#to the floor.... the blood splattering on the floor... and the fucking smile on ace's face still haunts me

[hauntingblue]

Flashbacks and reverie..... well....

[cloudcountry]

[inhales]

fem deliquint deuce beating people up with a cool jacket

FEM DEUCE BEING ROUGH N TUMBLE AND GETTIN INTO TROUBLE

fem duece who can't fucking walk in heels but tries her danrdest becuase "honor role students need to be spiffy"

fem deuce who has so many chick and egg themed things (ace makes fun of her stuffed chick)

FEM DEUCE WHO LOVES FLAMINGO BABIES-

fem deuce who squeaks and blushes when you carry her princess style

fem deuce who isn't good at fashion but tries to dress up for your dates

fem deuce who tries to make you bento like her mom did and fails... so you cook together

SUMMARY: some moments you share with fem!deuce

COMMENTS: shes so lesbian to me...i love her.

Her jacket swings behind her like a pair of angel wings as she throws punch after punch, kneeing the guy who bothered you square in the chest. She falls back into a fighting stance as he crumples to the ground, her fists clenched and a splatter of blood across her wrists. She turns to you, short dark blue hair blocking your view of her eyes.

“Are you okay?” she asks, tucking those strands behind her ear, and you can’t help the way your heart lurches when the blood gets in her hair.

It’s not the first time she’s protected you when some guys from another school were just a bit too persistent. You know she’ll lament this fight later and talk about how she’s not a proper honors student, but you’ll be there to convince her otherwise.

She grips your hands like a lifeline, ankles jittering concerningly as she stumbles into her dorm room, kicking the offending shoes off into the opposite wall as soon as the door closes behind her. You purse your lips as she flops on her bed, rubbing her sore feet with her bottom lip pulled in between her teeth. She’s bitten them black and blue again it seems, and you frown.

“You know, Deuce...” you wait until she looks up at you, eyes wide and curious, “You could always start with smaller heels. There’s no reason to wear these monstrosities when they hurt you so much. You could even wear flats!”

Deuce opens and closes her mouth a few times before growing pink, her lips forming a thin line. She didn’t think about it that way, did she?

She regularly wears these little chick hair clips to pull her bangs away from her eyes when she studies. Deuce will forever have the nasty habit of running her hands through her hair and messing up the placement anyway, so you’re not surprised when you find a forgotten pin on your floor or nightstand. Her phone grip is a light blue egg, its shell speckled with darker blue spots. You told her it was cute and she bought you one of your own to get with your new phone, along with a chick phone charm.

She also has a soft spot for baby birds, especially the flamingos in Heartslabyul. Deuce will forever coo about how small and fuzzy and cute they are, petting them softly with the most gentle hands you’ve ever seen.

She swears she isn’t good at fashion but she’s the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen when she steps out of her dorm room, a pair of high waisted black pants and a white lacy top on, the outfit simple but suiting her so well. She rocks back and forth on her heels, the motion awkward in her sneakers (freshly cleaned, you notice with a smile) as she mumbles that it’s her first date, so she tried really hard. You take her hand and pull her closer, swooping her up into your arms as you spin her around. Deuce yelps and clings to your neck, face flushing bright red even when you put her back down. She tries not to notice how lovingly you’re looking at her, or how your expression only gets sappier when she shows you the picnic basket she has in her hands, murmuring something about a homemade lunch she made with Trey to make sure you had the best.

You tell her you’d eat anything she makes you, no matter what.

-> deuce's darlings . . . @vivigoesinsane @deucespadez @identity-theft-101 @dove-da-birb

[cosmic-has-moved]

A Little Public Love [NSFW]

Ao3 Version: [HERE]

Note: Completely forgot to post it here!

[Summary: A sequel to An Experiment: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39815115 ]

Limping about the rundown building splattering its ink like blood onto the wooden floor, the Striker wondered around for anything it could set its eyes to, searching for something to kill.

The creature stumbled and bumped into whatever furniture laid about, spreading more ink in the process. Their every breath gargled and disordered.

As they wondered towards another hallway, a faint sound got their attention and they made their way to a room where the noise came from. Near the door entrance laid an empty can of bacon soup.

This annoyed the mutated creature and he went off back to the hallway, mumbling out inaudible grunts.

The room got quiet as the Striker left, which gave Allison who stood in the room with the can a deep sigh of relief.

"I told you to watch where your feet go."

Pressed against the wall with her bare ass against Allison's waist stood Alice Angel. Panting and trembling, her feet up on their tippy toes while her legs were shaking and sweating.

A tug of the rope around her neck got the submissive woman to look up at her partner, Alice glared daggers at her.

"You did that on purpose"

Ms Pendle tilted her head playfully, "Did what, my dear~?"

This angered the angel as she grabbed the woman's shirt, "You know how hard it is to stand while getting fucked?"

With a smug grin on her face, Allison grabbed the lady's wrist and held it against her back. Pulling her in enough so that Alice bent forward more.

"I wouldn't know, I'm usually the one fucking."

Allison began thrusting her hips before Alice could speak. The thick silicone dildo slipping in and out of the disfigured woman stretching her walls wonderfully, making her moan out noises only a person could dream of hearing. Such a shame she muffled them out with her free hand.

The floor beneath them had a small puddle of Alice's juices slowly forming, which saddened Allison to see it go to waste, but she could always get more later. She leaned down to her lovers back and planted kisses up to her neck, that's when she began to suck and bite on the woman's neck. Making sure that it bruises enough to stay, she hummed lustful sins to the angel.

The state she could put her in could make a demon jealous. Alice's erotic yet high pitched moans, her body's continuous compliance for more pleasure, even the way her disheveled self looks. Allison wish she had a camera with her.

"It was your idea to go somewhere other than your room for our activity."

Allison giggled as the woman snapped her head back and glared at her.

"Not out in the public studio! I meant your pla~aaa~ace!"

Alice screamed out more audible moans as Ms Pendle immediately quickened the pace of her hips. The sounds of their waist colliding with each other getting more wet and frequent.

"You know I can't." Allison grunted "Tom is there and we all know how much you two hate each other." She teasingly stuck her tongue out.

Through stuttering moans and gasp, the disgruntled woman replied. "Oh stick that tongue somewhere else, you witch!"

With a eerily cheerful and toothy smile, Allison stood back up straight and grabbed the Angel's right thigh. "Okay!"

With a swift spin and grabbing of ass, Alice sat back against the wall in shock, her feet dangling over Pendle's shoulders. Their faces meeting each other.

"How are you this stron-Mmpff!"

Their lips collided against each other, tongues twirling together.

Well at least that shut her up.

Allison continued to pound into the woman's pussy, savouring every movement and taste of it. Not caring for the sticky juices covering her clothes and fingers, she'll be sure to get Alice to clean them up for her.

At the moment, she was heaven as much as Alice was.

Until a familiarly dreadful sound reached her ears.

A continuous heart beat.

Breaking the kiss and turning her attention outside the room, her fears were confirmed upon seeing the walls damping in ink towards them.

She was quick yet subtle when going towards the nearest miracle station and sitting down, Alice still in her lustful state wondered in annoyance on what she was doing. Only after Allison closed the door in the small box did she notice the dreaded heart beats echoing through the area.

In an instant she curled up close to Allison, trembling and gripping onto her shoulders.

Allison knew Alice was afraid of the ink demon, but she didn't know how bad her fear was. She did what she could do in that moment to calm her.

Placing her hands over the cowering woman's ears and lifting her head up to meet her fear filled eyes, she planted her lips against hers. Alice winced against it, but loosened up to it and closed her eyes.

Slowly yet gently, Allison moved her hips towards Alice's in a soft rhythm, making sure to keep an eye out through the stations hole.

She could see the room darken as the demon walked into it. The creature looked around the room, certain that something was in there with him. All she could do was keep Alice quiet and occupied.

After what felt like hours of it limping around the room, the beast finally left, taking its inky surroundings with it.

Content with the moment of peace, Allison closed her eyes and allowed herself to tend to the person sitting on her lap. Drinking in the position she was in, savouring every bit of it in hopes for more.

Her thrust ignored the gentleness it had before and continued furiously slamming into her cervix, her cries of pleasure muffled between their merged lips. Only ever separating for oxygen and to kiss other places, being sure to bruise or cut them.

Leaning her head back to take in the view, Allison bit her lip at the sight of Alice. Her crooked lidded eyes were nearing rolling back with her brows furrowed, lipstick smeared across her agape mouth where her tongue laid rolled out, and her broken halo was glowing in pulsating rhythms.

"You can relax now~" Allison whispered sweetly to her before planting kisses onto her lovers disfigured face, while slowly untying the rope around her neck, bruises from the rope visible.

And with that, the angel gripped onto her as her back arched while her longing orgasm finally came. Her face buried into Pendle's shoulder, shuddering out gaspy moans of relief, her hips still moving. Allison caressing her back while whispering sweet praises to her.

Slowly her hips come to a stop after riding out the climax and she collapsed, breathing heavily and licking the sweat off her lips.

"F-Fuck..." Was all she could mumble out as she managed to slip the dildo out of her.

"You handled that pretty well, Susie" Hummed Allison, her hands trailing down Alice's back.

Too exhausted mentally and physically, the disheveled lady could only say a simple "Fuck you" in response. Her faced nuzzled against her neck, sleep slowly seeping into her.

The two sat in the tiny box for what they could only feel for hours, Allison humming quietly to the other as they relaxed in each other's arms.

"Hm?"

Until something got Pendle's attention. Something thin and long yet scaly brushed up against her hand, something that had a spade shaped tip.

She gently grabbed it and tugged on it thinking it was part of the station. Only to be startled by Alice's sudden gasp of pain, met with a devilish glare from her.

Allison stared back in wide eyed realization before staring back at the tail. Only then did Alice turn to see what had gotten the woman's attention.

She had sprouted out a demon like tail, and it was very fond of Ms Pendle's hand.

"... Oh hell no..."

A gentle stroke on the tails spade caused Alice to gasp, but not a pained gasp.

"Oh hell no!"

Allison grinned like an idiot as she tugged on it gently, receiving a sharp moan from the pissed off angle.

That's when the hitting began

"QUIT TOUCHING IT!"

"I would, but it seems it's wrapped around my arm tightly. You better hope it's not because of you."

More hitting commenced followed with giggling from Allison.

"I wonder what happens if I lick it?"

!SLAP!

"OW! Okay I won't!"

Allison begrudgingly said while rubbing her cheek that held a hand shaped mark on it, Alice sitting there arms crossed and pouting. The newly form tail swaying about, hitting the corners of the box.

"We need to get out of here, I can't handle another agonizing minute with you." Alice shuffled to turn and peeked out the hole before opening the door.

"That's not how you were acting moments ago" Allison smugly said, "Need I to give you a reminder?" She slipped a hand to cup the woman's slick womanhood, causing said woman to stifle a groan.

Slowly, Alice turned her head, wearing the same death glare. Her tail swaying side to side in a furious motion.

A grin gradually form on her face, "No. But I am certain you need a reminder on who you're so confidently bashful towards."

Ms Pendle blinked confusedly as Alice Angel closed the door of the miracle station, locking them back in there.

"Alice wait, it was a joke. Alice! ALICE WAIT! SUSIE!"

____

The two stood outside of Alice Angel's quarters. Alice standing arms crossed with a frown, while a messed up Allison begrudgingly stood with her, scratches and bruises covering her body.

"You're back here safe and sound, don't cause any trouble." Allison gave the usual spiel to the angel.

The angel simply waved her off and turned to walk into her home. "I know, I know. I don't need anymore of your lectures-" She was tugged to a halt that made her turn around to see the cause of it.

Her newly formed limp wrapped itself around Allison's hand, Allison herself trying her best not to laugh as rage grew within Alice. She grabbed her tail and tugged it away from Pendle before marching back to her room and slamming the door locked, all while Allison burst out into laughter before making her leave.

"Love ya too, Susie!"

As soon as it was all quiet and there being no signs of her presence. Alice Angel grumpily made her way to her bed and laid on it, grabbing a pillow and screaming loudly into it.

After letting it all out and rolling over onto her back, Alice stared at the ceiling in thought. Moving her hand to block her vision from the ceiling light, she noticed a band around her wrist, Allison's hair tie she managed to snatch.

She stared at it for a bit before averting her gaze with a blush forming on her cheeks.

"That cursed woman..." She grumbled to herself as she rolled over to her side, a now unwanted familiar thing casually wagging between her legs.

"I have a bad feeling about your sudden appearance and with Allison's knowledge of you, better hope I don't cut you off."

She pointed an accused finger towards her tail which continued to wag slightly.

She had hoped it had a mind of its own and not it acting out from her emotions.

She hates being in denial, even if she already is.

[inkykeiji]

bright light city gonna set my soul on fire

ace anon said: wanna suggest dabi taking you to a poker game as a good luck charm then betting you on a game and losing...or winning and bragging about it by fucking you on the table

genre: smut + implied crooked secret agent/spy AU set in the late 1950s???

notes: AH ace i loved this idea SO MUCH it ended up sparking an entire fic!! heavily inspired by ian fleming’s 1953 novel casino royale + martin campbell’s 2006 film casino royale. it is set in clari’s version of the 1950s and in no way historically accurate!! think of it as an AU of the 1950s, if that makes sense ehehe | title credit: viva las vegas by elvis | songs mentioned in the fic itself: don’t and i beg of you by elvis, rockin’ robin by bobby day

warnings: 18+, period typical use of the word Daddy (not with dabi), inappropriate use of the word Mister, slight degradation, mentioned somnophilia, slight dacryphilia, minimal prep, night terrors, blood, murder, generally toxic codependant relationship, one implied mention of drug use (morphine), mentions of tense family dynamics

words: 8.5k

synopsis:

Yes, as much as he’d like to deny it, it’s true; Dabi fell in love with you the moment he laid eyes on you.

Because Dabi saw more than just a pretty little thing when your gazes first met.

He saw the perfect weapon, a diamond in the rough just waiting—begging—to be cleaned and cut and formed into the most brilliant gem, into the most ideal accomplice for him—because, really, what’s more dangerous than a beautiful woman? Especially when she looks like innocence personified?

Sticky pink candy, translucent and gleaming with saliva, clacks against teeth as you roll the heart-shaped lollipop around in your mouth, twirling the stick between your index finger and your thumb.

Legs kick idly as you lean back on your other hand, seated on the edge of Tomura’s massive, pristine mahogany desk, watching as his personal tailor helps Dabi shrug on a navy tuxedo jacket, stitched and sown perfectly to his measurements.

“I dunno,” he’s saying as he pivots his body a little, making a face at himself in the mirror. “I still think the black looks better,”

Ruby eyes roll up towards the ceiling, a frustrated groan spilling from between Tomura’s lips.

“You always think the black looks better. We’re going with the navy, it brings out your eyes,” he gives the back of Dabi’s head a sharp look before strolling towards you, features softening as he observes—the perfect picture of innocence, legs swinging slowly in cute little motions, strawberry lollipop sucked against the roof of your mouth, sparkling eyes floating from your boyfriend’s broad shoulders to his—your—boss’s face as he advances.

“Gimme some,” he demands, large hands finding your knees and halting your movement, using his hipbones to push them wider, making a space for himself between them and sticking his tongue out. With a giggle, you place the now misshapen candy on his tongue, gasping loudly as he snatches the candy from you, movements too quick for you to catch, and jumps away with the grace of a cat.

“Daddy!”

Tomura snickers around the lollipop in his mouth, sucking it into his cheek as he speaks around it. “Aw, come now, don’t pout,” his bottom lip pushes out to mimic your expression, tilting his head in false sympathy. “I’m sure your Mister will buy you another,”

“He better,” you mumble through your pout, eyebrows knitting together as arms cross tightly over your chest, eyes flitting to Dabi.

“I will, dollface, I will,” he vows distractedly, gaze not straying from his fingers reflected in the mirror as they fiddle with his bowtie.

“Promise, Mister?”

“Promise, baby, promise,”

Dabi’s already been briefed on the specifics of this mission—something to do with playing a poker game with a bunch of other crooked hotshots at the Sahara hotel in Las Vegas, but that’s all you know. That’s all you’re authorized to know.

Despite being Dabi’s accomplice and working for Tomura’s underground organization, you’re rarely allowed to be in Tomura’s office while the briefing happens. It’s sensitive information, dollface, and the less you know the better, and don’t misbehave now, sit pretty and quiet like a good little girl until the big boys are finished, and then Daddy and Mister will give you a pretty reward.

But! you had protested with a bottom lip involuntarily jutted out. But maybe, if I know more, I can be of better help—

But Tomura had shut that idea down before it had even finished leaving your lips.

No. Absolutely not. It’s for your own good—your own safety, you little brat—why can’t you understand that? 

You do understand that, you’ve been told a thousand times—your specialty is distractions, used to keep enemies occupied before Dabi splatters their brains on marble floors, or to pry information out of men weak to the smile of a pretty girl.

And, to be fair, Tomura does reward you pretty generously, with glittering evening gowns and designer pumps and all the handbags a gal could ever want.

You turn back to face him, red lips spread into a cunning, mischievous smile, a smile he knows all too well, a smile Dabi loves—because he taught it to you—and Tomura hates—because it means you’re about to get what you want. “So. How much money are you giving me to play with this time, Daddy?”

Tomura’s face screws up, nose scrunching. “None,” he spits, removing the lollipop from his mouth. Tiny hands grab at the air, reaching for it like a child, Tomura swiping it just out of grasp as he continues his scolding. “Last time, you nearly bought the entire shopping complex,”

“Ah, c’mon, boss,” Dabi says around a cigar, still standing in front of the full-length mirror and smoothing down his clothing. “Give the lil lady a lil somethin’, will ya?”

“Yeah, boss, c’mon,” you plead, mimicking your boyfriend, adorning your face with your signature pout and award-winning puppy-dog eyes.

“Absolutely not.” His voice is stern as he speaks, facial features hard in finality and resolution, but his eyes—irises a crimson so brilliant, so beautiful it’s terrifying, almost looks as if it’s glowing—are beginning to waver.

“You know, if you don’t, then I’m sure I’ll get bored in that big city all by myself while Dabi’s working,” you begin in a singsong voice, eyebrows raising. “And you know what happens when I get bored, Daddy,”

“She gets int’a trouble,” Dabi grumbles, eyes catching yours through the mirror, though there’s a smirk forming around the cigar, held between sharp gleaming ivory teeth.

“S’true,” you nod simply, eyelashes fluttering as you gaze at Tomura. “Please, Daddy? Pretty please? I swear I won’t spend too much this time,”

“Jus’ give ‘er your credit card r’somethin’,” Dabi waves a hand in nonchalance before patting down his pockets. “I’ll keep a’eye on ‘er, promise,”

“Take that damn cigar out of your mouth and speak properly,” Tomura spits, and you and Dabi share another look, another smirk, through the mirror. “Fine, alright? Fine,” nimble fingers pull out a sleek leather wallet, flipping it open and searching through the card slots, grumbling to himself. “Christ, the two of you are insufferable, I swear to God,”

“Thank you, Daddy,” you giggle, soft and gentle and innocent, all of the things you weren’t mere moments ago. Platinum plastic gleams in your fingers as you tilt the card in the light, gaze captivated by the way it sparkles and glitters as you speak again. “Promise I’ll bring you back something neat,”

     ✰          ✰          ✰

It’s been a few years now since the two of you met, since the two of you became partners, and Dabi swears to high heaven and back that he had tried his hardest not to fall in love with you, cross his heart, hope to die.

At least, that’s what he likes to tell himself. In actuality, he fell for you the moment he laid eyes on you—it’s as cliché and cheesy as one of those Jimmy Dean flicks, but goddamn it, it’s true all the same.

Doesn’t help that that’s one of the first things you said to him, though.

You look like Jimmy Dean, Mister, you had giggled dainty behind your hand, batting those long, thick eyelashes as you gazed up at him, gracious and polite and all the things a good little girl like you should be. Is supposed to be.

It made him want to fucking ruin you. It sparked a white-hot fire deep in the pit of his stomach, a blaze that grew, and grew, and grew with each of your cute mannerisms. It procured an inferno full of pure desire, heady and intoxicating, that nearly engulfed him in an instant.

“Oh, yeah?” he had asked with a smirk, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest, tongue running along his front teeth as he steadily held your eyes. “‘N why’s that, little miss?”

Those eyes, the sparkling ones that had been so bold only a moment ago, bashfully flitted down to the teal typewriter sitting in front of you on a large oak desk, fiddling a little with your nails against the worn keys.

Baby pink. Cute.

“Oh I—I—” your gaze flashed up to his for a moment, intense cobalt burning into your very skull, before you averted your stare again. “Well, I-I don’t mean to be rude, Mister, it’s just that—your hair,”

Sapphire eyes flicked up, as if to gaze at his forehead, as if he were able to see his own hair from just that motion, eyebrows raising with the action.

“S’all messy like the way he wears his. You know, when he’s not doing a picture and all that,”

And you noticed your mistake immediately, eyes widening, tongue tripping over your words in your haste to correct yourself, to speak properly, like a lady. “I-It’s all messy, s-sorry, excuse me, it’s all messy like the way he wears his,”

A smirk, slow and dangerous, spread across his face as he observed you, tilting his head a little as his eyes travelled down your neck, to your shoulders and the sweetheart neckline of that pretty, pretty dress, and then back up again, narrowing slightly as they did so. It’s in that moment that Dabi first wondered what you’d sound like underneath him while sharp hipbones bruise his name into the tender flesh of your inner thighs, how you’d slur your words together then.

His voice was a touch huskier when he spoke again. “You like Jimmy, miss?”

“I sure do,” you nodded, painted lips morphing into a little melancholic smile as you looked down at the typewriter again. “It’s a real shame he passed,”

“Sure is,” Dabi mimicked your movement, giving a simple nod in agreement. “But thank you for the compliment, doll, I’ll take it,”

Your head snapped back up. “Oh, c’mon, m’not stupid y’know,” you huffed with a roll of your eyes and a light laugh.

“No?”

The traces of amusement that played in his azure eyes had your own narrowing a little in response, sitting up straighter as you rolled your shoulders back.

“No,” you shook your head. “I know who you are,”

“Yeah? And who’s that?”

“Touya.”

And it’s the way you said his birthname, the way your lips curled into a devious little smile around the word, the way one of your perfectly arched eyebrows raised in question, in challenge, that had confirmed it for him, right then and there, in that stupidly luxurious office.  

“Touya Todoroki.”

He was sure he had to have you. He was positive he had to make you his—forever.

“You’ve been compared to Jimmy since he debuted—”

“And you know this because—”

“—because I read Time and Vogue and all those other stupid magazines, just like all the other women in this country. And I’ve seen you,” you paused to point a manicured nail at him. “On or in every single one,”

Oh, and he was sure you had, sure you knew that he was notorious for stealing several of his father’s girlfriends when he was in his early twenties, infamous for fucking them and then selling the Polaroid’s and information to vying tabloids and the like. He always did like to spice up those stories a little, to fluff them and make them a hint more scandalous, glamorous—those ones always sold for more.

Not that he needed the money.

“It’s rude to point, baby,” he winked before he straightened up, pushed himself off the wall and stalked towards your desk, stopping in front of it as large hands splayed out on the wood, and leaned close to your face.

“And I don’t go by that name anymore, sweetheart,” he had told you, voice smooth as scotch over ice, though something dangerous glinted in his eyes as they carefully searched your face, something omnious etched into the sharp smile on his face

A shiver crawled up your spine, frosty and slow, fingers tiptoeing up each vertebra as you nodded your understanding. “Y-Yes, sir,”

The door to your boss’s office had swung open then, Dabi straightening up and spreading his arms out in a grand sweeping movement.

“David!” he greeted as if the two were old friends, large smile stretched too tight across his face as he walked forward and clapped a large hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “How are you doing?”

He murdered your boss that day. You didn’t know, of course, didn’t have a goddamn clue until over a month later, Dabi had made sure of that. But by the time you found out, you were already in too deep; too enamoured by him, wholly captivated by him in every sense of the word, too dependant on him, to care at all.

He had made it quick—quiet and painless and looking as if it was an accident, strolling out of the office only a few moments later and asking you out on a date like nothing had happened, words flowing smoothly from his lips in that drawl that is so distinctly him, almost lazy in a way, glittering lidded sapphire scalding your skin with its intensity.

Yes, as much as he’d like to deny it, it’s true; Dabi fell in love with you the moment he laid eyes on you.

Because Dabi saw more than just a pretty little thing when your gazes first met.

He saw the perfect weapon, a diamond in the rough just waiting—begging—to be cleaned and cut and formed into the most brilliant gem, into the most ideal accomplice for him—because, really, what’s more dangerous than a beautiful woman? Especially when she looks like innocence personified?

Nothing, that’s what.

Honestly, he did you a favour—he swears he could see it in your eyes, sparkling as they gazed at him like he sculpted the moon himself, pleading for someone—for him—to come along and take care of you, to put you in your place, to keep you in line, absolutely desperate for someone to mold you, shape you, construct and arrange you into his most perfect creation.

Perfect, perfect, perfect, that’s what you are; so good for him, so obedient and compliant, always hanging on his every word and eagerly awaiting his next command, enthusiastic to submit to him, to please him, to receive the praise you crave so badly.

