jumbled, words long gone. “Yes,” you managed out. “Yes.”

“You think I’m nice,” he continued, his deep voice reverberating through you. “You think so highly of me, don’t you?” He turned your face so his mouth can face yours, with every thought of kissing you, of tasting you. “Give me permission. Tell me I can,” he whispered, eyes flickering, pitch black with desire.

You whimpered, tears stinging. “You can,” you exclaimed. “Please—”

Changbin devoured you. He grabbed your face roughly, fingers bruising in the best way, and attacked your mouth, tongue pushing past your red lips, conquering, spreading like wildfire. You felt dizzy, able only to hold onto him for dear life, and he held back just as unyielding, a solid body against yours, moving with you.

He came back up for a breath, a drowning man at sea. He swept some hair away from your beautiful face, and stared at your swollen lips, the way they called out to him, but he’d already gone too far. There was nothing more left to do but drown, and just as well. Changbin never much cared for living anyway, he’d gladly die for this.

“What am I gonna do with you, sweetheart, hm?” he tore off the blankets, shamelessly running his gaze down your body, your curves, all the ways you could bend. His cock twitched in his pants, restrained, in need of attention. He wanted you wretchedly, hopelessly.

“Half of me wants to tear you apart, the other half wants to tuck you into bed and leave you alone…” he trailed off, licking his lips, thirsty for anything you would give him. “I know right from wrong, I know this’ll be so fucking wrong—tell me to leave you alone. Tell me to stop, baby.”

You said nothing. He inhaled, steadying himself. He had to get a grip, fast. He was losing his entire fucking sense, his mind. He didn’t want it to be like this, not with you, not here. But you were so soft, you smelled so good, felt so good, your skin warm, his heart beating against yours. It had been so hard to resist you, so hard to pretend… Changbin had never been good at lying, always going after what he wanted.

Habits were hard to break.

“You need to stop this, beautiful, I have no strength, I always fuck everything up,” he rasped, fingers creeping under your shirt already, finding their way up to your breasts—so plump, perfectly fitted for his hand, God, he was so full of you, and how to quit you now, there was no way, no fucking way—

“Don’t,” you whisper to him, and kiss his jaw, the faintest peck. “I want this, Changbin.”

“But you don’t know what I’ve done.”

“I don’t care what you’ve done,” you fight back defensively. “I care about what you did for me, and that was everything. It’s everything.”

He’d never even realized how much he’d been suffering with the weight of his actions. It all came crashing down on him now, all because you were on the verge of unlocking him, of getting as close as possible, and what if he poisoned you? What if he infected you with the shit he’d committed, with the terrible fucking crimes that followed him everywhere?

Not you. Not to you.

“I’ve killed people, sweetheart. I’ve buried them with my own two hands.”

Not the earth shattering, ground splitting, apocalypse inducing revelation he was expecting it to be. And perhaps, somehow, it wasn’t. Because he was telling it to you, the girl made for him, the girl put on this earth for him to find, his girl. And his girl would understand, because she’d see right through it. He hoped she would.

He was right.

“Why?” was the only thing you asked.

So, he told you. He figured might as well lay it all down for you to do as you like. If you hated him and never wanted anything to do with him after it, he’d have to suck it up and live with it. He’d still do as he promised, that wouldn’t change. He would protect you with his life, he was obligated to now.

“Some asshole did a hit-and-run on our friend Felix a couple years back. It left him paralyzed from the waist down. Chan swore to find the guy who did it, to make him pay,” Changbin held you close as he spoke, afraid if he let go you might run off. “I took it personally. I hunted the fucker down, destroyed his car—you don’t need to hear the rest. I knew it’d be a lifetime in jail for me, there was no saving grace if they found me.

“So, I died. I faked my own death, burned the house I’d just bought down. Chan held a funeral for me, with a fake body, a fake death certificate… My family thinks I’m dead,” he chuckled, against his better judgment. This was no time for laughing. “They think their son is dead. Their son is a fucking murderer.”