And Tomura had agreed, too, after only fifteen minutes of meeting you, of observing you, of assessing you, that you’d be a flawless addition to their operation.

So Dabi did what he does best.

He started slow, of course, enchanted you with strings of pearls and gorgeous dresses and expensive dinners, fed you tidbits about his mysterious lifestyle, about his family and his job and his past, just enough to keep you coming back for more, until you were practically begging him to let you in, to permit you to join his vocation, to accompany him on the wild ride that is his life.

And that was the best part of all—you didn’t care, you wanted it just as badly as he did; wanted to help him, to serve him, to be his, without ever requiring the full story. You readily gave everything up for him, accepted his orders, his wants and his needs without as much as a single question, never faltering in your honesty, in your pure devotion to your creator.

It’s love in its truest form, you’re both sure of it—possessed by one another, infatuated with one another, dedicated to one another—both consumed by the most potent drug, this love, a force to be reckoned with, the strongest pull either of you have ever felt before.

And, really, what more could you ask for?

     ✰          ✰          ✰

He took you under his wing, crafted you into a master of manipulation, pairing it perfectly with that innocent kitten demeanour you wear so well, and taught you everything he knew: all of the infiltration techniques and self-defence he had learned before he was ostracized from his father’s company—a privatized intelligence agency that works closely with the federal government—the very organization he’s been working so tirelessly to burn to the ground.

You still don’t exactly know what happened. He doesn’t like to talk about it, about where those scars decorating his body came from, about why he’s thrown away his old identity and constructed a new one, trading ivory hair and a high-fashion wardrobe for inky black and weathered Levi jeans with big black motorcycle boots.

But you do know a little.

He had been the favourite son, the chosen son, the one set to inherit the empire his father had built. That was, until he got himself into an accident—one that he still isn’t ready to disclose the full details of, and you never push. But you know it had involved a twelve year old Touya—always devious, crafty, and ever-so intelligent, even as a child—sneaking along on a mission he absolutely shouldn’t have. The silvery burns that adorn his skin, puckered and soft and shimmering like moonlight when they catch in the sun, scars tinged with the slightest hint of baby pink, are from this incident. Whatever had happened after had scarred his soul forever.

Because you’ve never encountered such intense hatred, burning bright blue flames that rage and roar inside of him, the words that are spit from between clenched teeth when he talks about his father, about his baby brother, positively scalding.

But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that you don’t know the full story, that you aren’t entirely aware of why this vendetta against his family exists. It doesn’t matter that his one goal in life, his only true desire aside from you, is to take down his father. It doesn’t matter that he’s willing to do anything and use everyone to achieve his objective.

Because he is letting you in; slowly, bit by bit and piece by piece, the most fascinating and tragically beautiful jigsaw you’ve ever put together. He may never be ready to tell the full story, and that’s alright with you, because as you’ve reassured him countless times in the dead of night, you’ll always love him anyway—you’ll always be by his side.

That’s when he’s most vulnerable, it seems—in the middle of the night, at two and three and four in the morning, when he wakes trembling and whimpering and soaked with his own sweat.

He never tells you what they’re about, the nightmares. Sometimes, they’re so violent that they wake you first. He doesn’t fuck you immediately on those days, doesn’t say a word as he finds solace in your warm bosom, little fingers pushing back sweaty strands of inky hair from his temples as your other arm wraps around him, holding him close to you as his shaky breathing calms, as his muscles stop quivering. On those nights, he says nothing as he spreads your legs and climbs on top of you, railing you into the mattress like it’s his last day on this earth.

That’s how he likes to be comforted; that’s what calms him down best. It’s standard procedure at this point—not that you mind waking up to his soft sniffles and him shoving himself into your barely prepped cunt, or rousing to feel the tip of his naked cock rubbing against your clit through thin cotton undies as he tells you in that wavering voice to stay sleeping and let your Mister take what he needs. You’re there to serve him—and you do, so perfectly. You just want to help, after all. You’ve always ever just wanted to help. You never know which nights he’ll gift you another little piece of himself, of his soul, for you to try and fit in somewhere in the puzzle that is DABI. You don’t know the triggers—as far as you’re concerned, they don’t seem to exist anywhere outside of the padlocked barricade of his own head, no rhyme or reason to them, more random than anything else. But you’ll readily accept anything and everything he’s willing to give, the very instant he’s willing to give it.

     ✰          ✰          ✰

Sprawled out on the hotel bed with his white t-shirt riding up and exposing your lacy panties, you watch, in an almost trancelike state, as Dabi does his hair in preparation for the game set to begin in an hour or so. He leaves it messy and ungreased when he isn’t working, all tousled and fluffy, a sea of half formed curls that flow into each other, akin to tremulous waves hours before a storm like an inky ocean atop his head. But he cleans up well, when it comes time to get down to business.

“Every little swallow, every chickadee, every little bird in the tall oak tree,”

Standing in front of the mirror clad in a white undershirt and his suit pants, he sings along to Bobby Day’s staticky voice as it flows through the small radio set on the bathroom counter, nimble fingers dipping into a tin of greasy pomade and gathering a generous glob, a responding giggle bubbling up in your chest.

“The wise old owl, the big black crow,” he catches your eye through the mirror, a devilish smile materializing on his face as he continues, lathering his hands together. “Flap-a their wings singin’ ‘go bird go’,”

“Should’a been a singer, I’m telling ya,” you say as you roll onto your stomach, chin resting in your palms and head propped up, eyes glittering. “Could’a rivalled Elvis,”

Huffing out a laugh accompanied by a roll of his eyes, his hands begin to rake through his hair, slathering it with the substance and slicking most of it back from his face, sure to leave a few curls at the start of his hairline untouched. “So sweet you’re gonna rot my teeth, baby,”

“M’serious!” you insist, blinking at him as your eyebrows raise, watching the teeth of the black comb run through the slicked-up strands, his palm following close behind as he smooths it over; crisscross, crisscross, crisscross, fluff, pat, crisscross.

 “Uh-huh, uh-huh,” he shakes his head in disbelief, though there’s the faintest pink tinting his stubbled cheeks. “I think I’m better at this job,”

What? Playing poker with a bunch of criminals and making deals with mafiosos and murdering those who wrong you? you swallow the words, letters stinging and scraping your throat as you force them back down, schooling your face into a neutral expression. “I respectfully disagree,”

“‘Course you do,” he mumbles to himself distractedly, leaning closer to the mirror to complete the look. “Elvis, you say?”

He begins belting out lyrics in an exaggerated deep voice as he adds the finishing touch—your favourite part—slender fingers shining with residual pomade as they twirl and coat the few stray curls left neglected, allowing them to hang artfully in the middle of his forehead. 

“When I feel like this and I want to kiss youuu,” pivoting on his heel, he gazes at you with that shit-eating grin and continues. “Baby, don’t say doooon’t,”

“Oh, God, no, not Don’t!” you groan, flopping onto your back dramatically, face screwed up as if you had just tasted something sour.

“Alright, alright, alright,” he’s chuckling as he advances towards you, a small towel in his hands as he cleans them. “How ‘bout…” trailing off, he hums a little as he thinks.

“Hold my hand and promise,” he begins in a low voice, smooth and sweet like the finest melted chocolate, depositing of the towel and crawling onto the bed.

“That you’ll always love me too,”

Large hands gently pry your legs part, signature crooked smirk spreading across his face when he’s met with zero resistance, rough palms caressing silky skin as they slide up, fingers gripping and grabbing and kneading.

“Make me know you love me,”

The words taper off into a whine, beginning to sound more like begging than singing, as his body settles between your thighs, hipbones digging into the soft flesh while he hovers above you, supporting his weight on his forearms.

“The same way I love you, little girl,”

Lips trail along your jaw, leaving tender kisses in their wake—unhurried, careful, and full of purpose—as he mumbles against your skin.

“You got me at your mercy, now that I'm in love with you,”

Calloused hands begin to ruck up his t-shirt, digits dipping into the lacy waistband of your panties, his voice starting to tremble ever so slightly.

“So please don't take advantage, cause you know my love is true,”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, sapphire eyes gleaming in the golden sunlight and he pauses, blistering gaze searching your face for something, muscles relaxing and head dipping a moment later to finally press his lips against yours, whispering into the kiss. “Darling please, please love me too, I beg of you,”

And despite all the glitz and glamour, all the extravagance and exhilaration, that comes with each mission, this will always be your favourite part—when it’s only you and him, lounging around in some luxurious five star hotel or some dingy roadside motel, exchanging lazy, messy kisses full of stringy shining saliva, goofing around and whispering stupid Elvis lyrics to each other, words that hold more weight than either of you care to admit.

     ✰          ✰          ✰

It was supposed to be a fairly simple operation—minimal violence, Tomura had instructed. No guns or casualties, if it can be avoided, if Dabi can keep his temper in check. It was supposed to be easy, straightforward, safe.

It was supposed to be. But Dabi gets bored easily, likes a little spike of adrenaline with his missions, rolling his broad shoulders and cracking his neck as he joins the rest of the men around the poker table, a sly smirk on his face as they name the bets and the prizes.

“And my little doll,”

It’s hard to resist rolling your eyes as those four words slip from between his lips, slow and smooth in that deep, lazy drawl, trademark smirk painted across his lips as his lidded eyes scan the faces sitting around the table, an eyebrow raised, daring any of them to protest. Several hungry eyes dart towards you for a moment, standing like the reward you are a few feet behind Dabi and leaning on a railing, a shy little smile briefly gracing your lips in greeting, elegant evening gown shimmering under the crystal lights.

This isn’t new—Dabi usually bets you when he plays. Keeps him sharp, he claims. Keeps him on his toes, keeps it fun when there’s something important at stake, something valuable to lose, he says. He plays better that way, he promises.

Except he’s always craved that thrill of danger, has always liked to push further and further simply to see how far he can go before he topples over the edge. It’s a rush, a blast, a high akin to the morphine that so often flows through his veins, and he fucking lives for it.

It’s been over an hour now, since those words were murmured in that velvet voice, floating across the table and cloaking the thoughts of the other men like a lethal haze, most of whom can’t seem to keep their eyes from wandering back to you every so often, leering gazes coating your skin with grime you itch to scrub off.

But that’s the point—or it’s supposed to be, anyway. That’s the whole reason you’re here in the first place. To act as a distraction, Tomura’s words drift through your mind, just whisps of his voice that tickle the walls of your skull.

And what a perfect distraction you are, in a Dior dress that looks like it was made only for you, tapered perfectly to every curve and edge of your body, silk flowing gracefully with every miniscule movement, with every rise and fall of your chest.

But it bores you to tears, this poker game, eyes dry and sticky, sick of staring at the back of your boyfriend’s immaculate, intricate hair as his nimble fingers play with the mountain of chips accumulating in front of him, plastic clacking together as he shuffles through them.

You had begged him to let you go shopping—just for the first half of the game, you swear!—but he refused. I need my good luck charm there with me the entire time, babydoll, he told you, brushing calloused fingers down your cheek then tracing along the line of your jaw, gazing at you with brilliant sapphire that glitters in the late afternoon sun, streaming in through the hotel’s floor-length windows. We can go shopping after the game is finished, he promised.

You regarded him with skepticism.

“And dancing?”

“Of course,” he responded with a playful scoff. “We can dance until our feet are bleeding, pinky promise,”

Keigo comes to join you just before the game passes the two-hour mark, large hands finding purchase on your hips and pulling you back against his chest as his head dips down, soft full lips against your skin.

“Lovely dress you’ve got on,” he murmurs, breath hot against your ear, tickling the shell. “You look stunning—breathtaking—I mean, gosh, look at me, I can barely breathe,” he gasps dramatically, chest heaving against your back as he does so, chuckling when you roll your eyes and giggle at him to shut up, Kei, the vibrations from his laugh a comforting sensation, a familiar sensation, a welcomed sensation, sending warmth spreading through your body. “I’m so happy you’re here,” you whine, leaning further into him and head tilting against his collarbone to gaze up at him. “I’m so bored,”

“Yeah, I bet,” he says, something unusual—unreadable—settling in his topaz eyes as he glances up at the table. “You aren’t used to games lasting this long, are you, baby,”

A little pout settles on your lips and you nod, playing right into his condescending cooing as you snuggle into him, eyes following his stare. Truthfully, you haven’t a clue what’s going on, and, really, you couldn’t care less. You aren’t entirely sure what the significance of this poker game is, or who most of these men are, and you aren’t allowed to. Just sit pretty and perfect like you always do; it’s the thing you do best.

Except tonight—tonight something is different, unsettling, off. It’s no big deal, though, of course—you can almost hear that deep, dark voice drawling the words out in your mind, phantom breath tickling your skin.

Because Dabi’s always been startlingly good at what he does. Because Dabi’s always been able to worm his way out of a difficult situation. Because there’s never really been a reason to worry about it before, anyway. But tonight—well, tonight you’re watching as his Balenciaga clad shoulders are getting tenser, and tenser, as his jaw is clenching tighter, and tighter, as his grip on that singular sparkly chip resting in his palm is becoming stronger, and stronger, thin skin stretching painfully over sharp bony knuckles.

Keigo’s breath is bated, his fingers digging into your hips as he observes the game unfolding in front of the both of you, pulling you closer to him, hushed curses falling from his lips every so often. And Keigo knows what’s happening, of course, but he refuses to tell you, promising you that you wouldn’t understand even if he tried to explain it. Creases form on your forehead as your eyebrows knit, eyes drifting back to the table. Whatever it is, it’s clear that it isn’t good, Keigo’s body tensing against yours as he sucks in a breath and holds it for a moment before blowing it out from his mouth, exasperated.   “Well, I’m positive it’s fine,” you say, trying to wave it off lightly, to whisk away the acrimonious dread that roots deep in the pit of your stomach and begins to spread, thick and dense as it slithers into your surrounding organs, to brush off the impending sense of foreboding that seems to lurk over you, getting heavier and heavier, darker and darker with each second that ticks by—though your voice sounds high to your ears, tinny and false. “Dabi’s never lost a game before, that’s why they send him to these things,” But Keigo doesn’t sound so sure, responding with a nervous breath of a laugh, lithe fingers flexing on your hips, rubbing little lopsided circles into the flesh. “First time for everything, songbird,”

The words send ice piercing through your veins, but you persevere, rolling your shoulders and standing up a little straighter, swallowing past the painful lump that’s lodged itself in your throat. It’s fine. It’s always fine. He’s always found a way to get out of messy, tight situations before. Why should tonight be any different?

It won’t be, it isn’t—you can already see Dabi collapsing on the cream sofa upstairs in your luxurious hotel room, tugging at his bowtie with a sigh as his head falls back, nimble fingers popping the first few buttons on his crisp white dress shirt, and had you scared for a moment there, didn’t I, kitten?

And you’ll playfully slap his shoulder as you crawl into his lap, roll your eyes as you straddle his hips and allow him to tilt the champagne flute to your lips, laugh it off as his hands begin to wander, rucking up your dress and kneading your ass, cock tenting his expensive trousers. Like always. You’re sure of it

It’s just past the three-hour mark when Keigo speaks again, all traces of teasing, of that easygoing lilt that is so distinctly him, gone from his voice. Golden locks stand in all directions, his hair having fallen out of its usual ducktail style, a curtesy of fingers raking through it nervously. His smile is tight as he looks down at you, front teeth nibbling at his cuticles as he speaks, muffled a little by his fingers. “Maybe we should get you out of here, sweetheart—”

“No,” you respond instantly with a firm shake of your head. “I’m not going anywhere,”

“Sunshine, listen—”

“I said, no, Kei,” you pull back a little to look at him, resolution sown into your voice, chest puffing out just a touch. “I won’t leave him,”

Honey eyes hold yours for a moment, and you can almost hear Keigo’s molars as they grind together. He exhales a deep sigh a moment later, shaking his head and tugging his fingers through golden strands again. “Alright, alright,” It finally comes to an end, a few minutes past the four-hour mark. Heavy lids start to lift as commotion begins to stir—soft murmurs among the men and chairs scraping against the floor, plastic chips clacking together and the sharp whisp that travels through the air as cards are shuffled—whining a little as you lean further into Keigo, who is now supporting most of your weight.

“Kei, feet hurt,”

“Shh, I know, songbird,” he hushes you, a large palm stroking your head. “But I need you to wake up, sweetheart,”

Rough, unfamiliar hands are wrapping around your arms only a moment later, yanking you from the warm sanctuary that is Keigo and hauling you against stiff muscle.

“I believe you’re mine now, darling,”

The words are gravelly, uttered in a low voice against the crown of your head. A vicious shiver crawls along your skin, whole body trembling with the force of it, as your lids snap open.

“Wait, what?” frantic eyes search the gaudy room for familiar cobalt, breath beginning to accelerate as you struggle a little in the grasp of a burly man with one eye. His grip tightens in retaliation and a pained yelp hitches in your throat, Dabi’s eye twitching at the sound. “Dabi? D-Dabi!”

Sapphire blazes into your skull, steadily holding your watery gaze as his jaw clenches, swallowing thickly at the sound of your pitiful little whimpers of his name, at the way you squirm and wiggle in your abductor's grasp, desperate to escape, to get back to him.

“H-Hold on, now,” Keigo begins, holding his hands up in surrender, a motion meant to signify peace, to signify that he isn’t a threat—even though you know he’s got the cold metal of his favourite pistol tucked into the waistband of his trousers and pressed against his warm skin. “Let’s talk this through, yeah? Just wait a minute—”

“Nope,” the man cuts Keigo off mid-sentence with a loud, harsh laugh, and you wince at the sound. “No way, a deal’s a deal, friend. I won her fair and square—she’s mine,”

A light chuckle, laced with irritation and dubiety, escapes Keigo’s lips as he shakes his head a little. “Come on, Dabi jokes around like that all the time,” and while his voice seems amicable on the surface, its ridden with cold undertones, phantom threats that are felt, not said. “And this little lady—as pretty as she is—is a person, not a prize. Taking her against her will is, in fact, kidnapping, and I’ll be forced to—”

“Let him go,”

“What?” the word falls from your lips and Keigo’s simultaneously—one incredulous and pitched high with distress, the other breathed out in disbelief, both equally as concerned—gazes snapping to Dabi, who sits quiet and brooding, dim lights casting shadows on the sharp planes of his face.

Azure drifts between your faces, features ridden with terror and alarm—furrowed brows and deep frowns tugging at the corners of lips, one pair of eyes wide with scepticism, the other pair glistening with tears. Dabi’s silent for another moment before he pushes on his knees and stands, squaring his shoulders and clearing his throat, voice ringing out loud and clear, dripping with admonition. “Let him go. He’s right; he won her, fair and square,”

He speaks slowly, annunciating each word with careful precision, sapphire glinting in the dim light has he holds the muscular man’s gaze. It holds something threatening, something menacing, something terrifying deep within the depths of his eyes, and you feel your captor pause for a second, tense, and then shiver.

“Uh, r-right,” he says, voice wavering a little as he nods to himself. “Fair and square,”

Dabi stalks towards you, shiny oxfords echoing against the pristine, freshly waxed marble floor, tutting his tongue and shaking his head, casual and relaxed as ever.

“Don’t struggle, you hear me?” he says, voice softer, gentler, as a calloused thumb swipes across your cheekbone, catching a stray tear. “Be a good girl for him,”

And I’ll see you soon.

The promise doesn’t need to be vocalized—you can see it, shining bright and true in his sapphire eyes, can sense it, in the air surrounding him, can feel it, at the very core of your soul.

A sudden sense of relief floods your body, pathetic little sobs getting caught in your chest as you exhale shakily and deflate in the burly man’s arms, tears finally spilling over your lashline and streaming down your cheeks.

“Okay,” you breathe.

Dabi gives you a simple nod, lips quirking up into a ghost of his signature lopsided smirk. Okay.

And just like that, all of the fear and trepidation and panic vanishes from your body, a serene calm chased by a sense of giddiness replacing it, scorching through your veins.

Because before the door to the man’s hotel room has even swung fully shut, Dabi’s barreling through, crystal handle smashing against the wall and cracking as skilled fingers tangle in short hair, yanking the man’s head back with a sickening crack and dragging the razor-sharp edge of his favourite switchblade across the man’s exposed throat.

He moves like a flash of light, a spark igniting a fire, so fast he’s merely a blur of black and navy and blazing sapphire. Thick crimson begins pouring from the wound immediately, a large splice spanning from one earlobe all the way to the other.

The man hits the shiny hardwood floor with a distinct thump, but you aren’t paying attention to him or the way he’s writhing as he tries to claw at his neck, coughing and gagging as he begins to choke on his own blood.

No, you’re captivated by sapphire, bright and burning as it surges towards you, calloused hands seizing your face roughly as chapped lips find yours, unforgiving and ferocious, bloody knife still in one hand, cool metal pressed against your cheek, smearing streaks of scarlet across your skin as you try to get closer to him, to get more, the stench of copper stinging your nose.

It’s eradicated in an instant though, Dabi’s heady scent—campfire and hickory wood and expensive cologne—filling your lungs, your mind, your entire being as it curls around you in the most intoxicating embrace, familiar and comforting and him, him, him. Stumbling backwards, you just about trip over your own feet as Dabi shoves forward, strong hands wrapped around your biceps keeping you steady. The sharp edge of the small rosewood dining table digs into your lower back, Dabi swallowing your resounding yelp as he sucks your bottom lip between his teeth and tugs, large hands finding your waist and squeezing before he hoists you onto its surface, using his hipbones to force your thighs open.

You nearly topple over from the power, from the urgency, hands flying out behind you and grappling against the table’s surface to keep you sitting upright as he heaves and pushes and leans against you, motions knocking sparkling crystal glasses and fine porcelain plates off the top.

The sound of shattering glass and cracking china mingles with the gurgling and garbling of the man who lay a few feet away on the floor, suffocating on his own blood. It creates such a beautiful symphony, intertwined with Dabi’s ragged breaths and your broken moans, with the ruffling of clothing and the screech of the table legs against the gleaming hardwood floor. And it’s desperate, and needy, and messy, teeth clashing and clacking together violently, saliva dripping down chins as tongues rub and glide and lick, hands pawing and gripping and tugging and ripping, the delicate material of your silk Dior dress practically turning to ash as his fingers materialize through it, tearing it to shreds.

“Off, off, off, I need this off,” he’s growling against your lips as his hands work, a low whine getting caught in your throat as you nod frenetically.

Yes, yes, yes, you’re whimpering, your own little fingers helping him destroy the silvery fabric, eager and anxious to rid your body of the bothersome garment.

A guttural groan, deep and dark and inducing a fluttering in your tummy rumbles in his chest as his eyes roam over your body, clad in the daintiest white lace.

“You’re fucking gorgeous, y’know that,” he’s mumbling between sharp bites to the flesh of your neck, fingers snapping the clasp of your bra, breaking it in one simple motion. “A fuckin’ angel, that’s what you are, baby. My very own angel,”

Rough palms slide down your torso, slow and purposeful as they trace, feel, knead the dips and curves, planes and contours of your body, slender fingers pausing to play with the elastic of the garter belt adorning your waist, holding up your lace-trimmed thigh-highs which have begun to tear, then hooking in the waistband of your thong.

His cock grinds against your inner thigh, hot and hard and throbbing as it strains against his trousers, digits toying with the lacy elastic, twirling it between his fingers before he lets it snap back against your skin, the harsh slap! echoing throughout the hotel room. 

“Oh, Mister, I want it,” the plead falls from your lips in a shameless moan, high and whiny as your hips press forward in an attempt to grind against him. Slender fingers untangle themselves from the lacy fabric in an instant, gripping your hips to still them, fingertips digging into your flesh. “I need it,”

“Need what, dollface?” his lips brush against your skin as he speaks, teeth sinking into your collarbone a moment later, hard enough to break the skin, a loud cry getting caught in your chest. He sucks on the wound, hard, tongue laving over it in soothing little circles, slowly dragging over the bite.

And it’s a compulsion, a sickness, a fucking disease surging through your veins, infecting your mind with thoughts of him and only him, entire body buzzing with the desperate, pathetic, urgent need for him, for his cock, for his cum.

“Need you, need you,” you’re whimpering out, squirming and struggling a little in his grasp, a warning hiss spit through his teeth as blunt nails nip your skin. “Please, Dabi, please, lemme have it,”

“Have what, baby?” lips curling up into a coy smirk, he pulls back just enough to look at you, finally pushing his hips into yours, a patronizing laugh spilling from his throat as you instantly grind against his cock, impatient and impetuous. “Use your words, Mister wants to hear you say it,”

Scalding heat seeps into your cheeks as you squeeze your eyes shut tightly, a broken whine of complaint sounding in the back of your throat as you shake your head. “Y-You know,” you mumble. “You know,”

“Oh, come on, baby,” he tuts with a disappointed shake of his head, voice overflowing with condescension. “You act like such a little slut, but as soon as I want you to say what you apparently need oh-so-badly, you can’t? You get all shy and bashful like you’re innocent, or something?”