The last thing he expected—you hugged him. You wrapped your arms around his neck and cried into his vest, gun heavy in its holster, a concealed weapon he’s had to carry ever since he started working at Route, a thing that binds him to the Devil, a thing that has nothing to do with you, that shouldn’t even belong in your world.

Changbin was rendered speechless.

“I don’t care,” you choked out. “You’re a good person that did a terrible thing, and I will never hold it against you. If you’re trying to scare me away, it’s not going to work, Changbin. I dated a killer for most of my adult years.”

“And you want to live with a new one?”

You slapped him. He let you, because he deserved it, but grabbed your wrist afterwards, fiery gaze meeting yours. It was a low blow, a punch to your character, and he regretted it immensely. He just couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

Please see this. Please understand why I shouldn’t be the one for you. I never had to be careful with my words, I’ve never cared this much for anyone.

It didn’t matter. You were the one to kiss him this time, hard and bravely.

You kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him, and your lips, your soft lips—they were sending him straight to Hell, six feet under and worse, to where he can never find his way out, to where he’d eternally be unable to crawl out. He didn’t need a prophecy for this, didn’t need to navigate through a game to get the girl.

He just had to look into her eyes, learn her name. Make her stay.

Changbin wishes he could say he knew how to be gentle, how to blossom under your hand, open up to your touch. His inexperience messed with him, angered him; he was supposed to treat you differently, he was supposed to take care of you, he’d promised. But you drove him crazy, your every move sliced him, dug into his ribcage and turned. 

Call it an old habit. Or self preservation.

He wanted to see you. All of you. And then he wanted to be the one doing the turning, the slicing.

“You want this?” he breathed down your throat, pulling your head back by your hair. You had a beauty mark just under your ear. He wished to kiss it, wished to lick it. Take it as his.

Your mouth opened, your heartbeat irregular.

“There’s no going back if we do this, sweetheart,” he stated menacingly. “I’m not an easy man—I will burn myself to the fucking ground for you.”

None of it was painless to say. Every second near you required a considerable amount of effort. His own personal Odyssey.

“Changbin…” Pleading. For him. For what you want him to give you.

“No,” he growled, pressing his body on yours. “You need to know this. You need to know what you’re getting into. I don’t get sweet things like you in my life, I have no fucking clue how to deal with something good like you, and it sure as Hell won’t be easy letting go of you, if you choose to leave. Do you understand, (Y/N)? Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.”

You whimper, completely surrendered to him, and he can almost smell your wetness, your desire for him. He thrusts his erection against your hip, and breathes deeply through his nostrils, nothing but softness, nothing but heat radiating from you. That’s for him, too. Goddamn it all.

“I’ve never had someone like you before, either,” you confess softly, your eyes wet.

Changbin wastes no time, then. He grabs you by the waist and turns you to sit on him straight, eyes boring into yours, legs on either side of him. You steady yourself on his shoulders, lashes fluttering, mouth swollen. He digs his nails on the soft skin, then drags his hands downwards to your dips, your ass. You inhale sharply, your hips unconsciously rubbing against his growing bulge.

“Show me how you like it,” he mumbles, drawing circles above your pajama bottoms. “Show me what to do, darling.”

Biting your lip, you reluctantly grab one of his big hands, and guide it to your breast. He feels your hard nipple through the thin material, wants it between his lips, his tongue sucking—he wants you in his mouth like his favorite lollipops. Wanted to switch the candy for you. You couldn’t be any worse than sugar, but maybe you were.

Maybe he was screwed either way.

“Unbuckle your belt,” you command, and your sweetness has suddenly turned saccharine.

This is the girl that was begging him to kill her piece of shit boyfriend with everything in her back at the club. The one that wasn’t afraid of the gun pointed.

He wanted to challenge her. That one. “Do it for me.” Let me feel your hands, beautiful girl.

You did. Slowly, carefully. Changbin wasn’t even aware he was holding his own breath, until his chest felt ready to explode. Still, he didn’t dare. Couldn’t, with the way your fingers went for his zipper. He was really fucking about to sink himself into you, after humoring himself he wouldn’t touch a strand of your hair. 

What a fucking hypocrite.

His cock was rock hard, red, and leaking. You run a finger over the head of it, gathering the precum there, and neared it towards your mouth, your eyes lifting innocently to meet his own. Changbin couldn’t look away, you had him completely fucking hooked. Fucking witch. He was scared of himself, then; scared of what he might do to you.

This wasn’t normal. Wasn’t for the faint of heart.

“Taste it,” he rasped, breath bated. “Put me in your mouth, sweetheart.”

Your lips curved, the finger disappearing between your lips. His eyes almost rolled to the back of his head. He wanted to draw blood. He wanted to punch something, and keep punching it until it died.

He wanted to fuck you into the mattress.

“I can think of something better,” you whisper to him, leaning close to his ear. His eyes follow you, cock throbbing, needing you there, needing you on. “Undress me, Changbin.” 

The Devil finally comes to collect.

Your shirt goes first. His hands reach behind your back to unhook your bra, rushed in their ardor, and he feels no more than a mere teenager, creaming his pants for the first time. You have him delirious, raving. Will it always be like this? This spinning, this dizziness with you. He feels like he hopped into a dance he doesn’t know the steps to. Uncharted waters. He hates it.

He shakes off the holster strap from his shoulders, wants that gun as far the fuck away from you as possible, and bends to take your nipple in his mouth, grazing it with his teeth, wanting a reaction from you, anything that would tip the scale back to him. He needed the little control he had before, needed it for what was left of his sanity. You were a dream, spread across his lap, begging him to touch you, to fuck you. No girl had asked before, none had tasted him like this.

Changbin was a giver, but you weren’t letting him give.

“So fucking beautiful…” as he dips his head in between your breasts, as he hooks his thumbs under your bottoms and panties and pulls. You lift for him, and shrug them off, passing your leg over him again once you’re fully naked. “Too beautiful, fuck me.”

He kisses you. Grabs your face and crushes his mouth on yours. He’ll get you to understand, he’ll show you. You moan against him, and it shoots all the way down to his dick. He wants to make the first move; he wants to grab his length and shove himself inside you, wants to bottom out and fuck the shit out of you. It’s an animalistic urge, one he’s not sure you deserve. You’re worth so much more—to be laid down, to be caressed all over. To be made love to. But Changbin wouldn’t know where to begin, and he’d mess it all up. So, he does what he knows and whispers to you, hopes this tether running between you is enough. Hoping his feelings for you are enough.

“Stop me,” he begs one last time, thinking that this could somehow be fixed, could be suppressed, and halted. “You can still run, sweet thing.”

You shake your head and press your fingers on the side of his face. He blinks, heart jump-starting. You actually want this. Him. You want him.

“I’m not going to,” you hush his demons, destroy his defenses.

The room is dark, the TV has stopped its programming. Changbin closes his eyes, listens to the white noise, the static. It luls him, resets him. You reach between you and grab him. He curses, or hisses, and wraps his arms around you tighter. Don’t do this, you don’t understand, you don’t fucking understand, not yet, and I…

You push him inside you, and he groans, forehead falling forward, touching yours. Your breath ghosts over his features, and he feels you stiffening up. He has to move, but there’s not one ounce of strength in his fucking body. So much for all this muscle—it’s useless against you.

“Changbin,” you choke out, hips rolling, demanding friction.

He snaps out of it. “I got you, baby, relax, I have you, I promise.” You meet halfway as he feels you working on his cock, and he thrusts up, hard, slamming you down at the same time.

You cry out and he loses it. Taking in every inch of your euphoric face, he fucks into you forcefully, almost violently, needing to find something in you, to conquer it, to keep it. His dominant hand falls on your ass, slapping, and you bounce down harder, mouth agape, brows furrowed. He loves you like this, this image of you, so free, so eager. Your pussy drowns him, envelops him, a perfectly fitted glove, and he makes sure to graze your walls, to mark his name in there, to have you come back for more, to keep you.

That’s what he’s looking for. To keep you. For you to want him to have you. If you moan out his name one more fucking time… Jesus Christ, has he ever fucked another woman before? You’ve erased them all, you’ve eradicated all memory of them.