An arrogant chuckle bubbles up in his chest, a rough palm colliding with the flesh of your ass a moment later. Scarred lips graze your ear as he leans back in, speaking low and smooth, words leaving his mouth in a huff of warm, sweet breath. “You’re being bad, y’know that?”

The huskiness in his tone sends chills pebbling across your skin, a delicate shiver dancing up your spine.

“Please,” you whisper, bottom lip beginning to tremble. “Please, Mister, please,”

“Tell me,” he rasps, taking the lobe of your ear between his teeth and sucking, bruising his name into the sensitive skin. “I know you can do it, doll. What is it that you want? Tell me,”

And, God, it’s so embarrassing, vision blurring with the sting of tears, entire body beginning to tremble from the combined humiliation and lust surging through your veins, his clothed cock still rutting against your core, poking and prodding and so close, you’re so close, two tiny words, just say them. “Your—Your cock,” you almost yelp, blinking back the tears in your eyes as you try to gaze levelly at him, teeth digging into your bottom lip to quell its pathetic quivering. “W-Want your cock, please, Mister, I-I need it,”

“Yeah?” he breathes while he rests his forehead against yours, butting forward a little as his glazed eyes rapidly search your face, pupils blown to hell and lips bitten red, shining with spit. “Where, huh? Down here?”

A finger tugs the flimsy soaked lace to the side, another dark chuckle slipping from his lips as he drags a knuckle up your dripping slit.

“Here?” it presses into your cute little hole, your hips eagerly bucking forward in response.

“Yes, yes, there, Mister, there, please,” you keen, head nodding in almost frantic movements, skull knocking against his. “Please, n-no fingers, want your cock, need your cock, stretch me out, fill me up, I need it,”

And it’s your senseless babbling that does it, bratty and needy and incessant in high broken whines, that snaps the final thread of patience holding him back, and a growl rips from his chest, so violent it vibrates through your own.

The heavy buckle of his belt clinks as hasty fingers fiddle with it, shoving his trousers down his thighs just enough to free his cock.

You can’t help the mortifying moan that escapes your throat the moment you see it, velvety and pink and oh-so-pretty, flushed tip glistening with precum and two thick veins snaking around the shaft like vines.

“Christ,” he groans as he pushes into your cunt, burying himself inside of you in one swift thrust, your nails biting into the hard muscles of his shoulder through the thin material of his shirt as your hole stretches around him, both of you exhaling simultaneous sighs of relief.

It burns and it stings and God, you need more, eyes rolling back in your skull as the sharp heels of your stilettos dig into his lower back, little fingers tangling in white cotton as you try to pull him closer, closer, closer.

“Greedy little brat,” he snarls out as his hips begin snapping, the movement sudden, unexpected, welcomed, a choked cry of his name catching in your throat.

And it’s brutal and relentless, primal and desperate, lacking most of his usual finesse as he pounds into you, cockhead slamming against your cervix with every harsh thrust of his hips, hard enough to move the entire table itself, legs scraping against the floor a little more with each pump.

Inky curls cling to his forehead and temples, the white cotton of his dress shirt becoming translucent as it sticks to his damp skin, highlighting the hard planes of defined muscle that flex with each ragged inhale.

Surging forward, his tongue runs along the inside of your teeth before it drags against yours, slow and heavy, depositing his taste and staining it with the flavour of him, fiery cinnamon gum and smoky Marlboros. Gorgeous, needy little whines break in his throat in time with each strong piston of his hips, muffled by your mouth, and you greedily swallow whatever he’ll afford you.

It’s total sensory overload—he’s all you can see, all you can hear, all you can taste, touch, breathe, hijacking all of your receptors and overwhelming you with him.

It’s building inside of you, deep in the pit of your stomach, scorching flames that glow as blue as his eyes as they rage, climbing higher and higher, licking at your insides and expanding further and further until they finally engulf you, consume you, with their blaze, and everything shatters, body convulsing almost violently around his cock as you cum with a strained cry of his name.

“Fill me, Mister,” you’re babbling, begging, swearing you’ll die if he doesn’t, the flames will burn you to ash if you don’t get his cum soon, voice absolutely wrecked. “Fill me, fill me,”

And he obeys, filling your cute little cunt to the brim with thick, hot cum as his cock pulses, a cracked whimper of f-fuck, slipping past his lips.

His chest heaves as he collapses against you, the two of you falling back against the table’s surface with a thump, his cock still buried inside of you. A soft whine sounds in the back of your throat as you carefully unlock your legs from around him, wincing a little at the stiffness in your thighs.

I love you.

The three words are murmured into your shoulder, so soft you barely hear them, so quiet you’re sure you’d have imagined them had you not felt his lips move against your flesh, not felt his hot breath on your skin, not felt the gentle vibrations in his chest as he spoke.

“I love you,” you respond, voice tender as tiny fingers comb through his dishevelled hair. “I love you,”

He’s silent for a moment, your combined pants the only sounds ringing out among the hotel room, and then he nods—once at first; just a quick, sharp motion, and then again a moment later, with more vigour, more purpose, more acceptance.

Little hands smooth down the damp cotton hugging his back and your head lolls to the side, cheek pressed against the cool wood of the table. A certain type of giddiness—a type that’s sick, that’s twisted, that’s stuffed full of love—floods your body as your eyes connect with those of a dead man, laying in a pool sticky crimson, and God, yes, you love him, you love him, you love him—more than anyone else ever could, more than you could ever love anything else.  

[sandbees]

Fallout

Warning: Mentions of blood, violence, and friends-to-enemies

This is my 500 follower special :) a word of warning, this is going to be very angsty, unlike my other works. So be warned!

=_=

Those four were always inseparable, everyone thought. Despite the chaos they brought, they brought smiles to everyone. You’d never find one without the others.

Which is why Trey and Riddle found it odd to see Ace walking into the kitchen alone.

“Ace?”, Trey had said, “Did the Track and Field club have a last minute meeting?”

“Eh? Why are you asking?”

“Oh, it’s because you usually come here with Deuce.”

At the mention of his friend’s name, Ace’s expression changed. He narrowed his eyes as he gave a frown.

“Why should I care if he has a club meeting to attend?”, the redhead scoffed, “What he does doesn’t matter to me anymore.”

Without any more words, Ace left the kitchen. Riddle and Trey give a glance to each other, though they say nothing. It was not unusual for the ADeuce duo to have small fights and act like the other doesn’t exist. They’d make up eventually.

=_=

“Grim?”

The cat in question gave a low growl, as he slid into Jack’s room. Grim smelled of sadness and fear, the wolf beastmen noted. That was certainly unusual, for the boisterous cat. That...made Jack worry.

“What? I just wanted to crash in here for the night.”, he said, curling up at Jack’s feet.

“I...see.”, Jack’s ear twitched, “How come you aren’t with Yuu?”

“I just didn’t want to see them.”, Grim said as his tail curled around his body.

Jack’s expression flickered to reflect worry, “Is that all?”

“...yes, that’s all.”, Grim stated quietly, before laying his head down, “Now be quiet, I’m trying to sleep.”

Jack stayed silent, pondering the sudden change in Grim’s behavior. Yuu wasn’t someone who would...act mean or lash out at people, especially not Grim. Jack worried that something bad had happened to Yuu or worse.

Though, rationally it was nothing more than a little spat they might have had, and Grim was being overdramatic (as usual). Maybe Jack was overthinking things.

=_=

Grim didn’t come with Jack to go to school. He had stated that he would go to class by himself. (Unusual; why would Grim willingly go to class?) But when Jack mentioned that Grim should meet up with Yuu, the cat became more insistent to go to class early.

Something was wrong, Jack could tell. Maybe last night’s worries weren’t nothing. He wanted to know more, which would be easy since he sees Yuu every day at Main Street with the rest.

Which is why he found it odd when only Epel and Sebek were present.

“Where’s the others? Shouldn’t they be here already?”, Jack asked as he approached the two.

“They should, but we haven’t seen them at all.”, Epel answered, frowning, “I expected Ace or Deuce to be late, but never Yuu. They’re always on time.”

“Maybe Grim kept Yuu back!”, Sebek said, “He must have wanted them to get tuna for him!”

“No, that isn’t possible.”, Jack shook his head, “Grim came over to Savannaclaw last night.”

“He...he what?!”, Sebek shouted, “Why would he stay with you?!”

“I don’t know, but judging by his actions and his scent...something must have happened between Yuu and Grim.”, Jack sighed.

“His scent?”, Epel repeated, “What does Grim’s scent have to do with anything?”

“Well, you see-“

“Hey guys!”

The three turn their heads to see Yuu smiling at them. But...there was this air around them that seemed anxious. They had been walking quickly, as if someone was following them.

“Oh, good morning Yuu.”, Sebek greeted, “How are you?”

“I’m doing well.”, Yuu said quickly, “By the way, can we go to class now? I was hoping to get to class early you see-“

“Shouldn’t we wait for Ace and Deuce?”, Jack interrupted, “They should be here soon.”

“We don’t have to worry about them.”, Yuu said in a strained voice, “Besides, I don’t think we want to see each other.”

This got the group’s attention. It was as clear as day that Yuu did not want to see Ace or Deuce. The question was: Why?

“...Does this have to do with Grim staying over at my dorm?”, Jack asked.

“...”

It was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. Gradually, Yuu’s face fell into a look of annoyance.

“He stayed over at your dorm? Did he say anything?”

Jack flinched at the sudden coldness in their tone.

“No, he just slept for the night and left early.”

Yuu nodded, “Then...that’s fine. But, I don’t want to stick around and wait for the other two. You can, if you want. I won’t force you to.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. Something was definitely up. The four were usually glued to the hip, but seeing Yuu act so...indifferent about the other three gave a bad feeling in his gut. Sebek and Epel must have had the same idea.

“What happened yesterday?”, Epel asked, “What did the three do to get you so mad?”

“....I don’t want to talk about it.”, Yuu said, “Just- I don’t want to be friends with them anymore. I never will be.”

CRASH!

The noise was so sudden, that everyone jumped at it. It came from behind them, a large sound that sounded like food splattering.

Behind them, was Deuce and Cater. A trey of what was presumably backed goods smeared onto the ground.

“Oh shit.”, Epel whispered.

The look in Deuce’s eyes made Epel shrink away and closer to Sebek and Jack. It felt out of character of the bluenette - having such a murderous look on his face.

Yuu stood their ground, glaring at Deuce.

“How nice of you to join us.”, Yuu stated, “But I’m going to class.”

“Oh, fuck off.”, Deuce snarled.

Cater, poor guy, visibly moved away from Deuce, shock written on his features.

“Whatever you say.”, Yuu waved their arm half-heartedly as they walked away.

Deuce growled, before he walked in the opposite way of Yuu...before he turned around and passed the group, because he was actually going in the wrong direction of the school.

The group were left in complete shock and confusion. Yeah, something was up. Seeing the two act so hostile towards each other in mere seconds of seeing the other raised a lot of flags.

“Uhm, Diamond-Senpai, right?”, Jack recalled, “What was that about?”

“Ah, if I knew the full story, I would’ve done something about it.”, Cater snapped out of his thoughts, “Deuce-Chan just came up to me and Trey yesterday and asked to help him make an apology cake. We happily agreed and I went with him to deliver it. I didn’t know it was for Yuu...I honestly thought it was for Ace.”

“Eh? Is Deuce mad at Ace too?”, Epel asked.

“I would assume so, Ace seemed particularly annoyed when he came back to our dorm yesterday.”

“Hm, this seems like a mystery that’s waiting to be solved...”

“I guess we have to go ask them individually to figure out what happened.”, Sebek said, “School is almost in session, so the best time is to ask during class.”

“Right.”

=_=

Cater was worried. About Deuce, Ace, Grim, and Yuu. It was evident that something happened yesterday, that caused them to be hostile with each other. He’s noticed how they refuse to be in the same room of each other outside of class - how uncomfortable the other three of their group had looked when the rest of their group was divided.

He sighed, as the last bell rang. Cater knew he’d have to bring it up with Riddle and Trey. Maybe they could intervene with Ace and Deuce.

As he turned the corner, he noticed a rather big crowd next to the Heartslybul mirror. Unconsciously, Cater took out his phone, ready to record whatever drama was happening.

Did he expect Deuce and Ace to be full on brawling on the floor? No, not at all.

He could only watch in silent shock as he recorded the whole fight. He should intervene, as their senior. Make sure they don’t get seriously harmed and get Riddle and Trey-

Deuce grabs Ace’s head and smashes it against the floor. A sickening crack echoes as Ace screams. Cater almost drops his phone.

Oh god, there’s blood dripping onto the floor, he has to-

“WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!”

Riddle storms into view, red in the face. The crowd of students part way for him to pass by. Trey is next to his side.

“Trappola? Spade?”, Riddle looked at the two first years, “What on Earth were you thinking?! Fighting in the corridors, I-“

Riddle fell silent. He must have noticed the blood leaking from Ace’s head.

Cater pushed past some of the students, going to meet with the two Heartslybul dorm leaders.

“I’ll take Ace to the infirmary.”, he offered, “I don’t know much but...I did get some recordings.”

He inwardly cringed at saying that. Seriously, what was he thinking?! He shouldn’t have recorded the fight and stood by.

Riddle slumped his shoulders, “Please do, Cater. Trey, please take Deuce to my office.”

The redhead turned to the body of students, “The rest of you - back to your dorms! This “fight” is over!”

Cater hoisted Ace over his shoulders. Ace groaned, looking very much out of it. Deuce scowled, though he passively followed Trey to the Heartslybul mirror.

Cater hesitated, even as the students began to leave the scene.

This was so uncharacteristic of the two of them. Since when did Deuce throw punches to the point of causing someone to bleed? Did Ace escalate some teasing to a full on brawl (no, Ace can annoy someone, but he would never poke a bee’s nest intentionally)

As Cater dragged Ace down the halls, he wondered if the fight was a climax of something much more bigger - something that started with Yuu denouncing their friendship between Deuce and Ace.

[seijorhi]

The Fall

Somebody said Devil Kuroo and I have not recovered since. Anyway, enjoy my first offering for the Spooktober event!

Kuroo Tetsurou x Female Reader

TW Dub/non-con, blood, gore, minor character death, religious themes, nsfw, mild smut

It’s subtle, the shift in the air as two polished black shoes cross the threshold. The candles on the altar spit and sputter, and a shiver trickles down your spine. 

You wonder if the humans scattered along the pews can sense it too, if they can taste the bitter, metallic tang in the air, feel the same prickling sensation at the nape of their necks as  tiny hairs stand on end. The woman seated two rows in front of you stiffens, her breath catching between her sobbed prayers, but she doesn’t turn and neither do you.

Do they have any idea the evil that’s trespassing on holy ground? The danger that they’re all in - the danger that you’ve inadvertently brought upon them?

This is all your fault.

His footsteps, slow and measured echo mockingly throughout the nave, but you’re rooted in place. It’s instinctual, you think; the fear that sinks its claws into your heart, seeping into your veins like ice. 

There is nowhere left for you to run. 

You have no more aces hidden up your sleeves. 

The wards that protected you, kept you safe and hidden for years are broken, and your friends-

Blood slicked floors, body parts strewn across your apartment. A howling scream pierces the air around you, and it takes a moment to realise that it belongs to you. You fall to your knees, bile rising in your throat as you stare in wide eyed horror at the grisly mess he’d left in his wake. 

He could have killed them with a snap of his fingers, but he’d taken his time, hurt them, ripped the spines from their bodies slowly, keeping them alive as they screamed and begged through tears and snot and blood and vomit…  

He’d left them for you to find like a gruesome homecoming gift. Punishment, you think, for daring to hide you from him. 

It’s late, well past midnight. The only people in the crumbling, dilapidated church at this hour are those with nowhere else to go. Vagrants, the helpless, those lost to grief and addiction seeking the barest semblance of comfort amongst the burning incense, high ceilings and grimy, stained glass windows. 

And you. 

Though you suppose you fit into the former. Where else could hope to hide now that your sanctuary has been torn to pieces? This is the last place you’d choose to go, even now the long healed scars on your shoulder blades sting and burn, a painful and persistent reminder that you no longer belong amongst these hallowed halls.

Foolishly, you’d still come. Consecrated ground was supposed to protect you, however temporarily.

He shouldn’t be here. He can’t be here, it’s not possible, but-

Dressed in a crisp black suit with a blood red tie, the handsome figure settles himself down on the pew beside you. A smirk curls at his lips as he stretches long legs, crossing his ankles and leisurely fixing the sleeves of his jacket as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. 

You don’t dare draw breath. Sitting stiff and ramrod straight, you stare at your trembling hands curled into fists on your lap, the ancient golden pendant lying broken in your palm. There’s dried blood smeared across the back of your hands, flecks and splatters hidden among the dark fabric of your skirt. The sight of it makes your stomach churn.

His chin tilts, golden, cat-like pupils settling on you. You fight the urge to fidget, to flee, fingernails biting into the soft, delicate skin of your palm as he studies you. 

“Hey, angel,” he purrs, his voice like warm honey. “It’s been a while.”

Finally you tear your eyes away from your lap, meeting his smirk with an icy glare. “Don’t call me that,” you snap bitterly. 

He laughs, stretching back to drape his arm over the wooden backrest of the pew, his fingers just barely grazing your shoulders. “But I like calling you angel, and I’ve missed you.” The last part is growled, a low and rumbling timbre, too deep, too rich to be mistaken for anything close to human. It makes your hackles rise and your stomach clench uneasily. Unbidden, memories flash to your mind- his teeth at your neck, his sweat slicked body moving atop yours. Unbearable, searing heat flooding your core, large hands encircling yours to hold you down as his hips eagerly rut up against your ass, “Give into me, angel, you know you want to.”

His grin widens, and you know that it’s deliberate. 

You don’t have the luxury of anger, not when the fear so visceral it threatens to choke you demands attention. He’s smiling amiably, but you’re not so naive as to believe that he’s not furious with you, that there won’t be punishments that await you for your escape.

One hundred and twenty years might pass in the blink of an eye for him, but it wouldn’t make a difference if it were only one, or even a single month, a day. You ran from him, and for every moment you were not at his side he would make you suffer - excruciating pain inflicted with pleasure until your mind broke and you couldn’t distinguish the two, until you were a babbling, beautiful mess begging for mercy.

Until you regretted ever even considering leaving his side after all that he’d done to keep you there.

He’d promised you as much a long time ago, hissing the threat into your ear as he forced you to ride his cock.

You’d fled anyway. And now, you’re trapped with nowhere left to run, and he knows it just as well as you do. But it’s not yourself that you’re scared for. 

There will be plenty of time for that later.

Six innocent, oblivious humans dot the derelict pews, and the Father you’d watched tend to the burning candles and incense at the altar, meeting your stricken gaze for just a moment before returning to the task at hand. 

It is for their sakes that you are afraid.

“A church, angel?” he sounds amused. “You know, I expected you to run after you found the dead witch and her partner, but here?” he tuts, shaking his head with a sigh. Pain, raw and visceral stabs at your heart and your shoulders shake with barely concealed anger, hands clenched so tight that blood seeps from the crescent shaped cuts in your palm. He eyes the gold pendant flecked with crimson in your grip, and for the first moment since he arrived, you watch that cavalier facade slip - a flicker of something dark and jealous twisting at his features. “They were the ones who kicked you out, don’t you remember? They ripped those lovely wings-”

“You tricked me, Kuroo! You lied!” the words spill from your tongue before you can hope to stop them. His golden eyes widen for a split second, surprised by your outburst, but it only lasts a moment before he’s smirking indulgently at you once more. Too late you realise your slip. The devil has a thousand names, but Kuroo was the one he gave when he first came to you. 

You haven’t uttered that name in almost two hundred years. 

“Did you think that the grace of God would protect you here, angel?” He slides closer, long, nimble fingers plucking the cross from your hands only to cast it aside. The faint metallic clinking as it falls and clatters across the marble floors makes you flinch, but he pays it no mind. “Did you truly believe that there is an ounce of anything holy left in this crumbling, decrepit shithole? And even if there were,” he pauses, leaning down to whisper in your ear as a warm palm slides up your thigh, “did you really think that would be enough to keep me from you?”

“K-Kuroo,” you gasp as he leans down to nuzzle into the crook of your neck, his mouth laving wet, hot, open mouthed kisses against the delicate skin there. His fingers delve under the hem of your skirt and it’s pure, unadulterated fear that hits you like a tidal wave, compelling you against your better instincts to claw at his wrist, halting him in his tracks.

He stills, warm breath fanning across your skin as he exhales sharply, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The flames from the candles on the altar sputter once more before they swell with frightening intensity, surging as the temperature in the chapel spikes. 

“Angel,” he purrs lowly, the barest hint of an underlying threat lacing the endearment, and it feels as though there’s an invisible hand inside of your chest, clenching around your frantically beating heart. It’s a mistake, you know that even as his other hand reaches for your chin, gripping it tightly as he forces you to meet his molten gaze. “If you keep denying me what I want, I will raze this fucking church to the ground and let them all burn.”

This time you don’t so much as flinch when he tugs your panties to the side, rough fingertips brushing teasingly along your slit. “You’re going to let me defile you, sweet thing. You’re going to remember why you fell for me.” 

His eyes are blown wide, dark pupils almost swallowing the gilded irises. Gone is the perfectly crafted human facade - this is the beast that lurks beneath, and you have run from him for long enough. Your heart hammers against your ribs, your tongue darting out to wet your lips, fighting back a shiver as he tracks the movement with predatory focus. You know as well as he does that the games are over, and you have lost.

Every cell in your body is screaming at you to run, but you cannot move.

His breath is ragged, a flush of pink dusting at his cheek as he stares at you, an unholy desire burning in those bottomless depths.

One beat passes, and then another-

He closes the gap between you two, crashing his lips against yours. The kiss isn’t sweet. It isn’t tender, but it sets you alight nonetheless. Without warning his fingers plunge into your plush, velvet walls and you gasp for him, clutching at his jacket sleeve.

“And when I take you, fuck you on these floors until you sing for me, angel, you’re going to love every second of it,” he snarls.

[sweeethinny]

The Duke - Chapter 8

I feel that I need to apologize for the delay ahahahahahah some things - depression - have happened in my life in the last few months, along with the horrible results of my exams that made me fall into a limbo of feeling like a failure - it's no use telling me that I'm not a grade, I know that, but it still hurts And all of that was a block for me to be able to write anything I needed to think too much, and in the few days that depression left me alone, anxiety came to do her job and I couldn't control myself enough Anyway, something happened on Saturday and I wrote the last 5k of words that were missing and here's the chapter

thank you the people of discord who did not let me give up and asked for this chapter, I hope you all like it, it is by far one of the most sentimental chapters I have ever written in this story :)

TW: description of injuries that may be a little disgusting or too much for some people, be careful if you are sensitive to this

read bellow the cut or on AO3, SIYE (soon), or FF.NET

| J. P |

James still remembered the lullaby whispered against his son's sweaty, childlike curls as he cradled the boy in his arms, feeling like the happiest man in the world, with a life in his arms.

He still remembered how beautiful Lily looked, lying on their bed, sleeping soundly after breastfeeding Harry, her white nightdress wrinkled and her messy red hair against the pillow, resonating just like Harry did, hugging his father.

He still remembered putting him to sleep, kissing his forehead where a birth scar made him unique, making James think of how magical it was to have that life there, so close to him.

It was Harry's first day trying to sleep in a room separate from his parents.

James still remembered Lily's scream, how he couldn't move when looking at the empty crib, the broken window, how he wanted to vomit when the curse breaker said there were Dark Arts there.

James still remembered running through the streets of Godric's Hollow, wearing only a red robe, as he rummaged through the garbage, entered the alleys, and looked desperately for his son.

James still remembered shouting at the healers when they brought a dead child, the same size and appearance as Harry, hit by an Avada Kedavra, 'It's not Harry!'

He still remembered the photos, the stories, the chase over them, how Lily got sick with each passing hour, and how he needed to take charge of everything, even if all he wanted to do was cry and scream.

How did someone catch a child? A newborn?!

When Lily asked him to put an end to it, when she asked him to just find a way to get all those people out of the castle door, stop the reports and let them cry in peace, he said. He went on the balcony of the main hall, the one on the third floor and facing the main street in the village.

James, feeling sick to see all those people, feeling that he had been overcome by pressure from the press, from the population, from the King, raised the black flag and left, not waiting to see the reaction of the people when he confirmed that Harry was dead.

But he knew he wasn't, he knew Lily knew it too, they were just tired of looking like two nuts, when they still had to deal with the pain of having a kidnapped child.

James still remembers the taste of blood, when he fought with Death Eaters, when during one of the missions, he left for Yeovil and was caught. He still remembered the torture, the blood splattering on his face as they beheaded a child identical to Harry. He knew it was the Imperius Curse, he knew it was all a lie, but it still hurt and haunted him more than all the deaths he had seen in person.

He thought he was going to go crazy.

James remembered all of that, he still remembered when Dumbledore told him about the whole prophecy, about the expiration date that their son had.

'You are crazy!' James screamed, breaking everything he saw ahead, feeling so angry that he thought he might explode. 'My son is not dead.' He assured him, snarling at Dumbledore, the fucking King, teeth clenched and faces close together, as if James dared him to deny it.