You shudder, a thin strip of sweat forming on your chest, and he licks it all his. You taste salty, you taste sweet. You smell like soap, like vanilla. And like him, your juices mixing together, your musks tangling. He won’t last much longer, but he wants you to come first. He wants to watch you cum, coming undone on his cock, on him, while he holds you, while his fingers rub circles on the bundle of nerves between your legs. He wants you filthy, wants you his, wants you forever, like this.

Just like this.

“Look at you, sweet fucking girl, taking my cock so well…” He bites his lip, tastes metal, but doesn’t care. “You ride me so good, baby, let me see you. Fuck yes. C’ mon.”

You’re so warm, half there, eyes shut, focusing on that feeling in your gut, low in your belly, and he can’t wait. He can’t wait for you to flood him, to taste you. You’re loving his fingers, he sees it, as soon as he touched your clit your back arched, your hips loosened. Fuck, he wants to flip you around and take you on all fours. Wants to screw you from behind, have you come like that, too. You’re everything he’s ever dreamed of, everything he will ever need.

“I’m so close, I’m so close, please!” your breath hitches, and Changbin grabs you by the throat, watches how you open your eyes wide, afraid. It sends him over the edge—you send him over the edge. It’s okay, my pretty girl, let it out, it’s okay, goddamn you, let me hear you, listen to that pussy, you’re so fucking wet…

“You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you? I can feel it,” he mumbles over your lips, his fingers tightening their hold just slightly. “You’re gonna make a mess for me.”

“Yes, yes!”

“That’s my girl,” he smirks, and thrusts one, two, three—

Your entire body stiffens and shivers. He blows as you fall limply on top of him, and he shushes you, fingers sliding up to your hair, pushing back, lips connecting with your temple. You make no move to push him off you, to take him out. You really wanted this. You wanted it as much as I did, sweetheart.

He transfers you on the mattress, laying you down gingerly, and is immediately met with cold, with emptiness. What were once old friends, now bitter enemies. He wants to get used to the warmth, to the gentleness you offer. He wants to call these things his, as well.

Most of all, he wants to take you in his arms again. Wants to stick his body close to yours and fall asleep. Something so simple, yet unattainable. Until now. Until you.

Changbin pecks your shoulder as you come down from your orgasm, then presses a hand between your legs, feeling for the stickiness. He slides a finger up your labia, and brings it to his mouth, sucking the clear liquid off. You turn to look at him, knees folding, pulled towards your torso.

You turned shy again. He smiles without meaning to.

“Wanted a taste,” he defends himself. “My fingers will have to do for now,” and he winks at you.

You blush, red spots spreading across your cheeks, and bring your hand over your mouth. Precious. Cute. Changbin lifts your hand from its place and places a kiss on your soft mouth. Thank you, and he wishes you can somehow hear it in his head.

Then, he tucks himself back in his jeans, and straps back up, letting his head fall, his hand rubbing his neck. It wasn’t just exhaustion—his heart was physically hurting. He just had sex with the girl of his dreams. He came inside of her, and laid with her.

She asked him to stay. Twice.

But the truth remained—he had killed, he needed to pay for his crimes. It was only a matter of time before the police pieced everything together, and there was no amount of paying off Bang Chan could do that would keep all of them away. Some people were pure from birth.

Like you. He hoped you would be the death of him so he’d never have to deal with any of it. But that doesn’t sound like Seo Changbin, either. What is there left to do except wait it out, then? He had this golden opportunity to spend some time with a heavensend girl. He couldn’t possibly fuck it up.

He had to take care of her first.

“I have to make a call, sweetheart.”

He didn’t sleep a wink.

Instead, he watched your rib cage expand then deflate, eight hours of it. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to wake you up or not, so he just let you be. If you missed a day of work—well, you deserved a day off after what you went through, didn’t you?

And, either way, it didn’t matter. If they gave you trouble, Changbin had already found you a different job. A better paying one, too, if he was to merely guess. And an apartment, close by to the bar so he could reach you fast if need be. All was ready to go albeit your consent and personal information.