There were so many things that James remembered; from when Lily talked about hosting the Dueling Party because a fortune teller had told her that Harry was closer than they thought; from when he spoke to Arthur and heard the man say that his daughter was going to get married, the same girl who was supposed to marry Harry, the same girl that Dumbledore said she had a power that could be even harmful to her.

James remembered all of that.

But he didn't remember where he met that man.

'Henry Figg..' He murmured, watching the Auror follow Miss. Weasley through the garden, discreetly and very attentively, while the girl spoke non-stop, which James thought it should be with the man.

'It's a pretty common name,' Lily replied, smiling at the elf who poured tea into her cup. The two were sitting on the balcony of their room, watching from a distance all the guests to settle down and have time to discover the garden, the rooms, before the opening dinner. 'Figg is a Muggle surname.'

'But he is not a squib.' James scorned, and as if to prove it, the Auror levitated a gnome who tried to pull the hem of Miss. Weasley, who didn't even seem to notice, still talking and interacting with the statues.

'No, but he may be a Muggleborn.' Lily shrugged, legs crossed, and a magazine propped there, even though he knew she wasn't reading, but was also following the guests with her eyes. She was less brazen than James, wearing a hat that cast enough shadow over her eyes so that no one would notice that she was staring at them. He had already been caught in the act by a Marquise and a Count, both of whom seemed very close for someone who has met a few minutes before.

'Do you think they would have sent him? Aurors tend to be prejudiced, you know. ' James said, sipping his own tea.

'Oh, of course I know.' Lily laughed humorlessly, flipping through the magazine when a Lady watched them. It was as if they were two jesters on top of the ring. 'That girl, doesn't she seem very interested in Mr. Longbottom?'

'Who? The one wearing a yellow dress? For sure... Do you think they have an affair?'

'Of course not, Frank is a good man-'

'-I'm talking about Mr Figg and Miss. Weasley.' James interrupted, noticing when she sat at the water fountain, Henry standing.

'Why do you think that? She's a decent girl.' Lily seemed convinced enough to drop the magazine and actually look at the girl, watching them both in silence, at the same time that Henry seemed to smile and so did Ginny.

It was as if they were talking telepathically.

'I don't know, I just thought he was too careful with her, as if at any time he could jump in front of an Avada Kedavra to save her.' James said, shrugging.

'He's being paid well to do just that.' Lily reminded him, dropping the teacup next to his, then intertwining her fingers with James'. 'We need to get down.'

'Unfortunately.' James winced. 'I feel that nothing we talk about is taken seriously, it is as if we are forced to wear black for the rest of our lives.'

'It's only a week,' Lily whispered, making him stop looking at Henry and look at her, those green eyes that made him fall in love. 'I promise it will be worth it, you will see.'

'I always believe in you,' The two got up, walking together into their room, so clean it was as if no one slept there. James had spent so many years just with Lily at home, that he didn't even remember having such an immaculate environment and people around. It was a little scary. 'But this time I admit that I'm a little reluctant.'

'You are stubborn by nature,' she said, leaving the room as she straightened the pink scarf around her neck. 'I remember you complained about my desire to have this party.'

'But I still don't understand the reasons.' James whispered, now that they were in the corridors, even though it was the fourth floor on the west side and there was no room being occupied over there.

The walls have ears. He remembered his father always saying.

'What if she is wrong?'

'What if she isn't?' Lily looked at him, eyes steady on him. 'What if our son is here?' She spoke hopefully, almost in an inaudible whisper, it was horrible when other people got into their hopes for Harry.

'I haven't seen him anywhere.' James argued, a little irritated, following his wife into the room where there was a crowd of people.

'And how would we know if it's him? We haven't seen him for more than 20 years.' Lily shrugged, stopping them before finally entering through the big white double door, wide open and making them listen to the side conversations. 'We have an ace up our sleeve, and if it doesn't work...' She seemed unable to continue the sentence, but James thought nonetheless, we will accept that he is dead.

'Oh, duchess!' A short, plump lady howled from across the room, near the door to the garden, the egg yellow color in no way favoring the pale skin. 'We were waiting for you to have tea.' James couldn't help thinking about all the teas that Lily hadn't been invited to until that last month, having to force himself to smile at that woman who was staring at them curiously.

'Thank you, Mrs Brown, but I think it will be more pertinent to start the party, it will be quite a week, and we will have so much to do!' Lily smiled happier than usual, also seeming to force herself on it.

They continued to socialize and chat with everyone there, hoping to give the right time they had planned to serve the main banquet, smiling and laughing at the bad jokes.

'I have never seen people more false than these.' Sirius whispered, reaching for James for the first time, serving him with firewhiskey.

'Thank you very much,' he thanked, the drink burning the inside of his throat. 'I don't remember receiving so many invitations to drink since I was 18 and the four of us were single.'

'Half of these people already speak ill of us, the other half will after tonight.' Sirius barked, a blonde woman looked at them as if she was afraid. 'Not unlike before, but now they feel they need to lie and pretend it isn't true.'

'Don't say that next to Lily, she's trying hard.' James scolded, watching when Miss. Weasley came into the room, her cheeks flushed with the sun and her hair a little disheveled, nothing much, she looked a little sweaty, as if she had run around the garden like a child. Mr. Figg was right behind her, camouflaging himself in the sea of ​​people, barely seeming to be seen by others as he walked over to an empty window.

The Auror kept watching everyone in the room, stopping for a few seconds to observe some people in specials, but then rolling his eyes around the room again, always ending at Miss. Weasley sitting on the couch, talking to her brother.

When he once again scanned the room, he looked at James. The boy suddenly looked scared, as if he had been caught - and he was, in a way - but soon he rearranged his posture and nodded to James, as if asking for forgiveness for not making himself so invisible.

James knew him from somewhere, he knew it, he just didn't remember it.

He didn't go to the Ministry much to end up colliding with an auror, and he hadn't visited the Weasleys' house in a long time to have seen him there. The few times he will travel and speak to Arthur, he was careful to only have them at home.

Where did that boy come from, then?

James was about a second away from going to him and bombarding the man with questions, but he was stopped when Lily took him by the arm and drew everyone's attention so she could start the Duel Party.

As if to prove that he was a good Auror, Mr. Figg was not in James' view for the rest of the day. Which showed that he was efficient at work, but that did not make James forget the restlessness that rumbled in his chest, his mind working hard to remember.

James wouldn't rest until he remembered.

| G. W |

Ginny never thought that being alone would be so much fun.

Okay, maybe she wasn't alone, because Henry was still watching her like a shadow, and there were still all eyes on her like they were just waiting for her to explode and destroy everything around her.

But still, Ginny felt a strange freedom as she walked through the garden at night, shortly after dinner, thanking everyone for not paying too much attention to social rules and that Ginny was a single woman. Maybe it was because no one else really had any hopes that she would end up getting married so she didn't need a lady company beside her.

And Henry was always there, it was hard to ignore that. At least for her.

'Do you think we can manage to reach the stream that Mrs Potter told us about? She said it looks beautiful at night.’ Ginny asked, but Henry - who was particularly awkward since they got there - said nothing, just nodded.

This upset the woman.

Not having other people talking to her, or not having men praising her as they did tirelessly with the Patil sisters, or Miss. Brown, it was something Ginny no longer cared about - she didn't care so much, because there were still days when she was sad and cried with that loneliness. But not having Henry talking to her, it looked like a much sharper knife that cut through it in a much deeper way.

'Do you think they will let me take part in the Duel tomorrow?' She looked over her shoulder again, hands folded in front of her as she walked down the stone road, surrounded by flowers, bushes, fairy lights and sculptures that waved once or twice other.

'I don't think so, Miss, I'm sorry.' Henry kept his hands back, three steps away from her, still not looking directly into her eyes.

Ginny could still see him, even though the fairies didn't seem to make much of a point of illuminating him, as they did when following her, however, she still realized that Henry's green eyes were always a spot above her head, as if suddenly he was afraid that if he looked at her something bad would happen.

Henry's coldness hurt more than the others, Ginny didn't know why. Maybe she was used to being alone, but she could always run back to Henry and be heard.Maybe she was just used to his friendship.

'A pity, then.' She started walking again, blinking away the tears that had gathered in the corners of her eyes. How silly to cry about that!

One of the fairies that flew around her, landed on her shoulder, didn't bite her or anything, just sat there, as if comforting her. Ginny continued on the stone path, completely silent.

She never imagined visiting such an elegant house, but even so, Ginny felt that if the walls spoke they would contradict themselves with the various colors that painted them and the cheerful style that perpetuated in each room, and would make you cry.

It was easy to see how dejected Mrs. Potter always looked, looking for someone in the crowd and never seeming to find. Her green eyes had a gray shade that Ginny thought was sadness, and her cheeks were so pale that it was as if her skin hadn't been exposed to the sun for weeks, if not months. She also noticed how thinner Lily was than the photos that appeared in the history books or in the newspapers that she stole from her father; Lily was taller than she, with long arms and legs, but even smaller than Mr. Potter. The fabric of her dress was very elegant, but it looked too loose even with all the ribbons tied around her back.

Ginny wondered if Lily was sick, if the sadness had consumed her, or if she had always been that way.

She did not fail to notice when the Duchess smiled at her over dinner, everyone was talking to everyone and Ginny was silent - except when her mother or Ron asked her something - and Lily was sitting next to the husband, across the table and to the right, but the woman maintained eye contact with Ginny as if she knew what she felt, smiling at what seemed for the first time that day to be a real smile.

Lily should have known very well what it was like to be lonely and have to get used to it. Not that Ginny understood the pain of losing a child, she hoped she would never know, but she could still imagine.

Before leaving for the gardens, Lily asked her if she would like to have tea with her and the other women. Nobody had ever invited Ginny before, she was nervous with the idea of ​​sitting in a room with all those women who didn't seem to like her very much, so she denied and thanked her, saying that she preferred to know a little more about the garden.

'It's a good choice,' the Duchess said, smiling and with her hand on Ginny's shoulder, not looking away even for a second. 'The stream is wonderful at night, with the stars and the moon illuminating... Very romantic.' Lily blinked, then straightened her back and turned to the other women who were talking near the bookcase, calling them to join her in a tea.

Ginny did not expect - at least, she would like to think she did not expect - the romantic mood that Lily referred to to influence Henry's attitude towards her, but she continued to allow herself into the silence of her mind to imagine if the Moon at the top of the sky and the stars reflecting in the water, they would make Henry attracted to the corset she had squeezed in, and the red lipstick that the elf stained her fingers to paint on Ginny's lips.

Perhaps because of the perfume Bill had given her last Christmas, which smelled of flowers and something French that reminded her a little of Fleur, but not so sweet.

However, when they finally arrived at the stream, where the idea of ​​a great place for dating really passed, Henry continued to stand three steps away from her, standing by a tree, watching as Ginny stretched the rug she had taken for both of them and sat facing the water.

Something inside broke when reality invaded expectation, her hand smoothing the fabric of the dress as if it were the most interesting thing. The fairy was still sitting on her shoulder, her wings were not flapping and the light was getting a little weaker, as if she were feeling Ginny's pain and trying to make Henry realize her intention of going to that part.

'Don't you think it's a very hot night for tea?' Ginny asked, trying one last time.

'It depends on the tea,' Henry replied, looking thoughtful. 'Perhaps a tea with fresh herbs will become a little refreshing, or with orange peel.'

'Who would have tea with orange peel?' Ginny looked over her shoulder, just for a few seconds, and Henry's eyes locked with hers.

'I know some Aurors who drink them during missions, when they need something that will calm them down and remind them of home, but that will keep them awake,' he said calmly, hands still behind his body, eyes looking away to watch the sky and then the various trees that were around them.

'Did you notice how that guy... Mr. Rosier, looked a little uncomfortable when dinner started?' Ginny remembered what she wanted to say as soon as she left the table, but she ended up forgetting, and also needing to change the subject and make him look at her again, feeling a little pathetic about almost begging for attention.

Henry looked at her. 'No, I didn't notice. Why do you think that? He seemed very excited when talking to Mr. Black.’

'Maybe it was nervousness, there were two pretty girls sitting next to him, and they seemed to want to get his attention. But I realized, just that, he looked a little out of place.' She shrugged, looking back at the water when Henry looked away again.

Ginny cursed herself for thinking that Henry might want something with her, she should already know that things were not as easy for her as for other women.

'Not that it is very difficult to feel out of place here,' she said, watching her reflection in the water.

'Did you find it?'

'Well, we are at a Duke's house, I don't think I will be able to not feel out of place… Mr. Potter has already met the King.' Ginny whispered the last part, as if it were a secret between them that she wanted to keep, remembering how furious her father looked when he learned that the man had come to the King to ask questions that, of course, no one wanted to tell her about.

'I don't know, there is something about them that makes me feel almost familiar.' Henry approached, she could say, because of the noise of the branches breaking and the leaves crushing under the boot he wore. But Ginny continued to look at the water.

Something moved deep inside, something she couldn't see what it was.

‘Familiar? Yes, they are very polite and seem to want to get close to people and make them feel at home.’ Ginny put her hand in the water, curious as a child looking for Christmas presents around the house.

'Didn't you feel like you already knew the two of them for a long time?' Henry asked, standing a few steps behind her, she saw him in the reflection of the water, now cloudy because she was trying to catch whatever moved below.

It could just be a fish, of course, but Ginny was skeptical of that. She heard Mr. Potter talking about how the only lake that had fish was one much further away, close to the quarries.

‘No, but it’s also like they’re not complete strangers.’

‘I don’t know, the last time I felt like this, was when…’ But Ginny didn’t pay attention, she finally got to whatever it was, it was icy and slippery like moss, but it had scales that scraped her skin. Something small and thin clung to her wrist and she screamed at the sensation, agonized by the sensation of small hands sinking into her skin.

Ginny pulled her arm up as fast as she could, screaming even more when she saw an animal stuck in her arm, big eyes and pale skin, the head bigger than the rest of the body, sinking the small nails further into her arm, and what should have been the animal's hair, burned like fire against her skin when it touched her. The mermaid's tail bounced off Ginny's arm, causing pain that seemed unreal when compared to the animal's size.

'Run.' The mermaid said, neither seeming to blink or paying attention to the fact that she was out of the water. ‘Now.’ Before she could say anything, a spell made the animal drop from Ginny's arm now red and looking irritated, falling into the water like a piece of stone.

'Come on.' Henry grabbed her, forcing her to get up.

Ginny was paralyzed, fear freezing her veins and making her barely able to breathe properly, still seeming to feel the slimy, cold sensation of the animal against her, huge dark eyes locked on hers, how the voice sounded thin and made her feel dizzy as if she had been attacked by a spell.

She didn't even realize that it was Henry who was pulling her all the way until she tripped over a rock, seeming to be enough for her to wake up from the panic trance she was in. 'What was that?'

'A mermaid.' Henry continued to hold her arm, wand drawn and Ginny's body close to him, as if he were ready to hide her behind him and take down anyone who appeared there.

'You can't think she was serious... can you?' She asked a little hopefully, feeling her arm burn and sting as if it had been cut and now it had been dipped in alcohol.

'Do you want to stay there to see if it's true or not?' Henry looked at her, his green eyes dark with what seemed to be concern, his teeth clenched. 'These animals do not lie, let alone speak to humans on a regular basis. That was not right. ’

‘Why did my arm look like this?’ The two didn’t follow the path they came from, but Henry took them for what seemed to be where the elfs walked, behind the house, in a part that had almost no fairies lighting up or statues. It looked almost abandoned when they got closer.

'It can be many things, I will have to look closely.' He knelt on the floor and opened a secret passage as if he had been doing that for years, lighting up the stairs for Ginny. 'Come down. We don’t want anyone to see your arm like that. ’

'Where are we?' She did as he was told, even though her right arm seemed to hurt to the bone, taking care not to fall off balance and fall backwards in what appeared to be an underground path. It was cold and dark, with few candles lighting up the front, and it smelled of mold.

'Under the kitchen.' Henry closed the passage, finally seeming to calm down from the latest events, pulling Ginny's arm close, lighting it with his wand. 'It hurts?'

'A lot.' She felt dinner coming back when he touched the wound, the pain almost leaving her on her knees.

'It is probably a poisonous mermaid, we will have to clean this up and... Cut it out.' Ginny warned herself then, her eyes bulging towards Henry, who even in that gloom seemed to apologize for having to hurt her. ‘It’s a small cut, just to extract the poison they contain and that’s probably why you’re feeling so much pain.’

'Great, it's the first day we're here and a mermaid attacks me,' she said, her head thrown back and a snort coming out of her lips. 'My mom will be ...' Henry interrupts her, his hand on her mouth in a silent request for her to be quiet once in her life, while they can hear footsteps above them, footsteps that don't seem to come from the kitchen, but from the garden.

Ginny hears when the person runs and stops over where they entered, Henry is quick to camouflage them with a spell and pull them close to one of the walls, as if he just waits for the person to open the door and go look for them there

But the person seemed to give up, saying something to someone that they cannot identify who it is or what is said, but they both seem quite irritated. Ginny almost loses her eyes when she realizes that the second person didn't seem to have come from anywhere, and that he was probably already around, just waiting for them. Again, fear freezes her, but this time it is a little different, she looks at Henry, who is also looking at her in fright, and it is almost as if they are communicating by mind again, because Ginny knows what he's thinking when the drags into the tunnel, at a much faster pace and without lowering the wand once.

The mermaid was right, and they weren't as safe as they thought. Someone there was planning, at best, to kill Ginny that night.

Ginny didn't even wait for Henry to pull her to run any further when they thought they heard the noise of the passage being opened, she didn't even remember the pain, or she cared about the noise of rats and other animals that got scared when they passed, moving on, not quite sure where the tunnel ended.

It was common for older houses to have these tunnels, especially if the family was wealthy, her father had said that the tunnels served as an escape route for when things got bad with the advance of the First Wizarding War, and then they became useful for wealthy families to hide their wealth or, families allied with Voldemort, to keep their prisoners.

Fortunately, the Potter didn't seem to want to keep any prisoners there, all through the tunnel there were only other paths that they would probably lead to either in the main rooms or in the office, as they had at home. Ginny and Henry passed a wine cellar too, where two elves were, but luckily, none of them heard them, or if they did, they pretended not to.

Henry helped Ginny open the wooden door that, by his calculations, would come out on the floor where Ginny was, near the winter Garden that served as the divider of the west and east wing. There was no one around, thanks to Merlin, all the doors were closed and few were the rooms that had the light on. She wondered if people had already started sneaking out to date, or did they wait at least one day.

Ginny heard many stories of couples who were married eight months after a Duel Party, and the woman had a child who was born ‘’early.’’

'My mom must have realized that I didn't come back.' She whispered, pulling Henry into her room, the two of them walking on tiptoe. They were still invisible to anyone, but she doubted that they could put a silencing spell on them without anyone noticing, even the pictures could scream for it. She herself had seen the great-grandfather's picture yell at George when he did it once.

'If she talks to me, I will say that I brought you safely but you wanted to go to sleep early.' He calmed her, looking embarrassed when Ginny put him into the room. ‘Miss, I don’t know if it’s very-’

'Henry, no one cares about my honor anymore, and my arm is turning purple.' She showed it, almost vomiting when she realized how swollen and purple the arm was getting, as if blood was not flowing from the elbow down. 'Get it over with,' Ginny pleaded, feeling the pain again now that the adrenaline had gone, sitting on the bed and turning her face to the window.

'This is going to hurt,' Henry predicted, after silencing the room and taking her hand gently, stretching her arm and causing Ginny an absurd pain, which felt as if the bones wanted to rip her skin.

‘Ah!’ She screamed, biting her lip hard as soon as Henry tied something separating the injured part from the other.

'I need to ensure that the poison does not rise further,' he explained.

'Just get it over with.'

'Miss, I'm going to need you to stay here...' Ginny went to the desk, stretching her arm over the wood, thinking how she hadn't wanted Henry to touch her for the first time under those circumstances. She wanted him to take her hand, to caress her skin, but not when her arm looked like it would explode in pus. 'I'll start.'

'OK. I trust you.' Ginny took a deep breath.

'Thank you, Miss.' Henry said, before finally touching his wand on her arm and murmuring words that Ginny didn't understand, not when the pain left her deaf and blind, making her stomp like a madwoman, struggling when the heat took part of her right arm, going up her shoulders, throat, and making her look like she was going to explode in seconds.

It burned like pure fire, and she made the mistake of looking at the outstretched arm and seeing the open skin and spilling yellowish green goo mixed with blood, Henry squeezed her flesh as if it were nothing, and Ginny thought she would die because of a damn mermaid.

The scream burned her throat and echoed throughout the room, she hoped Henry had protected them well, because she could have woken up the entire mansion now. The taste of blood and iron filled her mouth, probably her lip had hurt when she clenched her teeth to stop the scream, but it was impossible, it hurt like it never hurt, it was almost torture.

Fingers on her right hand didn't move, or if they did, Ginny couldn't feel it. This time she didn't look at Henry when he swore, touching his wand again to her feverish skin and saying more charms, also seeming to mumble an apology.

Ginny continued to scream and struggle for what seemed like eternity, until everything went cloudy and she heard Henry say it was over, casting healing spells that stopped the heat from rising in her arm, just as the pain subsided, but Ginny still felt she was shaking and would probably fall if she tried to get up or move her arm now. Henry untied the tape and placed his hands on her skin as if to calm whatever was going on there, she was unable to observe.

'It's over, it's over,' he murmured, conjuring ice and placing it under her skin. 'There was more poison than I imagined, but I promise that there is nothing more, I took everything away... Tomorrow you will be better again, I promise.'

'Thank you, Henry,' Ginny said weakly, not even feeling the tears that were streaming down her face, the sobs being the only thing she heard now.

She looked at the arm again, this time closed, returning to the original color, a little less swollen, and with only small reddish parts, where she believed Henry had made the cut. Henry continued to run the ice over her injured skin, his other hand holding hers as if he said he was there, and everything was fine.

'I'm going to need help getting to bed.' She had also been thinking about one day having his help to go to bed - and it wasn't for sleeping - but today she really needed help, and Ginny doubted that a house elf would help her more than Henry was doing. ‘Sorry about that, but I don’t think I can take my dress off by myself.’

| H. F |

Henry gasped.

It seemed more frightening to have to help Ginny get into her pajamas, than to tear off what looked like a kilo of Mermaid venom, watching her skin open spewing goo, blood, and listening to her scream.

He almost fell off his chair when she asked him to.

But he was her security guard, the guy who should cherish her life, and Ginny had already suffered too much in one night, he wouldn’t make her sleep in those tight clothes just because he felt he could get hard just by looking at her back.

'Of course, Miss.' Henry stood up. He had already washed many aurors, people would be shocked at how weepy men are when they get hurt, and how they beg for help when they see their own blood dripping on the floor, even if it is for a small injury.

Joe once nearly passed out when he realized that his shoulder was dislocated and his arm looked almost like gelatin. Henry had to help him shower that night.

But Joe and everyone else were guys that Henry wasn't attracted to, they stank of blood, sweat and dirt, Ginny didn't. The woman's arm had almost been eaten alive by the mermaid's poison, and she still smelled of flowers and looked like the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. It would never be the same.

Henry went to the wooden barrel that was in the corner of the room, separated by a wooden divider, taking the towel placed there and stretching the rug in front so that Ginny would step on when he left - he didn't want to think too much at that moment - and moved the wand to fill the barrel with hot water. He spilled some salts and soap, before making sure it was warm and good for her to get in. Henry didn't know if she would prefer to use the stairs or not, but he left it there anyway. If she wanted, just push it with her foot and use it.

'You don't have to look that worried,' Ginny said, looking even weaker, but at least she wasn't crying anymore. 'I already said, nobody cares about my honor, besides, nobody will ever know.' She shrugged. ‘It’s not like it means anything, you’re just helping me.’

His chest hurt a little, the idea of ​​another man helping her into the bath - but with ulterior motives - making him a little more discouraged. Just as he had been since they arrived, failing to forget that she was likely to return to her house, married.

Yes, it meant nothing. For her. Henry was just a personal security guard, not a man she would like to show off in the bath.

The wet skin, red from the heat, the foam hitting the breasts...Henry denied, trying to clear his mind of those thoughts.

'Sure, Miss.' Was all he said, walking over to her and helping her to her feet, holding her for a few more seconds with the excuse that she looked like she might fall at any moment.

The two went as far as the bath awaited her, Henry remained behind her when Ginny stopped in front of the barrel, hands shaking like a teenager when he undid the first button on her dress. Her skin was much more fragrant there, and it looked much softer and paler, he could even see some freckles disappearing under the back of her neck. Henry salivated with the urge to kiss that part.

He undid another button. Two are gone, only ten more to go, he thought.

Ginny said nothing, a firm hand on the wooden partition, waiting patiently as Henry discovered how much more beautiful she was under the dress. There were other clothes underneath, of course, but Henry could feel the warmth of Ginny's skin much more eagerly now.

When the top of the dress fell to her waist, arms free from the sleeves, Henry found himself with the job of untying the corset. The piece made Ginny look so delicate and fragile that he thought she could break it when he undid a knot and loosened the piece. He had never taken off any woman's corset. In fact, he had never taken off any woman's clothes, and it seemed such an intimate moment that he thought sex was too overrated compared to undoing every button, tie and knot that women used.