Minho had texted him about an hour ago to ask about you. The bouncer sent a ‘she’s sleeping’ and left it at that. Your friend didn’t have to know about what he’d done, or how you liked it, despite blessing the two of you.

Changbin was regretting it all a little too fucking much. For your sake. If he had no morals, no conscience or basic fucking decency, this would’ve been just another lay, just another poor girl he’d saved. But you weren’t, and this wasn’t.

Wasn’t what? A relationship. A mistake.

Yeah, sleep sure as fuck hadn’t been an option.

Just before the clock struck eleven o’clock, you stirred, stretching your arms in either direction of you, your mouth opening and closing. The sun had been well up in the sky, a warm day with a slight breeze.

Changbin had covered you with multiple blankets, but they had all managed to sneak down to your feet. You were still naked, except for your panties. His cock stirred, and he cleared his throat, messing the mop of curls on top of his head.

Fucking get a grip, asshole.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

He saw you blink up at the ceiling, before you lifted your head to the sound of his voice. Your eyes met and—your lips curved sleepily at him. He smirked back fondly, but didn’t dare get up from where he was sat the entire morning.

“How did you sleep?” You asked, pulling a thinner sheet over you, your cheeks rosy as you rested your head on your arm.

“Great,” he lied. “How about you, love?”

“Okay.” But your face was positively glowing, your eyes sparkled.

His chest clenched. He rubbed a hand over it, trying to appear casual. There was nothing casual about the way you made him feel just then. He never stayed after sex, he never saw how the women he took to this motel looked the morning after.

And he didn’t want to. He just wanted to keep staring at you. He wanted you to look at him back, always.

“What time do you have work?”

Your eyes widened, hands immediately jumping to find your phone, to check the time.

“Fuck!”

Changbin sat back, arms crossing over his chest, watching you run around the room panicked. He’d never get used to the sight of your breasts bouncing, or the way you tucked your hair behind your ear. It was all very endearing, very lovely.

Lovely. Nothing had been lovely before. Fucking Hell.

“Don’t go,” he teased you. “I can think of a few things we can do here.”

Half way in a pair of jeans, you looked up at him like he’d grown two heads. His laugh was throaty, genuine. Your eyes, though. They betrayed you.

“I still have to work, Changbin,” you retorted with an obvious voice, head going through a T-shirt. 

“Just sayin’, sweetheart. You look fucking hot.”

You blush, but otherwise ignore him.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re mounting his motorcycle, your body pressed against his. He can’t help but think of last night, of the way your cunt squeezed him deeper, how your nails dug into his neck.

How was he going to go without you for a whole day? After knowing what he does. After having had a taste?

He needed a fucking shower. He needed ten minutes without you so he could get his head straight.

Every time he closed his eyes—there you were, your velvet skin, your breathy voice moaning out his name.

“If anything happens, anything at all, you call me,” he says for what seems like the tenth time.”Immediately.”

You all but groan, gaze flitting guiltily to the entrance of the clothing store you worked at. “Yes,” you reply for what, also most likely, is the tenth time. “I will, Changbin. I promise. Please.”

He nods his head towards your workplace. “Go. Be careful.”

You turn to run, but then stop on your tracks like you forgot something. Changbin leans against his bike, eyebrows raising. He has no time to register what is happening, or why possibly—you kiss him straight on the mouth, bruisingly, and grin widely at him.

He’s dumbfounded. Touches his lips to make sure he’s not hallucinating. Yesterday wasn’t a dream, then. You still wanted him. He drops his head so you don’t see him smiling like a fool.

“I’ll see you later!” You call out.

“I’ll be right here, darling.” And he meant it.

From the corner of his eye, a shark out of water. Prowling.

tags. @ughbehavior, @streetlight-s, @cb97percent, @j-0ne25, @danyxthirstae01, @lix-ables, @koorminii, @choinsaw.

a/n. literally no one asked for this to be so long, and yet it is and i’m so sorry. i do hope you still give it a chance, since i worked quite hard on it. i left it as an open ending, in case i want to add a second chapter to it, but as it stands, the story is finished. hope you like it, and as always, thank you for reading lovelies! 💕