As soon as the corset fell, Ginny seemed to be taking a deep breath, and Henry almost laughed softly at what seemed to be the best time of her day. And then, all he needed was the chemise so that he could see the top of her naked.

But Henry thought it would be more polite to wait, so he began to undo the lace on the dress, and loosen the fabric so that it fell completely to the floor, and again, he heard Ginny sigh for what seemed like relief.

Henry looked at her delicate calves, and found himself a fool for wanting to run his hands and mouth over that region, slowly climbing up every little part of her beautiful legs. Of course, he had never seen her legs, only when she wore pants to fly, but Henry liked to imagine that they were as beautiful as everything else.

'Excuse me, Miss.' He asked, politely before pulling the white petticoat down, his chest swelling and throbbing madly as he watched the fabric tease the floor and was aware of how long her legs were even though she was short , and how beautiful her ass was. Henry felt his own cheeks warm, noting the few freckles lost on the back of her thighs, and a few on her ass.

The monster roared in Henry's chest at the thought of another man having knowledge of these freckles. It seemed so intimate now that he saw her that way, and Henry thanked him for never giving in when co-workers asked him to go to Fantasy House, where he would probably see various types of naked bodies. He liked to be surprised at how soft a woman's skin - Ginny’s - looked beneath all those layers, and how much more beautiful it was than his colleagues' descriptions.

He never had much time to court anyone, and even when he did, there weren't many women who wanted him. They generally preferred the richest, tallest, and strongest, or those who at least knew how to speak to them without stuttering, Henry thought. He didn't expect the special woman either, he just always seemed very… empty. None drew him enough attention that he wanted to see her naked, of course some were beautiful and made him feel hot, but they almost never wanted to chat with him, so there was no opportunity either.

'Excuse me,' Henry asked again, now reaching for the hem of the thin white chemise that Ginny wore, hoping she would nod so he could properly see her naked, or at least, her back.

'Okay.' Ginny nodded, her voice a little hoarse, raising her arms up - the right not so much, and he believed it was still hurting.

Henry almost ran out of breath and fell back when the fabric went up and showed him the wealth of freckles on her back, her pale, delicate skin looked even softer than her legs, her shoulders smeared with a little sun, and shoulder blades filled with freckles of all sizes and shades. Henry noticed that there were orange, others more brown, some a little reddish and few that were almost black. He wanted so much to run his hand over her skin.

Her scent invaded Henry's mind in a way that he thought would go crazy, and he probably would, never being able to see another naked woman and not compare her to Ginny and her perfection.

Again he wondered why she had never been asked to marry. He almost fell to his knees right there.

'So, Miss.' He managed to say, his voice hoarse than usual. 'Do you want help getting into the bath?'

'I can do it, Henry, thank you very much.' Ginny didn't turn to see him, and Henry thought it would be better, maybe if he saw a tiny part of her breast, he would be cursed for the rest of his life for not being able to touch her.

'I'll be waiting for you, there's a towel over there, and if the water is not as you like, you can call me.' Henry turned on his back, thinking that seeing her walking naked was also not the best way to try to survive the burning desire in the chest.

But listening seemed even worse, because his imagination didn't stop, the noise of the water and her moan of satisfaction made him have to thank the witch fashion and the fact that his robes protected him from being discovered.

The next few minutes would be slow and painful torture, he knew it, smelling the sweet soap, listening to the water fall to the floor whenever Ginny moved in the bathtub, her little murmurs of satisfaction, filling Henry's imagination with the most perverted images.

He felt ashamed to think that this woman would subject herself to things as dirty as the ones he was thinking about in his fantasies.

'I'm done.' Ginny woke him up from what appeared to be the fifth fantasy that Henry created in his mind. The water fell again, and worse than before, now he imagined her body smooth and warm, reddish and sensitive, smelling like the fragrance that would lead him to death.

Henry waited for her to call on him to help her go to the dresser where all her clothes were, not wanting to pay much attention to the strands of hair that stuck to the back of her neck.

'The bath really helped me,' Ginny said, walking back into the partition. 'I can manage to put on my pajamas, it's button-down, I won't have to make so much effort.' She smiled at him, flushed like a pepper, disappearing behind the wood and making him wait again. 'Do you really think that whoever it was was after me?' She asked, still dressing.

'I think.' Henry was blunt. 'But I did not understand why the other person, who clearly saw where we entered, said nothing. We don’t hear footsteps, which means he was there.’

'Should we tell someone?' Ginny appeared, wearing a light pink nightdress with dark pink buttons, delicate flowers embroidered on the hem. She accepted Henry's help to walk to the bed, she was not so pale anymore, and her arm looked much better, but he still realized that she was holding firmly on the furniture to stand.

'Let me take care of that, Miss, it's my job,' Henry said, covering her up as if Ginny were a helpless child who needed help. He sat next to her on the bed, enjoying that moment that would probably be unique, forgetting that she had been tagged with a boy who was probably dead, or if not, very far from her, and that Arthur had already found a replacement for the position of husband.

And it wasn't Henry.

He sighed, feeling strangely at peace when she shook his hand. 'Thank you for taking care of me.'

'I would never do the opposite.' He smiled, unable to take his eyes off her. 'How's the arm?'

'Sore, but I can feel my hand again.' To prove it, Ginny wiggled her fingers for him to see, laughing softly at that.

'Tomorrow will be better, I put good healing charms on you. It won't even be scarred.' He knew that women could care about that, he even cared about the one he carried on his forehead, always keeping it hidden behind his hair.

Ginny didn't say anything for a moment, just stared at him, luscious brown eyes that reminded Henry of a home feeling, flushed cheeks from hot water or a combination of that and the sun, and adorable freckles that he would like to spend hours counting each one, foolishly trying to memorize them for when he was forced to leave, not wanting, and not thinking he would be able, to ever forget her.

Henry thought how much easier life would be if he could just woo Ginny the right way, that seeing her naked would mean much more than just a helping hand, and that he probably wouldn't see just her back.

He thought about the life he would have had if he had been lucky enough to be born in a mansion like that. Not that he didn't love her mother, far from it, he was very grateful for everything she did. But things could be simpler if he were the son of the Duke and Duchess and had the opportunity to marry Ginny.

But life was not that easy. And, not for the first time, Henry cursed Harry Potter for disappearing and putting him in such a difficult position, of having Ginny so close and yet so far.

'Good night, Miss,' Henry murmured, and just because he felt brave, he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. 'Sleep well.'

[whirlybirdwhat]

Hey whirly Today i woke up and had a horrible thought that made me sad. So now i'm sharing. Marco is Moby Dick's Doctor right? And Thatch was attacked on the Moby Dick and died? Depending on how heartbreaking things can be, Thatch died under Marco's hands. (Do you hear that? It was my heart shattering)

okay so i started this awhile ago abut this writers block hit BUT WE ARE HERE NOW AND IM SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT! BUT HERE YOU GO!!!

eight bells ringing 

read on ao3!!

warnings: canonical character death

Marco is woken to bells ringing loud and relentless throughout the night. It is not the usual bell for time keeping, soft and melodious and as constant as the sea. No.

This one is violent.

An alarm.

Fuck – it’s the alarm bell.

In an instant, Marco is out of his hammock, blue-gold fire streaming after him as he erupts out of the cabin.

What could be happening? There’s no enemy pinging in his senses, no ships nearby or unfamiliar person on the ship. What could have –

Pops.

Pops.

He couldn’t have died, right?

The phoenix burns at his skin and he shifts, blurring into flame and fury as he soars down the hall in smaller, faster form. He has to get too Pops, he has too,  he –

The crowd isn’t by Pops room. The yelling isn’t coming from there. The tears aren’t coming from there.

No – it’s – No-

Its Thatch.

Marco changes direction, wings scorching lines into the Moby Dick’s Adam wood, and races back down the hallway.

Thatch – what could have happened?

In seconds, minutes, moments, all time flashes by the same when he’s made of burning flame – he’s by Thatch’s room and breaking through the crowd.

His first thought is there’s blood.

So, so much blood, red and viscous and splattering along the floors. Marco is used to seeing blood.

Just not in his home.

His second thought, as he follows the blood upwards, is that he knows the body which is coming from.

Thatch is always so careful not to get blood on his white chef’s outfit. Its his mark in battle – red everywhere but the white. Marco had always teased him for it.

Now… Now its covered in red. There is no white in sight.

Only Thatch’s chest, barely moving, up, down, up, down, dark and red.

But he’s breathing.

“Thatch!” Marco cries, and he’s on his knees by Thatch, whoever it was with him in the first place moving aside.

(Ace.

It was Ace.

And Ace was crying.)

Marco is a doctor – the ship’s doctor, the one in charge of Whitebeard, the one who disappeared for a year and came back with the knowledge to keep his beloved family alive – and this is his job.

To save his family.

To save Thatch.

But as he moves aside the bunched shirt to get a look at the stab wound, he knows it’s far too late.

(Its not a term any pirate should ever think. But now, Marco isn’t a pirate. He’s a brother.

And fate holds to much pressure on his shoulders for him to think otherwise.)

“Thatch –“ Ace’s voice is breaking beside them, his arms reaching down and hovering uselessly around Thatch’s body as Marco works to do something, anything to help Thatch last a little long, so too late becomes not late enough. Ace’s arms are covered in blood, Marco belatedly notes. He must have been the first to find Thatch dyi- bleeding. Hurt.

(Maybe, if Marco keeps denying it, the truth will change.)

“Thatch-“ Ace tries again, and it hurts, it really does. “Thatch who did this to you?” The anger in Ace’s voice hurts even more.

Thatch turns his head, only a little bit, glassy eyes flickering to all their siblings past them. “Teach.” He says, blood flicking out of his mouth as he does so. “Bastard. Wanted the fruit.” He coughs then, but his eyes don’t stop watching all of them, drinking his family in one last time.

(Marco knows Whitebeard won’t get here in time to say farewell to his beloved son.)

Ace’s eyes cloud with anger, but a bloody hand slaps at him, grabbing his attention. “A…Ace.” Thatch says, and Marco watches, and wonders which word will be Thatch’s last. “Don’t.”

He doesn’t say what Ace shouldn’t do. His breath is becoming rapid, stuttering, faltering. There are tears in Marco’s eyes.

“I’m… happy…” Thatch stutters out, thoughts of traitors in their family not mattering to him. He’s happy.

Marco isn’t. He isn’t.

Damnit.  

“Love… you… all.” Thatch says, and he smiles, with blood coating each tooth. His hair is a mess. Marco should tease him. He should.

But there’s blood between his fingers as blue flames burst forth, trying to heal, heal, heal, but phoenix fire doesn’t burn family and it doesn’t cauterize – and Marco needs to awaken this right now, like he hasn’t cared before but –

Thatch breathes in, breathes out, and doesn’t breath again.

There’s a smile on his face as his skin grows cold.

And Marco has never heard something more terrible than the screams that come from his own mouth.

(That night, Marco stands watch as eight bells ring throughout the night. Eight bells for the end. Eight bells for a sailor gone home.

Eight bells ringing out, as Thatch drops to the sea in a cannon laden hammock, a brother lost forever.

Marco hates the sound of bells, and hates his hands that cannot save anything but a few mere moments to say goodbye.)

-

There are no bells at Marineford. No, those come after.

Now, there is blood and the sound of canon fire. Now, there is death of a thousand beloved brothers that Marco can’t save with healing hands, and now, there is fire and light clashing in the sky.

Now, Marco watches seastone be slapped upon his wrists, and his brother take a fist through the chest right in front of him.

After Thatch, Marco worked again, worked to learn, to heal.

The phoenix means life. Rebirth.

Healing.

And Marco can do that now – he is the awakened phoenix. He can heal so much more than himself, than what he could with a mere doctor’s hands.

But he can’t do that with this sea-stone –

Another brother he couldn’t save. Another brother who died smiling. Another brother who said I love you, and I was happy, as he died because of wound to the back by a traitor to everything the world held dear.

Marco rings the eight bells twice after Marineford, once his father and once brother, and knows they mean an era ended, not an era began.

A farewell, to his family.

Marco hates bells.

(But then Monkey D. Luffy rings in a new era, and maybe he doesn’t hate the ringing so much anymore. Not when it means a new era in the hands of a king.)

-

eight bells: a naval euphemism for finished, often used at sea burials. It is symbolic of the end of the watch, midnight, and the end of the year.

[luzarya]

Homunculus

Twst ocs & Yuu

Summary: Yuu finds themselves dragged to a ritual as soon as they were left by Crowley in the beginning. What they find out surprised them, but they take the information with stride.

warnings and tags: slight need mention, blood mention, mention (temporary) character death, happy ending tho

ao3 link: here

word count: 1,313

--

Yuu was frazzled, confused, and most of all, scared.

They had only been here in this new world of Twisted Wonderland, for what, an hour? And already, they’ve gotten into too much trouble for their own good.

As of now, they were huddled in the abandoned attic of the Ramshackle dorm. The monster that had harassed them earlier was asleep, snoring away as Yuu was going through this horrid ritual. They were not alone either, oh no, for a fox familiar was there with them. Well, at least, they were told it was a fox familiar, and sure enough, the fox was a fox… earlier. Not now.

Instead of a fox, a person with fox ears and tails, horns as well, replaced the familiar. Yet, they were one and the same.

“Don’t worry Yuu, you’ll remember, soon enough,” the fox, called Mikhail, told them with a pleasant voice. It didn’t ease Yuu’s worries however. Too many things in such a small window of time surely couldn’t be good for a person.

As for what Mikhail was doing… Yuu couldn’t guess, but from what they could see, a life-size doll with no features laid on the wooden floor, underneath it a circle with sigils and the like. There were candles as well, just bright enough to make out what was in the attic itself. They were placed out of the way where the rainwater, so that they wouldn’t go out, although a few of the candles did go out anyways.

Overall: A Very Not Good Experience.

“Hey, Yuu,” Mikhail called over softly, his glowing amber eyes making him appear eerie. Didn’t help that his pupils had slits either.

“Yes?” Yuu squeaked, clutching onto the ceremonial clothing they still adorned. Right after Crowley had left, Mikhail had shifted to his human form and pulled Yuu to the attic. The flaming cat, Grim, gave zero fucks and went to bed.

“May I have some of you blood? I just need you to prick your finger, just a little. Over the doll, please?”

Yuu didn’t reply, but they did scoot over, now closer to the fox shifter. Mikhail handed Yuu a rather large needle. Gulping, Yuu took it, and they hovered over the life size doll. How Mikhail managed to get a clay doll into the attic was beyond them, but they didn’t question it.

Yuu pricked their finger, a small drop of blood splattering onto the face of the doll. A few more drops, then there was a small, tiny pool of blood.

“That’s enough. Now, hold my hand, please?”

Yuu complied, letting Mikhail hold onto their non-pricked hand. Mikhail urged them to close their eyes, so they did. Now that their vision was gone, their sense of hearing was heightened, as Yuu made out some words spilling out from Mikhail, feeling a rather warm sensation overtake them.

Then pain.

Yuu fell into Mikhail’s grasp, as he continued on with his cantation, feeling pain with every inch of their body. They faintly heard themselves howling in pain, as something was making its way out from their stomach and through their throat, and lastly their mouth. It wasn’t vomit, Yuu could tell, but it wasn’t pleasant either. Whatever that had escaped from Yuu had fully emerged out, leaving Yuu to heave loudly against Mikhail.

Just what was that?

Their body was sore, but thankfully no longer in pain. Yuu didn’t even know if they could move a muscle. They remained in Mikhail’s embrace, the cantation still going on. It became louder, as Mikhail was now audibly heard. Yuu could feel the floor tremble beneath them, wondering if it would continue to hold.

At the last few moments, Yuu felt a rather excruciating headache, clutching onto their head as Mikhail’s arms strengthened their hold around them.

Memories came flooding in- all seven overblots, the things that the dorm leaders went through in their childhood, how events had unfolded, and the like. Yet, happy memories came along as well, recalling how Ace and Deuce aided them and hung out with them, such as the small sleepovers they occasionally had and goofing off in class.

Yet…

These events had not happened.

So why-

“Ehhhhh,” a feminine voice groaned loudly besides Yuu. It was all too familiar, but Yuu couldn’t-

No. They remembered. It was Rosamund… And Mikhail was their partner.

Rosamund and Mikhail were their fox familiars.

“You can open your eyes now, Yuu,” Mikhail gently told them. Yuu did as told, the room too dark, the candles having gone out. Yuu glanced over to where the life-size doll was, but instead, they were met with a lookalike. Same black hair and red eyes, yet the figure before them was more feminine than them… and naked.

“So, how’s my original body, Yuu?” The doll, Rosamund, asked.

Right.

They weren’t in their own body.

“It’s fine, but-”

“You died, kid,” Rosamund interrupted, quick to answer the question that Yuu was about to ask.

“I… What now?”

“She’s right,” Mikhail replied, letting go of Yuu. Yuu looked at the two of them, but their memories weren’t returning past a certain point.

“All I remember is Malleus’ overblot,” Yuu said, “we were just finishing it, and from there, it was all black.”

“Yea,” Rosamund stood up, stretching, Yuu looking away, “You died. Well, you fell asleep first, but then you died in your sleep. So,” Rosamund sat back down, giving a toothy grin, “We’re starting all over again. Fun, isn’t it?”

“What happened to my body…?”

“Ah,” Rosamund quieted. They looked away, not wanting to deliver the news.

Mikhail sighed, “It… decayed. We had to quickly save your soul, so we implemented it into Rosamund’s body.”

“Slowly,” Rosamund quietly began, “My original body will adapt to become yours. Slowly, you’ll look like you originally did. Although…” Rosamund summoned fire at her fingertips, relighting one of the nearby candles, “You’ll have magic this time. The mirror didn’t detect it, but you have magic. Granted, it’s locked away.”

“...locked away?”

“Yes,” Mikhail stood up, offering Yuu a hand, “It’s technically Rosamund’s magic, but it will eventually become your own. As for Rosamund, for now, they’ll just adapt to their new body.”

“Wouldn’t it have been easier for me to be in the doll?” Yuu inquired, taking Mikhail’s hand. They were right- it was hard to move, much less walk.

“Your soul can only persist for so long once it leaves your body. Our souls, however, will linger for years on end. Well, yours could, although, only with strong negative emotions or attachments.”

“...oh.”

Mikhail offered a small smile, as he helped Yuu walk to the exit, leaving the mess of the ritual behind. Looking back, he yelled over to Rosamund to clean up the mess.

“Aight, just get Yuu to bed. They’ll need all the energy that they can get,” was Rosamund’s reply.

Mikhail aided Yuu in getting down from the attic, now on the second floor of the building. He was kind enough to show Yuu to the dorm head’s room, coincidentally where Grim was asleep.

With the help of magic, Mikhail managed to tidy up the room, drastically changing the items to be repaired and be of use. This included the pitiful bed, Grim only grunting upon the movement.

“There isn’t any other suitable bed around, so please, push Grim a little and make room for yourself.”

Yuu nodded, and complied to the fox shifter’s commands.

Just as they were going to say good night, Yuu no longer saw Mikhail, instead, saw two foxes in front of them, one red, the other black.

Yuu smiled, and said;

“Good night, Mikhail, Rosamund. Let’s be sure to not die…. this… time…zzz.”

The events of the day caught up with Yuu, the foxes watching as Yuu fell asleep. The foxes moved around, and got themselves comfortable.

For a long adventure laid ahead of them.

[minghaoss-archive]

of hues, of blues - m

summary ↯

wherein heartbreak teaches you to love again.

pairing ↯

xu minghao x fem reader

genre ↯

oneshot, angst, smut 

and just a smidge of fluff hah!

word count ↯

6.811 words

alternative universe↯

 friends with benefits to lovers, hanahaki disease.

warnings ↯

blood,  vomiting, explicit sexual content.

author’s note ↯

idk this is absolute filth + a little attempt at poetry. im so sorry this is abysmal.

Surprises are not Xu Minghao’s cup of tea. 

He realises this at a very young age.  

When he’s riding a bike for the first time, schooling himself to grow accustomed to the unsteady glide of the vehicle. Looking out of the corner of his eye like this, a myriad of colours begin to collect in his peripheral vision. He can smell the freshly cut grass, see the enlarging manicured bushes lazing out in dusted gold, bathed in morning dew, the sight of his parents sat out on a picnic mat and he thinks he’s almost made it - just a little longer. He smiles and then grins and laughs and giggles, feeling as if he had grown wings. Then the world spins in a whirlpool of chartreuse canopies and he falls. 

When he grows up, however, surprises are less dramatic but not quite different in proving to be a great displeasure to him. 

When he’s 22, for starters, surprises are Seokmin’s ear damaging ‘Happy Birthday!’, a room full of people he can’t seem to recognise and an obligation to stick around talking absently about nothing when all he was planning to do was curl up in bed with a freshly minted copy of an unread book. 

At 22, surprises are  red coloured bars which tell him he has failed his painting course when he was sure he’d aced it.

At 22, surprises are finding catharsis for his sour mood in giving into Mingyu’s constant nagging requesting his rare presence at a stupid college party.

You arise from a blur of crimson lights and sweaty strangers.  Like a newborn phoenix. A mere haze of dark clothes; a stark contrast to the vibrant tints pulsing around you, press a cool beer can to his chest and press a sloppy kiss to your mouth, as a consequence of a childish game of spin the bottle.

It’s right then that he knows that this is comprised of nothing but carnal desire. This isn’t what Minghao wants, he knows this, he wants something everything to mean something more but he just can’t help himself. The aching loneliness in him demands to be fulfilled, by something, just anything.

He shouldn’t follow you upstairs. In fact, he shouldn’t follow you anywhere.   He shouldn’t press your back up against an unfamiliar bedroom door and push the hem of your outfit upwards.

 Or hiss when you touch him.

 Or rut his hips into yours. Or listen to the quivering moans billowing past your chapped lips, Or  slide his fingers around your throat,

( a loll of your head, a sigh, his name tumbling from your lips.) 

 But he does anyway. He wants to. 

The next morning, Minghao wakes up to a head splitting hangover. And a very, very empty bed. He kicks off the piss yellow sheets and glares at the cracked paint on Hansol’s ceiling. 

When was the last time someone was in this room? Had he made you up? Definitely not.

The imprint of your body, a ghost, begs to differ. He reaches out and smoothes it over.  Whatever. Minghao isn’t in the best mood. 

Surprises are not his cup of tea.

....

 The next meeting is at the college fair. 

“You want a flower?” You lean your head to the side, hunched over the stall and he tells you a meek yes, “Those..ones.” gesturing to the pretty blues around which your hair curls. 

Minghao may not know a lot but he knows it would be something ridiculous to miss, the gentle graze of your fingers against his ear when you place the pretty ring of blue atop his head. 

“They’re called..?” He trails, running his finger along its slender stem. Maybe it’s the rings around your eyes or the way you bite the inside of your mouth, the subtle quality that of being peculiar makes him want to look at you longer than he should. It piques his interest.

 “They’re hydrangeas.“ You supply. Minghao nods. Observing the way your nose crinkles and how you purse your lips when you think.

“I’ve never properly introduced myself.”  smiling your endearing smile, you snap him right out of his thoughts. The kind of jolt one feels when they dream of falling. Mischievous eyes. Wondering eyes. 

“We should..” You pause,  swallowing down a chunk of words. Gaze downcast. It takes him awhile to understand that you are anxious, bashful even. Interlaced hands. Clammy. But sharp eyes. “We should do it again sometime.”

Your dealings with Minghao are so frequent that thinks he can’t quite imagine what his life would be like without it happening again. 

By now he can tell your silhouette apart from everyone else’s. If he spreads his palms on your lower back and sucks on your neck, you hum and groan. If he wants, he can tell you exactly where every mark, indentation, valley and curve on your body is. 

He’s been staring at an empty canvas for a while now, ideas jumbled, colours appearing together behind his lids and turning to a confusing mix of everything and nothing at all. 

He’s listened to Chopin  to a point where he’s convinced he can compose  the andagios and allegros all by himself.

 He's  looked for inspiration in between violets and the cerulean sky and poetry, of course. 

But it’s no use.

At the end of the day, Minghao only drowns in a sea of unfinished assignments; wallowing purposelessly in the tangerine glow of his makeshift studio, heavily caffeinated. 

You coax him out the day Mingyu calls you. Dramatising his best friend’s state with a kiddish pout and flailing arms. 

Minghao follows you around like a lost puppy. Resting his chin on your shoulder when you cook him a proper meal, fingers dancing along your apron. Distracted.  It’s moments like these that truly confuse you; the care with which he kisses your cheek and the roughness with which he undresses you after.

 What do the spaces between these differences, the oceans and hills, the softness of his sighs and the harshness of his grunts, even mean? Whatever. You haven’t fucked in a week or two.

The easel stems from the floor and curls around his primed canvas like a rose plant, thorns, pointed leaves, soft, blushing petals and he feels like he’s looking at his own reflection, devoid of ideas, faceless, empty, spotless. 

 Then suddenly, sighing, with a loll of his head, Minghao glances back at the bed, your bare body; streaks of rosy dusk splattered on your thighs, oranges and yellows smudged along your cheeks, the subtle rise and fall of your chest with every breath you take. A sliver of the rising sun. Summer air. 

He touches his paintbrush after weeks and refuses to let go until all he can see is a waltz of reds and blues, a spin of everything he feels when he touches you. Your face. The gaps between your ribs. 

He thinks, if anyone asks, he could talk about it for a good few days. 

Minghao passes the semester with flying colours.

This is what happens, Jeonghan’s car grumbles, the air conditioning isn’t working and Minghao is too tall to sit with two other people at the back but he doesn’t mind because your knees are touching.

 The wind blows your hair back in messy  tufts. You’ve cut it shorter, upto your neck. He decides he likes it better that way. 

There’s an Air Supply song playing in the background. Hansol smiles knowingly, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, his palms pressed firmly against the steering wheel. “That’s our song.” He says. 

 Then the car is still for a second. But suddenly you kick off your sneakers, bare feet on leather seats. 

You giggle and giggle and giggle. 

Tips of your fingers smudged of acrylic clouds. Patches of trees melting away into the amethyst sky. The sun sinking back into a blonde horizon. You’re singing loud. Laughing. You haven’t laughed this hard in a long time. The kind of laugh gives you a stomach ache. The kind of laugh that you think about for days. 

Minghao thinks you’re beautiful like this. 

He shouldn’t. 

It’s not right.

 He takes a photo.

...

We are only as remembered as long as we want to be found.  Breadcrumbs. We are only remembered if we leave something behind. 

The art of disappearing is something Xu Minghao is a master of, perhaps. Sometimes he turns off his phone and lies on park benches and tries to think of ways he could fit the world in his palms, mold it out of acrylic and entrap it in a picture. He is a sorcerer of sorts and magic only brews in solitude. In secret. When no one can hear him say his incantations. It’s a secret between him and the universe. 

He leaves not a trace during these periods of artistry. No texts. No confusing social media applications. No boorish human beings. No hindrances. 

Minghao doesn’t leave the studio for days. Not until all he sees is black and white. A monochromatic world. When bursts and explosions of platinum lightning have oozed out of the grey sky. 

 He rushes over to your apartment. Chasing thunderbolts. Desperate. A rainy day. A yellow bus. A knock. Two knocks. Three knocks. He arrives always. In search of colours. 

You press your mouth to his before he can step foot into your room, words said between frantic kisses. 

“God, where were you?” You say and he thinks you almost sound angry. His duffle bag drops with a soft thud.

He pulls your stringy dress off with a harsh tug. Hands skimming over the curve of your waist, your breasts, your skin. Goosebumps all over. 

He tugs you closer by the heels of your feet. Hunching forward. Kissing you. Greedy fingers leaving you bare, shivering and craving in their wake. 

A trail of sloppy kisses from the curve of your ribs to the slope of your stomach. Minghao’s fingers rest on your inner thighs, sucking in a multitude of colours. Fingers curled inside of you. Lewd  squelch. Lewder whispers. Loud whines filling the room with each passing second. 

He has you whining, sweaty underneath the rough pads of his fingers. Teeth scraping along the bend of your throat. Angry crescents. Minghao’s kisses on your tummy. Your fingers in his hair.

“Look at me.” He commands, holding his fingers up. Your eyes widened, glazed over. Lustful. Mischievous eyes. Wondering eyes. 

If it’s you, if it’s like this, if this all you’ll ever be, wants to leave his trace, wants it to mean something, he wants to be remembered.

“Hey, stop that.” You say, covering your face with your hands. As if he hadn’t memorised it already. 

Minghao’s pencil comes to a screeching halt. He’s on his stomach. Bare. Basking in the rubscent sunshine. Your sheets kiss his body, accentuating the slender shape of his waist.  

 Then the boy glances back and smiles. For a moment, you forget this isn’t love. This isn’t love. This isn’t supposed to be love.

Truth be told, Minghao isn’t good at sketching, he never was. He has never been quite fond of it.  Minghao always imagines the world in vibrant colours. Never, in his mind, is beauty in black and white. 

But in spite of his bitter exchanges with shaky borders and strange strokes before; now, he seems to excel at putting you on paper, be it in the form of ash pencil lines or splatter of colours, colours and colours, he can never seem to wrong your beauty.  “Okay.”

He says and lays on his back. Wondering. Marvelling. 

Your chin placed on your folded hands.

 He pushes a rogue strand behind, one which always seems to keep falling over your eyes. Somehow every time you’re together, you end up like this. Craving. Touching. Never more. Never less. Can it be less? Can it be more? 

No. 

He shouldn’t say say or think or want something of that sort. Thinking is wanting. Wanting is saying. Saying is craving. 

It isn’t right. 

“Stop thinking so much.” You whisper, looking up at him with a look in your eyes that he doesn’t want to understand. Something which says more than what’s told.

 Stop. He doesn’t quite stop. Minghao thinks and wants and craves. He mustn’t. Your face fits in his palms, you lean into the touch like a love starved kitten and he craves again. Wants again. 

If you were a colour and not a million Minghao thinks you’d be blue.

Change. Change is strange. Sometimes you wonder how the world is frosted over, crystallised, whitened with snow and in a blink again, flowers bloom, spring comes and so comes hummingbirds. Change is strange. Sometimes you wonder how all you two share turns from mere lust to profound conversations of everything and nothing at all.

Minghao possesses a kind of intelligence that is unparalleled, he’s quick to understand thoughts and quicker to word it. You’ve been doing that quite often; talking and talking without meaning to stop. Change is strange.

“Do you believe in love?” Your voice is a low, broken thing, words barely there, airy. 

 "Yes.“ Minghao gazes at the sky, littered with more stars than there are in the city; the soft glow of silver lights his face up in an unusual way. A way about which you could write a thousand villanelles about.

Stars. Dim and twinkling.  You wonder how many of them must have aligned for you to have found each other.   Incomplete. Your half said words hang in the air. This comfort is peculiar.

 Silence has never been an unpleasant thing before. You’re laid down with your arms and legs spread apart, gaze upcast. 

Between the two of you, the wet patch of  sand feels like a dried ocean, deserted. Lonely. The foamy sea lilts and sings and  calls you to her; but you only lay silent, unmoved. 

Minghao reaches out and interlaces your fingers. Hope is a funny thing. Desire is a funny thing. He doesn’t understand what it means to say a lot but speak no words at all. His hand tingles from where you rub your thumb. It’s the first time you’re together. But unbare. 

 This comfort is peculiar.

He’ll always remember; your shoulders erecting to mountains. Your eyes red and swollen, portions and bits of a conversation about a lost lover. The first time he saw you. Hansol’s piss yellow blankets. Seven minutes in a closet.  Heated kisses. Your heart in shambles.

Minghao wonders what it means to love like that. Love that stays even when people don’t. 

The sky is suddenly darker than before; mighty ravenous clouds seem to have gobbled down constellations after constellations. It’s going to rain again. 

“Do you?“  He asks and you almost look, Minghao thinks, like you’re about to cry.

 He wonders why it bothers him, why it makes him want to reach out and pull you to him. But he doesn’t, of course. 

 He shouldn’t.

It’s not right. 

Something in your eyes is forlorn. Tight lipped. Sometimes he wishes he had a  stethoscope to hear your thoughts, the ones you don’t unveil, despite your much fabled bravado.

 You sit back, glance at him and smile briefly. Strange. Undercurrents.  Tempted to trace your lips like it were brail. He wants to know what it means, the downward tilt of your mouth.

You’re insolent, an offensive girl,  insulting every pretty scenery around you with your very strange beauty. Messy hair, moonlight kissing up your naked face, circles around your widening eyes and closing, parting mouth , like you’re trying to remember something or rather forget.  He wishes his camera were with him.

 "I can’t.” You say and the pain in your voice startles him.

 "You can.“  Minghao corrects, sliding closer you. Toes touching. Bumping into each other. How one could think they can’t be reduced to the foolishness of a lover is beyond his understanding. Everyone can be a fool. In their own ways, of course. Everyone can fall in love. They just choose to.  They just choose not to. 

“Of course you can.” He says, sounding slightly injured by your ludicrous comment. Always flared up and cross. You rest your head on his shoulder. Stifling a laugh. It’s moments like these that truly confuse you, the gap between your bodies and the yearning to close it.

Believe in love;

You can.

You do.

⊱ ────────── ⊰

Sometimes love lasts forever. Sometimes love gives you reason and makes you believe. Sometimes love is soft whispers, never wilting roses. Sometimes love is forever and always. Sometimes love is the tranquil sea. Sometimes love is comfort and trust. Like the first touch of spring. 

Such was not true for Yuta and you. 

Yuta fell in love with you one winter morning and fell out every other. 

Sometimes you wonder if he had been a phantom. If you were touching air. If you had imagined him all along. 

You remember tracing your finger along his back, bumps and drops of his spine, trying to find the man you loved once. You remember kissing him, touching him, undressing him, aching for him to look at you the way he did. To tell you he loved you back. To mean it when he did. You should’ve seen it coming. 

When it happens it happens so unsurprisingly. When it happens it happens so surprisingly. 

You get off class early. A trail of clothes at your feet. It’s a funny thing, watching someone take away everything you love. It’s a funny thing watching someone give away everything you love. 

“Get out.” You say to him with a straight face. 

You want to stop him. 

“Fine.” Yuta shrugs, sighing, running a hand through his hair. You wonder how many times he’s held her with those hands. Has he ever thought of you when he fucked her? Did he feel sorry for you every time you kissed him? Did he have a good laugh when you weren’t around?

 He looks back one last time; as if to say you can pull me back and tell me you love me. You can drag me back and tell me it’s okay. You can forgive me and we will go back to bed. Like nothing ever happened.

Your mouth parts. Words pleading to escape.  I love you. Was I not enough?

 "I never want to see you again.“ You grit out instead.   The door shuts with a soft thud.

You don’t stop him. 

...

Minghao hisses when you drag your tongue down his abdomen. Your hair entangled between the gaps of his fingers. 

You meet his eyes, watery and widened. Taking him in. “Fuck.” A sight you’ll never share. Afraid someone will steal it from you. A sight which only belongs to you.  His brows knitted together, mouth parted in a silent moan.

He cums with a groan and you wipe the corner of your mouth clean, lean on your palms and say, “Happy birthday.”

...

You don’t understand Minghao.

Sometimes he calls you his darling and takes you to his bedroom. Undresses you with care and care and care. 

 And other times he walks past you like you don’t exist.

...

Nasty wet trails travel down your spine like liquid serpents. They bite your clothes, twist their heads around your lower back and cling onto your skin like they would swallow it whole. It’s summer and your mouth is very dry. 

“Hold still.” He scolds. Tapping your bare thighs so you stop moving it so much. 

Minghao’s head is in your lap, face shielded from the lurid orange sun. Shaded by a reddened poetry book which says Robert Frost. Your face invisible. Only a hint of your eyebrows. He pulls it back. 

“Hey!” You exclaim, trying to seize it but he tucks it away, under his bum.  A complacent grin breaking out on his face. All teeth and no shame. 

“I hate you so much.“  You say, sighing and brush away a few strands from his face. He’s pretty like this. Skin aglow, brown eyes  suddenly an astonishing liquid gold. Honey. 

You’ve been falling.

Minghao sits up suddenly, solemn look on his face. Amused no longer.  He presses his mouth to yours. Beating heart and clashing teeth. Fingers holding your jaw in place. “That’s not true.” He says, swiping his thumb over your swollen lips. 

You don’t understand Minghao. 

                                            ⊱ ────────── ⊰

He’s drunk. 

Minghao rests his head against your chest and draws circles into your stomach. Falling. You might be falling. 

It scares you.

 "I’ve got to go.“ You say suddenly. Body cold as the warmth of his own slips away. He’s sitting up on his bed. 

He is the prettiest tonight. 

Face still rubicund. Pitch black strands gone rogue,falling over his eyes. He swallows thickly. Adam’s apple bobbing.  

He’s had too much to drink.  

“Stay.” He says, pulling you back, looking up at you with big doe eyes. He tugs you closer. Ear pressed to your tummy. Arms looped around you. 

 If he doesn’t hold on tight, the whole world starts to spin. He wants to hold on tight. He always has. 

“I want you to.” He whispers with such sincerity, you think you might turn to liquid. 

                                           ⊱ ────────── ⊰

Minghao doesn’t remember.

He stares at you. Your body pressed to his. The bend of your spine and your eyes clamped shut. Your hair always unkempt. His fingers yearn for a paintbrush. 

His memory is a haze. A swirl of blurriness. A gaping cavern. How did he even get here? In your arms, your lips parted, face buried in his chest. The soft beating of your heart. 

You’re awake.  He knows. 

 He can tell. You only tap your feet when you’re awake. 

His body slides away from yours.

“We’re late.” He says, his voice all garbled, like the sound was hindered by a rock lodged deep inside his throat.  “What happened last night?“ 

Words seem to be a foreign thing to you for a minute. You look to him and pretend. How do you tell him? 

You think of his ear pressed to your stomach and his beautiful eyes, a magnificent ebony looking up at you. You think of thinking. How you’ve been doing too much of it. Minghao elbows you, demanding an answer. 

“Nothing.” You say and are surprised by how true it sounds. 

 You don’t want to be awake

                                          ⊱ ────────── ⊰

Melancholy has a peculiar way of coming. Sauntering away in her bluest gown. She meets you often. When you’re drowning in  midnight ruminations. When you listen to the most sublime tunes humans have ever crafted. Today she comes suddenly, when you’re watching a movie you’re not watching. Feet propped up on Junhui’s lap. She comes in her bluest gown. 

See you’ve been talking for an hour and your jaw hurts.

Junhui and you sit in a discomfiting  quietude. He’s been your best friend through thick and thin. Through  untamed pigtails and pubertal bacne. Through bad relationships and good. He’s known you long enough to know when you’re lying and when you’re not. 

“You know.” He gulps. Looking at his hands. “The way the way you talk about Minghao…like you’re ready to take a bullet for him…it’s..” 

“Is that a bad thing?” Your head snaps in his direction, you look annoyed. He winces. “No.” Nervously, he keeps tapping his foot. “Not if you love him.” 

“Do you?” He nudges you. Then you tilt your head back and think of nothing and everything.

 Your head weighty, inundated with thoughts of him. You keep thinking of Minghao’s smile.  You think of his giggles.Stay . His smile. I want you to . 

It isn’t until Junhui touches your face, a flick of his index, a tender thing; do you  realise you’ve been crying. “I’m scared.” you say, leaning into his touch. 

The older male smiles knowingly, passing the bucket of popcorn to you. Junhui is patient. Wordlessly taking your hand in his. He looks so unsurprised it scares you. 

 "I know.” He says, with no rancour or judgment. As if he has been looking at the insides of your head for long now.

When you were little you doubted the sweet voiced boy had the superhuman power of reading your mind. Knowing when your mum scolded you. Knowing when you wanted to cry and when you wanted to laugh. When you wanted an extra gummy bear. What if he knows now? What if he hears you think he doesn’t love me back? What if he hears you think I am in love with him, I have never been in love like this, what if?

 "Let go.“ Junhui suggests, meeting your eyes with a kind of warning which perplexes you. A grand affirmation of all  your fears. “It’s not good for you.” He gives your hand a gentle squeeze. 

                                       ⊱ ────────── ⊰

It’s dark outside and you’re lying on his arm, listening to his pulse. Bodies flush against each other. 

When you look up; Minghao is staring intently at the ceiling fan, mouth parted, eyes widened, he’s looking at one thing and seeing a million. You wonder what he thinks so arduously about. Then you lean over and press your lips to his. He hums and smiles and laughs against your mouth, “I love you.“ 

It’s a tragic thing, the quickness of these words falling off of your lips. Minghao stops smiling. You think he stops thinking too. He sees one thing now. “It’s late. We should sleep.” He says suddenly, clearing his throat. As if words had clogged up inside. 

Inside your chest, something turns to smithereens. 

                                         ⊱ ────────── ⊰

It isn’t his fault. It’s not your fault. 

“Don’t go.” You whisper to Minghao, a reiteration, a lost memory you’re trying to relive. He sighs and glances briefly at you from the corner of his eye. 

 "We aren’t supposed to do this.“ It’s more of a thought than it is a suggestion, an idea he renders just to catch your reaction.

For a second, it’s so quiet that he can hear the soft plops of raindrops against your windows. Home. Suddenly he misses Anshan. Feeling rather uprooted when you unlace your fingers from his.

Minghao thinks summers are beautiful, he thinks sunflowers are yellow and that you shouldn’t date.  

The words feel deafening to hear. But you’ve always been good at hiding your feelings. Phenomenal, actually. So you ignore your aching heart with no difficulty. “You’re right.” You say, “We shouldn’t.” 

Sometimes we find things we aren’t  searching for, sometimes we’re told things we don’t want to hear. Minghao thinks it’s the price we pay for not speaking our minds.

“Oh.” He says, sounding a little disappointed.

                                         ⊱ ────────── ⊰

It’s funny how it’s so aggravatingly sunny outside.

In your head, it only rains when you are in pain. A reflection of your sorrows. The whistling wind. The hissing thunder. The ugly lightning. Inner storms. 

But today, it rains not a drop. Despite you feeling like you’re being torn apart. 

Has anything in your head ever been real? Have you conjured up the very idea of Minghao? Is he only an outline of a person you’ve filled in with imagination? A skeleton fleshed out of your pet desires? 

Maybe. 

Today his thrusts are sloppy, he groans into your skin and you hold onto him like you’re about to let go any second, like you’re losing him.

“I gotta go.” 

He studies your face intently, finding that you have something to say in response. Maybe it’ll be a scold. Maybe it won’t be a scold. Whatever. He doesn’t expect you to look at him the way you do. With a kind of spark in your eyes which begins to die out. 

“We should end this.” You sigh and Minghao waits for you to say more. For the mischievous glint. For you to say you’re just kidding. Like you always do. For you to say something, anything at all. 

“Is it..is it about last night?” He queries, pausing. 

“Because..I..” you look at him with a  sudden sharpness, something that says stop me, please stop me. But he says nothing. He forgets that words are a thing at all. You look away.

 What is unsaid tastes like blood on his tongue. Like blades. Hurtful. He’s trying to touch your shoulder, to see if you’re real. 

You sink into the mattress.Looking rather defeated.

 “No.” You lie. You  sound like a different person. Someone who is brave. Someone who isn’t you. 

 He kneels between your legs, tugging onto your shorts, sighing. Hopeful eyes searching your face over and over again. “Don’t come back.” You say softly. Not meeting his eyes still. Afraid you’ll give into the temptation of retracting the previous demand. You can’t look at him.

“You always want me to come back.” He whispers, voice heavy. As if he were clinging onto it for dear life. A dying tree to its roots. A sinking ship to its broken anchor.

This isn’t love, this isn’t supposed to be love. You remind yourself again.

 Only this time it sounds like an excuse, a poor attempt at concealing the awful pain inside your chest.

“Not this time. This time you can go.” 

Your sheets still smell like him. Your shirts still smell like him. Minghao has managed to entangle himself in every aspect of your life. 

You wonder how long it’ll take for you to get rid of him. How many washes, detergents and days, months, years. 

“Okay.” He says, nodding. 

Let go. Junhui’s hand in yours. I love you. Minghao’s involuntary giggle when you say something witty.  His bare body on your mattress. It’s not good for you.

Minghao turns into a dot of charcoal against the firmament. The groaning motorbike of his now soundless. 

You don’t stop him.

                                                                                     ⊱ ────────── ⊰

Something like this was bound to happen. It was waiting to happen from the start. It was waiting to happen from the end.

You arrive late at Wonwoo’s party and Minghao’s shoving his tongue down some other girl’s throat. The bottle’s been spun in unfortunate circles, a turn of fate.

 Your friends say nothing. Speaking of this and that, anything but how Minghao’s probably fucking someone else’s brains out upstairs. You feel stupid. 

“You okay?” Mingyu asks suddenly, you're surprised.

 He’s Minghao’s best friend after all. Does he pity you this much?  To traipse through restricted territories, comforting you in the most comforting way there is? You decide friendship and pity are parted only by the thinnest line.

 Mingyu is your friend too. 

“Yeah.” You reply, smiling briefly.

 A soothing hand on the small of your back. A reminder of how you’re real and this is real, definitely not a nightmare. 

Across the room, with the booming music ricocheting off pasty walls, a background of sweaty strangers and twists of neon, Junhui is looking at you. 

No, that’s not right.

He’s looking through you. 

You want to throw up.

                                         ⊱ ────────── ⊰

You think about sunlight caught in his eyes. Sunflowers in his hair.  The way he shivers you when  kiss his throat. You think of him once and twice and three times. You can’t stop. You mustn’t.  

“What are you doing?” Junhui’s voice echoes through the bathroom. “Are you okay?“  He watches his dearest friend lean over the toilet seat. 

You don’t know what to say. You’re looking  at a ring of hydrangeas, afloat  in a pool of your own blood and bile. And suddenly you know this means something, this always has. 

...

 Minghao catches your glaring eye and he’s surrounded by a thicket of roses,they are a kind of pink that is more orange than pink. He is painting. Birds warble and the wind hits his fringe to provide an unobstructed view of his face. 

The next morning you spend an hour cleaning blood out of your  sink. The same soft petals circling him, accompanied by vicious thorns. And you think it’s worth it, to die like this, to die for love.

                                       ...

He thinks of your smile often. Tries to commit the curve to his memory like he’ll forget it otherwise. Perhaps that is what he fears. Forgetting you. Your face. Your smile. Your voice.  He fears to never be able to paint you again. Perhaps if he had forgotten, you’d cease to exist. 

“I can’t do this.” He says to the nameless girl, her lipstick smudged.

It’s not right. It doesn’t feel right. 

 He yearns to run his fingers through your unkempt hair;  he can’t stop thinking about you, your roaring laugh and your poetry, your heart, your fingers. Your imperfections. The bend of your spine and the slope of your neck.

Minghao searches for you in other people and finds only a gaping hole.

                                          ...

Minghao keeps having a recurring dream, one dream amongst thousands. He’s had it since he was a child. 

He’s swimming at first, halving  sapphire water with every stroke; whilst the sun shines above him. A spotlight. 

 He’s alone one moment and then he isn’t. Then he is in a meadow, a green meadow, a brilliant green that is too green to be just grass and not shards of emerald.

 He’s lying down, head rested on his folded arms, the sky is cobalt, not a cloud in sight. 

Peculiarly enough, in his dream, he knows he is in love and it is with someone who lies with him.

The first time he has this dream, he is 13. It teaches him to touch a paintbrush. To flirt with paint and fall in love with colours. Passion no longer latent. At 13, his lover is faceless. 

Now, he lies in the same meadow, he looks to his beloved, anticipating  the same blank outline he always has seen

and finds your smiling face instead. 

                                        ...

Junhui swears at Henry James often. Unable to decipher whatever the hell the author drones on about. One time he flung his copy of The Wings Of The Dove and watched it tear into two miserable halves of stupidly sophisticated words. 

 But you understand him. You pick up the torn pages and glue them together. You understand Henry James. 

The Turn Of The Screw. Horror in places that aren’t horrific. 

A kiss of autumn. The commencement of reds, darker browns and crunchy leaves. Not horrific. Minghao is looking at you, vines of steam from his coffee, brick red beret. He’s looking right at you. Not everything around you. Not autumnal beauty to catch inspiration from and spill it on his canvas.  

                                               ...

Minghao used to love someone once. 

A rattling thing inside his chest. He was young, too trusting and a blatant stranger to the jolting ache of unrequited love which comes when she quickly turns him down.

He promises  to never love like this again. 

Fast and unsteady. Without reason. Without logic. Unconditionally.

He thinks of your fingers, smaller against his. He thinks of dusk laying atop your body. He thinks of the rings around your eyes. The curls of your eyelashes. He thinks of blue. 

(Minghao has never been good at making promises.)

                                            ⊱ ────────── ⊰

It’s past midnight and you’re waiting for melancholy  to visit like she always does. But she never comes. Never in her bluest dress. Never anymore. 

You haven’t been coughing up flowers for a few weeks now.

                                            ⊱ ────────── ⊰

 Nervous is a laughable understatement. 

There’s an elephant in the room and its squeezing Minghao’s throat with its trunk, crushing the poor thing to dust.

The café is anything but silent. Soft music. Buzzing with teenagers. Loquacious couples. In between all the unspeakably loud bustling, Minghao is surprised to find that he can only hear Junhui’s tapping foot. The tings of Joshua’s phone. Hansol’s low humming. Minghao clears his throat. “I think .. I’m in love with her.” He says, sitting straight suddenly. He blurts it out like it’s a grand revelation.

Junhui silently sips his drink. He’s only decided to see the younger male because he was offered brownies.. Minghao investigates silently, eyes darting all over his friends’ face. Hansol nods. Joshua says nothing but offers a huge grin. Unsurprised. He was expecting a parted mouth at least, if not dropping jaws. 

It’s only Junhui who breaks the obnoxious silence.  “You’re the last to find out.” He says finally, narrowing his eyes. Minghao frowns. 

                                        ⊱ ────────── ⊰

He’s wearing the same shirt  that he wore  the first time you saw him.  Baby blue. Sheer. Smiling. It doesn’t reach his eyes.  Then your stomach twists. Finally, in your head echoes a delirious laugh. How foolish it was to get one’s hopes up.

 You wonder what it will be this time, perhaps lavender, perhaps a water lily, perhaps wisteria.  

But nothing comes. 

You only find your own reflection, staring back at you, gaping eyes emerging from  dirty ash toilet water. Then you try the sink.

 Nothing comes.

 "When were you going to tell me you were dying?“ You jump,turning and finding him leaning on the door frame.

 Arms crossed. Minghao has the audacity to look offended. 

“When were you going to tell me you’re in love with me?” You say instantaneously, frowning. If nothing comes now. If nothing comes for weeks.  No thorns. No flowers. It means what you think it means.  You’re glancing at him from the bathroom mirror.  He shuts the door. Just the two of you.

Craving and Wanting. Thinking. 

It isn’t wrong. 

Wanting you isn’t wrong. 

 A ring on his little finger.  He rubs his nape. Sheepish smile on his face. “I was hoping now.. isn’t a terrible time.”

You’re sitting on the ceramic ringlet of the sink, feet dangling. Like a child, you jut your lip out “It is.“ 

See you don’t mind the way he comes to you. Standing in between your legs. Foreheads pressed together. Fingers entwined. The oceans and hills. The gaps between your bodies. The tear in your heart. Forever closed. 

“You're trying to seduce me.” You frown, and he’s laughing and giggling, fingers tilting your chin upwards.

 “Am I not succeeding?" 

You shake your head a no. Toying with the hairs dropping over his eyes. "Failing miserably.” He recognises your jests in an instant. Mischievous eyes. Wondering eyes. 

Then he kisses you, soft and lingering. Muffled words pressed against your lips.

  “I love you.” He says, breathless. Eyes widened. Lips swollen. He thinks you’re driving him a little insane now. Searching your face for an answer. “If I didn’t love you back…” You say, nails painted a kind of wine red that never should be unsweetened,  “I wouldn’t be dying.” Thank you for saving me. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for saving my life. 

 You tug Minghao closer by the ends of his outgrown hair and kiss him a little dizzy. He thinks you’ve been driving him insane ever  since you’ve met him. 

                                        ⊱ ────────── ⊰

A cream envelope in hand, velvet under his fingers, a present amongst many presents. You’re wearing his shirt.  The fabric reaching right below the curve of your bum.  Speed Hunter scribbled on in chalky white. “I’ve tolerated you for an entire year.” You say and press your mouth to his. A tingly sensation in his tummy. It almost feels as if he’s swallowed a jar of butterflies. 

Surprises are not Xu Minghao’s cup of tea. Seokmin’s screams still scare him, he falls off bikes and still fails courses sometimes. 

But still, he, too, unwittingly, finds himself falling in love with a villanelle called Stars.

Your name inscribed underneath.

[stardancerluv]

Bittersweet Tears, Forever Love

Part 1a

Summary/Arthur’s note: a while back, I fell hard for Ray Stussy & Nikko Swango. 🥺😍 I just love them, and they break my heart. I wanted to so much more for them. Here is one way, I’d give them more time...this is AU...with its roots ground in the world of the show.

Warning: Blood, murder (well deserved!)

“Ray, should be back anytime now.” He could see the worry straining her features. She swung her legs over and sat on the edge of the bed. Nervously, she tapped har foot on the floor.

He went over and rested two of his paws on her thigh. From that advantage, he finally could read the clock. No wonder she was getting worried. It was going on two hours that he had left.

Her hand absently petted him. Sometimes, it went with his fur other times not so much. All he cared about was that it brought her a little bit of peace.

She looked down at him. “He’ll be here.” She grimaced and nodded her head. “Probably, got distracted by something. Probably food. Yeah. That’s what he’s doing. Getting us dinner.” She nodded her head. Unsuccessfully, she tried to stifle a yawn. It had been a horribly long day.

With gentle hands she, lifted him and put him more onto the bed. “I need to make some coffee. I don’t want to fall asleep on Ray.”

Getting, up he watched as she grabbed the coffee pot and went into the bathroom. He heard her close the door, he could have heard her turn on the faucet too. He grimaced, always a lady. Despite being alone with just a cat, she still closed the door to take care of her needs.

Relaxing, he stretched out before sitting back up. He inspected his paws, letting his claws came out. Damn. He thought him, what would they look like when he was full on cat.

Licking his paw, be rubbed the top of his head. You heard a noise you couldn’t make out coming from the door. Turning, his fur twitched something was about to happen, he was certain he could feel it.

He watched as the door slowly opened. Had she not locked it? He panicked then remembering he had to breathe. She was distracted, you had not returned.

Who the hell was that? He watched a man slight in stature of Asian decent, crept around the door.

Sounds of water and her puttering around in the bathroom filled the motel room as if she was there with them.

The man’s mouth twitched upward, the half smile made him shiver. It was damn ghoulish. Straightening, the man was still slight in stature. Fear shook him where he sat. Shaking, he focused as he watched as the man reached into his pocket. What the hell was be grabbing.

A gun would be too loud. A fucking garrote, really? Moments, later he started swinging it.

Anger and rage boiled in his little body. He started running from where he had sat and leapt into the air. His bared his claws, when he landed they sunk easily into the man’s soft skin.

The man howled in pain as he made his way arm, tearing as best he could while trying to avoid his other hand which tried to rip him off.

He heard her scream behind him, it tore through him. If only he could tell her they could handle this. He managed to get to the man’s shoulder. Closing his eyes, he swiped at his throat, warmth splashed him. A hissing came from he didn’t know he was capable of. Desperate, he steadied himself digging in his claws, the man wavered under him.

He leapt off. Landing on the carpet, shaking himself off, he looked behind him. In doing so, it was just as the man fell to his knees.

That’s when he saw Nikki come up and slam into him with the coffee pot. She wailed into him with the handle. The man didn’t resist, holding his throat he crashed to the ground with a heavy thud. Nikki, just looked at him and blowing some hair out of her eyes, she smiled at you.

Out of breath, he slowly crept over to the man. Nikki kicked him. No movements nor any sound came from him. In a move, that caused winces and a groan, she went and double locked the door.

Ray, let himself finally smile. Feeling, victorious he let a meow tear loudly from his little body. It was far from what he had it would sound like but it made him feel good.

Something, was giving way. Confused, he looked wildly around as the floor disappeared from under his paws. He soon relaxed when he realized she had picked him up. Her warm eyes, were not far from his.

“It’s ok, I got you.” He heard her whisper. He couldn’t stop the tears from filling his eyes, she was so lovely, despite a few splatters of blood across her face. “Don’t be scared. You were so brave.” She softly cooed, then he felt her lips between his ears. He couldn’t fight his tears then, a whimper soon followed.

She held him to her then. “We did it!” She held him, rocking him a little before he was in front of her again. A brave smile spread across her face, her eyes never left his. He let himself softly meow.

“We did a very good thing.” She swallowed, as she still looked at him. “The other day, I tried to get better a deal for Ray and I.” She sighed.

His heart stilled. What had she done, he thought. Oh...Nikki, he thought as he looked at her.

“He beat me up, kicked me.” She harshly swallowed, he saw as tears prickled her eyes as her mouth took a grim line. “The world is better without him.”

His heart ached, why Nikki...why. He wanted to hold her so tightly, to give her a reassuring kiss. All he was able to muster was a purr. That brought a gentle smile from her.

“Now, don’t you go telling Ray that. He worries about me enough.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” She carried him to the bathroom, placing him on the counter. “I don’t think Ray, will want to meet you covered in blood.”

“It will be bad enough when he sees that out there.” She shook her head.

He walked over to the mirror, trying not to slip. The surface was almost too much for his pawe. Looking at his reflection, he backed up, he was covered. A whimper came from deep in his stomach.

She looked down at him, she smiled. “It’s ok. You are still incredibly handsome.” She winked. “At least I hope your handsome. You look like a boy to me.” He meowed as loud as he could.

She giggled. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Holding him gently, she soon began rubbing the cloth over his body. He stretched and squirmed it felt odd despite knowing it had to be done. “I gotta get this off you.” She added more water to the was cloth and rung out before dragging it over him again.

A shrill ring filled the other room. “That’s not mine.” Hopping down, he walked over to the body. He shook himself from paw to paw. He did not like how his wet fur felt. The ringing came from the man’s back pocket, he went to stand near it.

She reached in. “VM?” She shrugged who the hell was that? Was that the Russian. “Let’s see who the hell this is.” She said, looking down at him.

“Meemo! Don’t kill her just yet.” She heard as the voice suck on his teeth. “We have an issue with the damn brother she is involved with. A deep cleaning up is needed. Come back now.”

She covered her mouth, he looked at her. He watched as she grew pale. He had never saw her like this. Even when they got damn Maurice with the ac unit.

“Meemo!?!”

“Fuck you! Meemo is dead!” She hollered and hung up the phone.

@rosionis @brookisbi @johallzy @foreverhockeytrash @frostypenguinoz @dandycandy75

[greenninjagal-blog]

Even If It Kills Us (but it won’t hopefully) pt5

hey, Hey, HEy, HEY! back with the next part of the Sanders Sides Mafia AU that somehow made it this far??? I’m not complaining.

Part Four is here for a refresher, and Part One is here for those who are new around! Summary: Virgil accepted that his dreams of being a normal college student were basically non existent after he’s named the heir to the family mafia he didn’t know existed until five hours ago. Its a little harder to believe the secret his best friend has been hiding from him.

TW: blood, dead bodies

Quick Taglist:@a-she-monster @average--human @crysthefangirl4ever @deathshadowrules @dierotenixe @drmephistofaust @fandomobsessed-nerd @fireflysinmystomach @icequeenoriginal @ilovemygaydad @iolanomsgranola @jadeace115 @just-another-rainbowblog @kindly-falling @laragazzadellluna @lefaystrent @levy-the-b00kw0rm @mirror2thespirit @my-analogical-romance @oodlemydoodle @punsterterry @sanders-sides-rebloger @skittlesun @skullfire2004  @spookilyfingergunsoutofexistence @superwholocked-for-life @sylveon-lover-crazyfangirl1415 @that-ghost-in-the-corner @felicianoromano @jemthebookworm

(as always let me know if I missed anyone/ you want to be added)

“Sorry kiddos! I may have made a bit of a mess in the kitchen!”

A bit of a mess, in Virgil’s mind, was dropping a plate, or spilling some flour, or burning some toast, all of which Virgil had seen Patton do before and giggle as he cleaned up without much fuss.

Roman’s kitchen was not “a bit” of a mess.

It was was a WHOLE mess.

Virgil counts three men in Mardi Gras masks, and another whose mask was discarded the chaos. On enemy is sprawled on the counter leaking from pellet sized holes in his back. Another is pinned against the wall with kitchen knives by his clothes head hanging low and ever muscle limp. Another is on the floor surrounded by broken china, lots of blood, and several forks in unsavory places. Virgil can only see the leg of the last one, caught in halfway in the hall and he’s not sure he wants to see the rest.

Two of the kitchen cabinet doors are broken off their hinges, several plates of food are splattered across the remaining counter space, every step comes with the crunch of glaces or porcelain or the squelch of a red liquid that smells metallic.

And Patton stands in the middle of it washing a frying pan and asking if anyone would like some eggs for dinner.

Even Roman seems stunned to silence, with one arm around Logan holding him up despite the other’s suddenly quiet insistence that he was fine.

Logan’s bleeding from his shoulder, his shooting arm and he’s not ambidextrous but he refuses to leave the armory without his replacement gun. 

Virgil’s knife feels very stupid and heavy in his sweatshirt pocket, right there next to the keys to a very fancy car he doesn’t need.

Roman grabs the tablecloth from the ornate kitchen table and throws it off-- dumping away the shattered shards from the chandelier that had made its final resting place on one of the chairs.-- and placing Logan in it’s place

far more gently than Virgil would have thought a man like him was capable of

Logan swears, his face pinched with pain. 

Blood bleeds over his fingers, too slow, yet too much.

“Keep applying pressure,” Roman says before disappearing.

“I know how to handle a gunshot wound.” Logan snaps.

it’s missing the usual bite.

he doesn’t sound like a trigger happy accountant anymore. He sounds like someone who just got shot and it trying not to black out from the onslaught of pain.

The specs of blood on his tied were brown compared to the scarlet oozing from between his fingers.

Patton steps neatly over one of the bodies and finds a new frying pan-- one that hasn’t hit other people.

“Eggs?” He asks nicely.

Virgil thinks he’s asking him.

Maybe?

Virgil’s stuck somewhere between staring down the barrel of a gun for the umpteenth time and realizing that Patton downed eight fully grown men with guns and training by himself. 

Patton

It doesn’t-- Virgil can’t--

This Patton that’s standing in front of him with a bruise on his cheek has the same smile as the boy who at age seven plopped himself down next to Virgil asked if they could be best friends for no reason other than Virgil looked so cool!

the boy who dragged Virgil from his last class freshman year of high school and sat him in outfield of the baseball field to teach him how to weave yellow dandelions into flower crowns.

The same boy who plucked one of the spherical wish blowers and told him with the most conviction that Virgil could do anything he wanted to.

The same boy who had weathered every one Virgil’s moods, who had never been more than a phone call away when Virgil needed him, who had been the only one Virgil trusted with everything.

He can’t for the life of him figure out who the man in the kitchen surrounded by unconscious or dead enemies is.

“Virgil?”

Virgil’s staring at him trying to unsee it-- trying desperately to unsee the sight before him.

For his sanity.

“Virgil!”

because he had spent his entire life with Patton, held hands with him, had eaten meals with him, had shared a room with him. He had seen Patton cry over a squirrel who had danced too close to the road side. He had seen Patton steal an extra piece of bread from the dining hall so he could share it with the kids in the park to feed the birds. He had seen Patton’s careful hands thread close the rip in Virgil’s favorite jeans.

He thought he knew Patton better than anyone else in the world.

But Virgil...

Virgil is struck by the most terrifying thought of his entire life-- more terrifying than when Patton had thrown himself in front of Virgil at the movies, more terrifying than when Logan had announced their family was trying to kill him, more terrifying than when Roman had stared wistfully at the bullet scratches on his car like he wanted to be back in the firefight.

Virgil is suddenly struck by the idea he might know Logan and Roman better than he knows Patton.

Because Patton is staring at him right now and Virgil doesn’t recognize him with bruises on his skin and a his shoes splattered with a foreign substance.

“VIRGIL!”

Virgil grabs the wall to steady himself as his knees suddenly find themselves magnetically attracted to the polished floor. His head knocks the cream colored wall.

He can’t remember ever going over to Patton’s house as a kid, can’t remember any awkward weird meeting with Patton’s parents, can’t remember Patton ever talking about his family.

He can’t remember.

He doesn’t think he ever knew.

Patton is standing in front of him and Virgil feels like they are strangers on the street. 

Except that strangers on the street don’t know each other favorite foods, or favorite colors, or the way they like each other’s eggs.

The room spins.

Patton is kneeling right next to him, his freckles barely noticeable in the dim light, his glasses dotted with fingerprints. He’s close, but there’s still space between them.

Because they are strangers, but they are strangers who know that Virgil is not to be touched. 

“Who are you?”

It kills him to say every word. It kills him more than any gun ever could.

Because Patton was the only person he thought he could trust, his best friend, who apparently knows how to fight just as well as Logan and Roman.

And he can see Roman and Logan in the background, both of them freezing at his tone, at his question. Roman with cloths and bandages and Logan with too much blood for a normal person.

“Kiddo?” Patton says-- and fuck Virgil wants to take the words back out of the air. Patton kinda laughs- a laugh that was born from disbelief and dread, barely longer than a breath.

“It’s me. Patton?”

And for some reason that’s not comforting.

It’s not a safety net for Virgil as he falls.

It’s the hands that pushed him off the edge.

“No!” Virgil spits, “No it’s not!”  

Virgil doesn’t get mad. 

He doesn’t.

Not when his mother tried to knife Patton when Virgil announced he was moving out, not when his Public Speaking teacher tried to fail him for having anxiety, not when Logan spoke down to him and Patton for not immediately blending with Logan’s ideal thug life.

But the feeling in his stomach bubbles like some sort of soda that Patton’s words just pushed Mentos into.

“My best friend doesn’t know how to---” Virgil jerks towards the kitchen because he’s not even sure how to state what he’s looking at without screaming, “Not the Patton I know! So who the Hell are you?!”

“Virgil--” Patton starts, lip wobbling.

“Stop that! You don’t get to cry!” Virgil shouts, “Those are dead people! You didn’t blink an eye! So don’t you dare cry because I asked a question I should have asked years ago.”

“Virgil--” Roman says

“Shut up!”

“Virgil.” Logan’s grits out between his teeth, “Now is not the time--”

“Did I ask for your opinion?” Virgil snarls.

“I--” Logan stutters, “No. However the situation is far more delicate than we previously--”

“I don’t fucking care.”

Logan’s mouth snaps shut. Virgil’s not sure if it was do to the wariness that came from blood loss or if its because he might have finally found whatever he was looking for in Virgil’s eyes.

He turns back to Patton, aware of each of the seven inches between them.

Patton’s smile, drops. Virgil thinks its chilling how tiny the number of times he’s seen it happen is.

“I wanted to tell you.” He says.

As if that explains it all. As if that’s a band aid he can slap on to make everything better again.

“I hate-- I really hate lying.” Patton says. Virgil thinks that true, except that if he really hated it he wouldn’t have done it 

“You weren’t supposed to ever know,” Patton looks up at him, something akin to regret in his eyes. “Thomas said it was just a precaution.”

“Thomas?” Roman and Logan’s voices both break equally sharp at the comment.

“As in Thomas Sanders, who was murdered three days ago, Thomas?” Roman says.

“As in Thomas Sanders who left Virgil as his heir, Thomas?” Logan follows pale in the face from pain or from shock.

Patton’s face answers the question more effectively than actual words.

“He asked me just to look out for you.” Patton says quietly, “Just in case anyone tried anything against you or your mother.”

Virgil’s nails dig into the wall paint. “Like a bodyguard.”

“i know what you’re thinking!” Patton says, “But it’s not--

“This whole time--”

“I swear it’s not like--”

“--you let me--”

“Virgil please!” 

“YOU KNEW!”

Patton silences like all the oxygen in the room had cut off.

“You knew,” Virgil repeats, himself, “You knew about my family, about all this? And you didn’t tell me?”

“None of this was supposed to happen--”

Virgil scoffs, “So that makes it okay?! What the hell, Patton! YOU PRETENDED TO BE MY FRIEND!” 

“I am your friend!”

“I don’t know who you are!” Virgil snaps, “All I know is that apparently some guy I never met told you to watch me and now he’s dead! You’ve been by my side since we were seven. What was a seven year old supposed to do against the mafia?!”

Patton rubs his neck, “You’d be surprised.”

“Fuck you,” Virgil says and he thinks its the only time he’s ever said it to Patton and meant it. 

“Kiddo,” Patton says.

“Fuck you. All of you.” Virgil says. “Fuck this family, fuck being this heir!” He dragged himself to his feet so fast that Patton had to scramble back to avoid being stepped on. 

Part of Virgil was pleased to see the spark of fear in his eyes.

“I DIDN’T WANT THIS!” Virgil yelled.

“You have it anyway,” Logan said.

Virgil grabs a plate fragment from the floor and hurls it at his head. It misses by a millimeter and shatters against the wall behind both him and Roman.

“HEY!” Roman yelps.

Virgil wonders what it would be like to throw his knife again. What it would look like sinking into Roman’s shoulder so that he and Logan could match.

“Virgil, wait!” Patton begs, scrambling after him.

But Virgil isn’t in the mood. Patton gets too close, and Virgil’s mind is too fogged up with anger at his life, his family, Patton, to think. Patton gets too close.

And Virgil’s knuckles connect with Patton’s face. 

there’s a snap as Patton’s glasses break. 

a thud as Patton hits the ground again.

a ring of stupid satisfaction in Virgil as he towers over the person who was his friend and feels his fist pulse with an angry pain.

Virgil thinks maybe for a moment he can see the old Patton there, staring in bizarre wonderment at an ordinary thing: staring at the halves of his glasses like they were a foreign object.

Blood blots up at the bridge of his nose where the edges had cracked.

Virgil turns and this time no one calls after him.

The next thing he knows he’s on the road, driving. Somewhere. Anywhere.

And the inside of the purple Maserati is just as nice as the outside.

It’s nearing three in the morning and he blows down the highway without a destination in mind. 

There’s no one to stop him.

It’s just him. Alone.

He hasn’t been alone since he was seven.

Patton had known who he was all that time, what he was. He had known more about Virgil’s family than he had. He had befriended Virgil and somehow that felt like the biggest insult of all.

Because Virgil wasn’t a person, Patton hadn’t picked him over any one else in the class. He was a mission and Patton had succeed in it.

They had only ever been friends because some guy Virgil didn’t know--never would know-- had told Patton to be his friend.

His knuckles cry as he tightens his grip on the steering wheel and blows by a speed limit sign that portrays a number forty miles lower.

Whatever.

Virgil’s at the end of his rope anyway.

He doesn’t know where he’s going. Other than “away”

He goes, goes, goes.

And somehow he finds himself throwing the car into park at an empty rest stop on some curving mountain road. He can’t remember if there were any mountains were he’s from. He doesn’t really care either.

It’s hours later, and the anger in his bones drained out onto the road. All that’s left is a numbness that should be terrifying but it just feels comforting now.

He’s not at the top of the mountain, but it’s still a pretty decent view.

Virgil turns off the engine. Pulls out the keys. He gets out of the car and sits on the hood.

And he watches the sunrise. 

There’s no one that he can see for miles. 

He’s alone. 

And Virgil throws his head back and screams as loud as he can. He screams until his eardrums burst, he screams until his lung ache, until the noise in his head matches the empty way he was feeling. He screams for every time he let Patton touch him, for everything time Patton smiled at him, for every time he had thought that his mother was crazy for saying he couldn’t trust anyone. 

He screamed for the life he wanted so bad. He screamed until the sun had turned from a blood red to a golden light and he felt a little bit better. 

His chest heaved.

He stared at the sun daring it to fight back, daring the deities to give him something else to scream about.

“Quite some lungs you got there,” A voice says from behind him.

Virgil whips around.

There’s a boy there, his age, wearing black leather. He’s leaning against an emerald green motorcycle, with a black helmet in his arms. gloved hands, black stud earrings and silver rings in the helix.

Virgil didn’t here him come, but he seemed to be content to let Virgil go on.

His eyes are heterochromatic, one brown, one green.

“We have a couple of things to talk about, Virgil.” He says.

“How do you know my name?”

“Intuition,” The boy responds, “Also I try to keep up with the news. I can only assume the new person driving one of Roman Prince’s cars is going to be the newly named heir to the Sanders empire.”

“Who are you?”

“Full of questions are we?” He smiles, like a snake. Then he reaches behind him for something.

It turns out to be a gun. Virgil’s not sure why he was expecting anything else.

“I’d call us cousins,” He says, “I’m Dee Sanders, the other heir.”

Part Six

[pops-and-kids]

Hello! Below is a little something I wrote for Lil Red! It’s angst filled, so be warned of that! I plan to do one of these a month, but they wont always be this long or heavy as this one. If you’d like to see more of these please tell me! These will be tagged Redfics, with Lil’ Red either being the main character or the main topic. Please enjoy! (^-^)/

Red scuttled around the halls quickly, her blue and gold eyes blown wide in fear. A bunch of bad men attack the ship again today, but this time they brought friends. Haruta was supposed to take her and hide, but they suddenly lurched forward and tossed her, sending her tumble all over the floor. When she looked back up at them they were clutching their shoulder and told her to run for the bedrooms. The sound of yelling and boomsticks frightened her to her very core. Even Pop-pop was yelling! He never yelled! Red whimpered as she ran down the long hall, now lost on the ship. To her everything looked the same, and her nose was just filled with that icky smell of iron, sea salt, and the grey powder Izou and Curiel stuffed in their boomsticks. Her ears were full of the sounds of everyones yells of anger and pain, sending chills down her tricolour patched coat. She was scared, she wanted Fossa or Pop-pop to hold her! The rocking of the ship under her paws didn’t help, the sea and sky were just as upset as her as storm clouds started swirling above and harsh waves started snapping at the sides of the whale boat.

Her small paws barely made any sound over the fighting, but her heart sounded like it had gotten into her head and was thumping loud in her already straining ears. She looked at the doors next to her, but none of them had the bedroom plates on them. She only recognized Haruta and Kingdews big boy room, where all the weird whirring and beeping machines were with the talking snails. She skidded to a halt and made a helpless jump for the door lever, though it was in vain. All the door levers on the ship were too high for her small body, even if she jumped with her just jump! Red slid down the door, her claws leaving marks on the wood as her eyes filled with tears. Haruta and Kingdew were back on the deck, and she’d get yelled at if she went out there while the adults all yelled at one another. A strong wind crashed into the ship, making it lean to the side and filling her nose with more of that awful iron smell. She didn’t like it at all, but the all-better room and Jirus rooms always smelled of it. The deck did too days after a fight, but today it was really strong.

Suddenly a loud boom shook her entire body and knocked the air out of her, leaving her gasping. Screams were all she heard over the ringing in her ears, the wailing of the wind going through her. Her eyes were full of little stars as she opened them, but all that she was greeted with was splintered wood of the once intact hallway and the fire eating at the whale boat. The whale boat wasn’t supposed to be on fire! Ace wouldn’t set the whale boat on fire! Red fall back onto the floor, jumping up onto her six paws as the ship rocked scarily again. The ocean was really upset now, banging into all the ships around into the whale boat. The wind was howling and tearing at the big sails too, threatening to jab holes in them. She gulped and started running down the hall again, away from the yelling and fire, far away.

“Unf!” While she was looking back at the massive hole in the side of the whale boat she had bumped into something! Or someone.

Suddenly large hands grabs her hard, causing her to yelp in pain as she was yanked up off the ground so quickly and with her legs crushed together painfully. She blinked and looked forward, meeting green eyes. They weren’t happy eyes like Thatchs, but deep and scary. They didn’t have the love and affection he did, but more like a Shaleback eyeing a new meal: her.

“And what the fuck are you?” The man asked, a creepy smile twisted on his face. She didn’t like that smile. Red shrunk back a bit, a whimper escaping her mouth.

The man gripped her even tighter, tears of pain and fear stinging at the corners of her eyes as he looked her over. Red felt a rush of peircing ice go through her veins, and her eyes widened in shock as she remembered what Auntie Ta’Vari had told her.

“If a human corners you, kick them as hard as you can! In the stomach, in the knees, in the throat, anywhere you reach!”

“Aren’t you that thing the marines were freaking out about some time back? Some sort of beast?” The man continued talking, ignoring the glossed over look in the faerie dragons eyes.

With a few deep breaths Red gathered all her strength and raised her hind paws, sending them jabbing into his chest! He gasped and hunched over a bit, but his hands gripped even tighter to Reds horror, making her screech in pain.

“Heheh...feisty little shit...” His one hand let her go for just a second--only to regain grip. Around her neck. “Aint ya?” Red’s eyes went wide as she began to squirm in earnest now.

The man laughed as he slowly crushed her throat his his hand, her thrashing becoming more and more panicked as she got less and less air. All she got loose was one of her front legs, but at the cost of being able to breathe freely. She craned her neck and made eye contact with him, stopping the fighting and merely trembling in his hands.

“I wonder how much your pelt would sell for.” The man smirked.

What did he mean? Did he want her fur? Why did he want it? He couldn’t have it! Izou loved to brush it! Fossa spent a lot of time washing oil out of it! Everyone loved how soft it was, especially Pop-pop! HE COULDN’T HAVE IT!!!

Red bared her teeth like Papa taught her, eyes focusing on nothing but the bad man in front of her. In a split second her one free paw flexed, curved claws unsheathing from their cute and furry toes. She opened her mouth and her paw shot forward.

“NO!!” Her paw went towards his face. Directly into his eye.

His face was blank as her claws went into his open eye, red splattered out and over her paw as they dug in deep. In a single second he roared in pain and let go of Red, letting her fall to the floor. Red gasped for air as she stumbled to her paws and looked at the man. He stumbled back, screaming curse words not even fossa had used before, red iron oozing from between his fingers as he clutched at his eye. The little faerie dragon was frozen on the spot, fear and horror gluing her to the floor.

The bad man looked at her, his other eye filled with rage. That scared her even more.

“YOU LITTLE RAT!!! I’LL SKIN YOU ALIVE!!!” He screamed and yanked out his sword, charging at her.

Red could only stare with wide eyes as the glint of his sword caught the light, it’s aura filled with spite and blood lust.

“GET THE FUCK--” Sword met flaming sword, Fossa’s yell of rage filled Red’s ears as she stared at the swords inches away from her face.

The bad man stumbled back and Fossa went forward. He raised his swords and in a quick motion--

“RED!!”

He brought them down just as large hands scooped her up, covering her eyes and ears. But it was too late. She had saw the swords dig into the man’s flesh, she had seen the red iron gushing from his body, she had heard the start of his scream.

“It’s okay! It’s okay! He didn’t hurt you, did he?!” Dewey cuddled her so tenderly, keeping her pressed against his chest protectively as she shook and let out a sob. She loved Pop-pop, and Marco, and Ace, and Thatchy, and Jojo, and Vista, and Menny, and Mossy, and Namur, and Dewey, and Haruta, and Atmos, and Jiru, and Fossa, and Izou. They fed her and kept her safe, gave her lots of love and naps.

But she missed Mommy and Papa.

[starrynite7114]

Things you never knew: One

A/N: Hi everyone! Slightly new to the Mayans fandom, but I’ve decided to write an Angel multi-chapter story. This is my first time dabbling in the Mayans fandom, hopefully you guys will like this story! It’s gonna be a wild ride. 

“Ace,” Michael greeted me. “Per your request, Aurelio,” a smirk appeared on Michael’s face, happy to finally give this prick what he deserved.

“Ailee, come on, Maquina is a friend.” Aurelio did not even let me ask the questions, he knew better. He always knew that the worst gang of them all was the government, but Maquina made the CIA and FBI look like reasonable people, like saints.  

But then again, Maquina basically did the dirty work for the CIA and FBI.

“Friendships end,” I took my gun out from the holster, looking at Michael. “Where’d you find him?”

“Attempting to cross the border,” Michael replied. “To Canada.”

“Canada? Not Mexico?” I questioned.

“I have family in Canada.”

I nodded my head. “Why are you running? Thought you didn’t do anything wrong.” She twisted the silencer on the muzzle knowing that even though there were no occupied buildings for miles, it was always better to be safe than sorry.

‘Sloppiness causes unnecessary deaths.’ Theo’s voice rang through my head.

“Ailee, come on, we’ve been in business together for 4 years, I’ve done all Maquina has asked of me.” Aurelio pleaded, struggling through his restraints.

I’ve killed so many people before that it was a routine at this point. It was my job. Way back when, I had a set of codes that I abided by, which seemed a bit hypocritical since I was an assassin. But even assassins had a code of ethics to assure that our way of living remained hidden. Maybe in some ways we tried to justify our kills, but we always tried to avoid killing an innocent person. After all, we had to have some ounce of humanity left in us.

At least I did or I used to.

Nowadays, I killed with no qualms. The codes I used to live by was just not something I believed in anymore. With every body that dropped in front of me, with every life I took, my humanity begun to chip away.

I nodded my head and took the gun. I pointed the gun at Aurelio, sliding my finger inside the trigger guard, placing my index finger on the trigger. He begged for mercy as I observed him. His face was full of cuts, blood sliding down the side of his face. His left eye was swelling from all the punches he received.

For a moment, I felt that mercy that was once there. The one that let some people go due to their family ties. The one that cried whenever I took a life. The one that begged for forgiveness from God for all the sins I’ve committed.

I shouldn’t show a sign of weakness. I shook my head, getting rid of the weakness that no assassin should ever have. Mercy was for the weak; I trained myself to be able to rid of such thoughts.

My feet begun moving towards the man, placing the gun on his forehead. “Sorry, it’s nothing personal. You just helped the wrong guy.” I pulled the trigger, his blood splattering on my clothes and face.

I didn’t even blink.

Insane, isn’t it?

The man dropped on the floor as I put my arm down. Michael handed me a towel and I wiped my face. He then handed me a sweatshirt so I could cover my shirt. I took it, slipping it on my body.

“At least your jeans are black,” Michael pointed out making both of us laugh.

“Isn’t it always?” I looked at Michael and gave him a small smile. “Clean this up?”

“Don’t I always?” He replied returning my smile with that smirk of his.

I nodded my head and walked out of the abandoned building we used to kill or torture the living shit out of people. Cliché, I know, but abandoned warehouses/buildings were the best places to rid the world of some people that no longer contributed much to society.

I wasn’t exactly proud of my job, but it was what I was good at. Oddly enough, I was never a troubled child, I got straight A’s, a model student as one might say, but for some reason, I drifted to this lifestyle. Fighting absolutely fascinated me. Action movies were my favorite movie genre. But at one point, I was a college student, a so-called “normal” person. Then one day, I dropped out. College wasn’t for everyone and it certainly wasn’t for me. My parents were absolutely devastated, but they weren’t going to be devastated for long, they were killed the next day.

It wasn’t an accident, even though that’s how everyone tried to paint it.

It was an assassination.

And that’s how I was introduced into this world.

My parents worked for this organization, they owned the organization.

It was the government’s loophole to diplomacy. Mercenaries. Though, we were whatever the assignment needed, whether it be an assassin, a mole, etc. At the end of the day, we worked for the government. However, we did partake in independent contracts as well.

Maquina.

It was the name of the agency my parents owned. My siblings and I were in shock when we first found out; we didn’t know that this was what our parents were doing. My father’s older brother, Jin, was technically the one who owned the company, but my father sacrificed plenty for the company as well. When my parents had us, they weren’t as active, but once in a while, their business trips constituted of assassinating someone.

Their lives were what movies were based on and it was absolutely fascinating.

My older sister, Evangelina didn’t want to be involved, at least not in the killing aspect. She was a lawyer and was content with her job, but she was the in-house lawyer in the event there were some difficulties. But Evangelina usually handled the contracts for Maquina with the US government and our allies. John, much like Evangelina, didn’t want to be involved, but much like Evangelina, he had a part in the company. The odd numbered children was far away from the killing aspect of the agency as possible.

But Vince, the second oldest, and myself, the youngest, were immediately immersed. That was the catch though, my siblings feigned their surprise, it was only I that was kept in the dark. All of my siblings knew, because when they reached a certain age, my parents told them about it. I was a week away from them telling me of their true occupation.

Vince, much like myself, was an assassin. The best in the agency, that was no surprise since apparently my dad was some sort of legend. Though, its not like he was competing with anyone when the agency began.

Make a long story short, Vince died two years after my parents did and that’s when I took the mantle, to continue the family name. It sounded absolutely insane, there were much safer jobs, but when Vince died, a part of me died with him and the ruthless aggression began.

For some time I continued to follow the code, it was Vince’s code after all. But as the sadness and anger consumed me, things changed.

Killing helped ease the pain.

Evangelina and John knew what I did for a living that much was obvious, but they did not approve of it whatsoever. They never tried to run my life, they didn’t start now, but they always threw caution my way.

I, Ailee Cruz, have been living this life for about seven years now.

It was my daily routine.

I go in the agency, get my mission, and leave. Though some missions took longer than others, lately I’ve been local since I’ve earned my due. Seniority gave you the opportunity to pick certain missions for yourself. If it looked interesting, it was yours, if not, it was given to someone else. Seniority was hard to earn in this life since most people don’t make it very far. I was fortunate to have made it this far, but then again, I’m the best, I’m untouchable.

And others just leave this life behind. It wasn’t a job you kept for very long. Some people who made it through the years end up leaving and this wasn’t a movie, they don’t tie you down for life. Once your contract was up, if you desired to leave, you may leave. They even help you find a new job. It was the benefits of being paired up with the government.

It wasn’t the agency that haunted you, it was the sins that you committed that did. It was absolutely difficult not to make enemies in this type of setting. I’ve made some, but they were all six feet under, not my doing, it was their own doing.

I looked at the Golden Gate Bridge, one of the shining monuments of San Francisco, but all it did was bring pain to me. Vince jumped from that bridge. His body was never recovered. It wasn’t suicide, he was trying to escape someone. I was never able to figure out who had it out for my brother and it angered me, I wanted to avenge him, to make sure that whoever killed him suffered. But nowadays, I was far too busy to even try and look for whoever did it. The revenge didn’t fade, I just didn’t want to open old wounds. I finally had some hold of my life, I didn’t want to lose control once again.

“How was it?” A voice broke me away from the bridge.

I looked beside me and a laugh escaped my lips. “You’re lucky I don’t have a gun on me or I would have shot you.”

Xander, my fellow agent and brother-in-law, chuckled. “So, how was it?”

“Would you like to see my shirt?”

“No, you’re fine,” he shook his head. “A new assignment came through for you.” He held up a folder.

“From my uncle?” Aurelio was a personal favor I handled for my uncle. It was odd that he didn’t tell me of this other mission he wanted to assign to me.

“No, it’s an independent contractor.”

I nodded, holding out my hand. He placed the folder in my hand and I opened it, the profile and pictures in the folder shocked me.

Who the fuck did Angel Reyes pissed off?

I knew of Angel’s affiliation with the Mayans, it was hard to miss when I saw him often when we were growing up. Vince was never attracted to that MC lifestyle, but it’s not as if our lifestyle was any better. If anything, we were worst than the MC.

Angel was a former friend of Vince’s. We all grew up in Santo Padre together. He remained close to Angel, but I honestly haven’t seen the guy since my brother’s funeral. He tried to keep in contact with me, but I didn’t need any more reminders of my brother’s absence.

It was with me everyday.

“Angel Reyes? Since when did mechanics become targets?”

“This isn’t exactly high profiled case. At least he isn’t a politician, you know those are a pain.” Xander pointed out. “They specifically asked for you. And we both know that Angel Reyes isn’t just some mechanic.”

“Peculiar.” I shrugged and closed the folder. “Consider it done.”

“Wait, are you serious? You’re going to do it? He was extremely close to Vin-,”

“Don’t,” I cut him off. “Don’t say his name. This has nothing to do with him.”

“But Lee-”

“This is a business, what we do is not for the weak of heart.”

“Ailee, don’t be ridiculous, you know it’s more than that.” Xander sighed, I’m sure he was frustrated with my indifference. .

I was the best at what I do. I’m a ruthless killer with no sympathy for the person I had to kill. It was a sad life.

Could you imagine feeling no remorse when you see a lifeless body fall before you? When I use to hear stories about murders, I would always think that whoever committed such a crime had to be insane, but I was wrong.

I’m a perfectly sane person.

I just craved blood.

The adrenaline I felt when I killed another person, I would just watch his or her body fall, thinking in my head that I had one less person to worry about. This life I live, you’re always on alert, especially if you make enemies on the way. Sure the government technically protected you, our identities were more concealed than the Navy Seals, but some people make mistakes and they make enemies. I made that mistake once, but I cleaned it up.

The praise you received, the respect you acquire when you put another notch on your belt. It’s the best feeling in the world.

So then the question was, why do I do it?

In the world we live in today, you either kill or be killed, I choose to live a longer life.

I sound insane, I know. It’s like I’m contradicting my previous statement, but I’m not.

I’m a perfectly sane person.

“You don’t have to come with me, it’s a personal contract, you can stay put.” I slipped contract in the bag that I was carrying. “You were never a big fan of Angel, shouldn’t be an issue for you.”

“If I knew Angel was connected to your humanity, I would have definitely approved of Angel.”

“There’s no turning back now.”

[the-graves-family]

The first time I wrote Dark!Ace was a few years ago in a Dark!Stargate:Atlantis fic. Here's a snippet.

He knew something was wrong the moment he stepped into his quarters. At first glance, everything was as he had left it. The lights were off, the bed was impeccably made, the books on the nightstand were perfectly aligned.

Well, the only thing that was really off was the blood, then.

It was just droplets at first, which he followed with great interest, but that soon turned into light drag marks. He sighed, running a hand over his face. Not again... Sure enough, he found Graves in the back of the kitchenette in his quarters. His skin was splattered in blood, and he was holding his knees tightly to his chest. Even from the distance, the tremors shaking his body were visible.

Of course, the only thing separating them was the body in Lorne's kitchen.

The major raised his gaze to the ceiling, muttering a quick curse, and his lover's shaking only got worse. "We've talked about this." Lorne said out loud, eyes returning to the bloody mess that was his kitchen. Graves slowly uncurled his body, laying his back on the cold floor. Evan's eyes ran over his body, assessing the damage. The uniform's jacket had been spared - he probably hadn't had it on - but the shirt was a goner. He'd never get all the blood off it. He settled his gaze on Ace's face, and on that not-all-there grin that made the major want to fuck him right then and there. Even though Graves had moved, he made no other reaction to Evan's words. The older man narrowed his eyes. "You know I don't like repeating myself." He spoke in a commanding tone, one he knew would bring out some reaction from the prone man. True to that, Ace slowly turned his head, expression never changing - wide-eyed and grinning. Like a smiling doll. The airman's chest spasmed in what Lorne supposed was a laugh. It was hard to tell.

"The colonel keeps finding them in my quarters." Graves said, voice soft but clearly audible. Evan didn't like it when he spoke too softly. "I didn't want to get lashed again." The major stared at him for a few seconds, in complete silence.

"It's your own fault for not hiding them better. Throw them in the sea or burn them for all I care." He scolded, remembering the occasion when Sheppard had found a disembodied arm in a storage room. He had not been happy with Graves. "You need to stop leaving dead bodies in my kitchen." He hoped this time it stuck. The airman took a hand to a small puddle of blood near him, staining his fingers crimson.

"But it looks so pretty..." Graves whispered, but a harsh glare from the major made him lose his smile and retract his hand. "I won't do it again." He promised and Lorne smiled crookedly. Well, he had promised.

"Go clean yourself up." He told the airman' and nudged the Genii corpse with the tip of his boot. Ace got up slowly, still looking dejected. Evan sighed, pondering his options for the whole of two seconds. "You know what?" He asked, before the other man could leave. Graves looked at him, eyes wide, unsure what to expect. "Maybe if you help me clean up this mess, you can have a treat after dinner." The major told him, and Ace's face lit up like a Christmas tree.

It was going to be a fun night.

[edogawatranslations]

999: Alterna (2) - Part 6, Chapters 4-5

Table of Contents | Previous: Part 6, Chapter 3

Chapter 4

After returning to [C-Deck], Akane and I met back up with Lotus and headed back the way we came towards the large hospital room.

Back in the hospital room, Ace, Clover, and Seven had returned safely and joined up with Santa.

Yet something about them felt off. Seven had a grim expression on his face, while Ace’s face had been completely drained of color. Clover looked so frail that she appeared to be on the verge of fading away.

Santa, with the same apathetic expression as always, turned to look at us.

“Did something happen?” I asked with bated breath.

“...Snake’s dead,” Santa muttered, staring upwards with his arms crossed.

“W-” A shiver shot through my body. I felt heart palpitations, rendering me unable to breathe properly. Cold sweat gushed out of my forehead and the back of my neck.

Akane and Lotus seemed to have the same reaction. Neither of them moved an inch, as despair crawled across their faces.

“Y-You’re kidding, right?”

“If that’s whatcha think, then why don’tcha see for yourself?” Seven said. He was shivering, with both hands curled into tight fists.

“But we’d have to go through a numbered door...”

“No need to worry about that,” Ace responded. He pointed to the numberless door. “We stuck a pillow in the door’s gap. The lock isn’t engaged, so you can go through there.”

“And then?”

“The x-ray room will be to your left. We opened that door by solving the question on the monitor, so you can open it quite easily.”

In other words, we could enter the x-ray room without having to pass through a numbered door.

Ace continued, “You’ll find the corpse inside where the seven creepy dolls are standing.”

“Got it. I’ll go and check.”

Lotus, Akane, and I nodded at each other before heading for the numberless door.

Upon entering the hallway, a iron door came into view on our left. We couldn’t pry it open earlier, but as Seven had said, the door now opened with ease.

Steeling myself, I leapt through the door.

“...Ugh.” Akane immediately grimaced and brought her hands over her mouth as she entered the room behind me.

“Where’s this foul odor coming from?” Lotus followed, pinching her nose.

An unnatural stench filled the room. The stench of blood, the stench of rotting flesh, the stench of human waste, the stench of something burning - all of that and more assaulted my nostrils.

I too soon became unable to withstand the odor, having no choice but to cover my mouth with my palm. While suppressing the nausea welling up inside me, I looked around the room.

“What’s that?”

I couldn’t help but tremble at the eerie sight before me.

Seven anatomical models stood basking in the red light emitting from the ceiling, all staring in the same direction. Photographs of each one of our faces were pasted on their heads.

When were these photos taken? I bit my lip in anger. The model with Akane’s face displayed a radiant smile.

Lotus with her pursed lips, Seven with a fierce look in his eyes, Santa with his snarky smile, Ace with his eyes closed, and Clover with a cutesy expression - Snake and the man with the [9] bracelet weren’t present.

I turned to look where the seven figures directed their gazes. There was a cloth partition dividing the room. The wall behind it was dotted with fresh blood. Based on where the splatters were more pronounced, it became obvious where Snake’s body was.

“June, wait here,” I turned around to address Akane.

“But...”

“Please, just keep quiet and do as I say.”

While keeping Akane back with my palm, I stepped cautiously toward the partition. Lotus followed, clinging to my back.

I grabbed the partition with both hands. Hesitantly, I peeked behind it.

My heart stopped. My body froze. It felt like time had frozen as well.

A nightmarish sight lay beyond the partition, one that would make anyone flinch in terror. The entire area was a sea of red. Chunks of meat and flesh were strewn about in pools of blood.

A head. Both arms. Both legs. A torso.

One section of the torso had completely burst open, pink intestines splaying out from the inside.

Gobs of meat covered the surrounding walls. Yellow mucus trickled down from everywhere, as if slugs had run rampant across the room.

“W-What the fuck is this? No...!!!”

Unable to stomach the grotesque scene, Lotus fled from the room. Immediately afterwards, I heard the sound of vomiting echo through the halls. That was the natural reaction. It was strange that I could remain as calm as I was.

“Lotus, are you okay?” June left the room to look after Lotus. For the time being, I wouldn’t have to worry about her coming back.

I turned to examine the corpse once more. Parts of it had been scorched black. The head seemed to have it the worst - as if it had been encapsulated by red-hot flames, it resembled a fully burnt match head.

Next to the head was the corpse’s left wrist. It must have gotten flung there from shock of the explosion. A stark white bone jutted out from the cross-section where it had been torn off.

I gazed at the corpse as a whole. The mass of meat was covered in burnt, tattered clothes. A wine-red colored necktie, a bloodied dress shirt, a navy blue jacket with yellow lines, and grey trousers. I had seen it all before. There was no question the corpse belonged to Snake.

“Why... Why did this have to happen...”

I clasped my hands together for Snake and looked up.

What appeared to be numbers were scribbled all over the blood-splattered wall.

5... 2...

The rest had been covered by the blood.

What did these numbers mean?

Intrigue filled my mind, but I had almost reached my limit. I couldn’t bear to stay in the room for much longer.

“Damn, this is horrible.”

Santa’s voice came from behind me. I turned around, and saw him gazing at the gruesome corpse with the same cool and calm countenance as always.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“Thought I’d check it out for myself.” With no hesitation, Santa stepped into a puddle of blood.

“What happened to not wanting to get your shoes dirty?”

“That’s not important anymore. Everyone’s gonna get murdered at this rate. I gotta do some investigating if I want to survive, with or without anyone else.”

As he said that, he kicked Snake’s corpse. The torso twisted into a grotesque shape as something within was crushed with a resounding “splat.”

My stomach growled like a dog. Something sour churned up my insides. I couldn’t take it anymore.

Leaving Santa behind, I flew out of the x-ray room.

The stench of blood that had filled my nostrils wouldn’t go away.

Each time that metallic smell reached my lungs, the scene inside the x-ray room flashed into my mind. How many times would I have to endure this nausea?

Chapter 5

After returning to the large hospital room with Akane and Lotus, my gaze turned first and foremost to Clover.

She was sitting on the edge of a bed, her head hanging low. Her dull, hollow eyes stared aimlessly at the floor. Other than her rhythmic machine-like breathing, she displayed no reactions whatsoever. Her body looked so fragile that even a single touch may have been enough to break her.

Soon enough, Santa returned. His shoes were completely soaked red with blood. Just seeing them made me nauseous.

The seven of us had once again reunited in the hospital room.

“You get it now? It’s true,” Seven said as he approached me. Out of consideration for Clover, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Snake was murdered.”

“Murdered?”

“You think he died some other way? You need at least three people to open a numbered door. Whoever did Snake in used the <RED> with him and opened the [3] door. And then they pushed him in.”

“That’s terrible...” Akane covered her face.

The door would have closed after nine seconds. By himself, Snake would have no way out. No, he likely wouldn’t have given up. Even if he realized the futility of his actions, he would have entered the x-ray room to seek out the <DEAD>.

To disarm the bracelet’s time bomb, everyone who authenticated on the <RED> must also touch the <DEAD>. Snake wouldn’t have been able to do anything in his situation. So after 81 seconds...

As the gruesome image of the x-ray room crept back into my mind, I vigorously shook my head.

“Who would do such a thing...?” Lotus murmured.

“At least three people including Snake would be needed to open the numbered door. One culprit plus Snake wouldn’t be enough to open the door,” Seven responded brusquely. “This was the work of multiple people.”

I crossed my arms. “There’s something I want to confirm first.”

“What?”

“When exactly was Snake killed?”

“Must’ve been when everyone split up to look for the <RED> circuit boards. We couldn’t find Snake after that.”

“So everyone was off on their own searching for the circuit boards in different areas. That means no one has an alibi, right?”

“Yeah. Any one of us could be guilty.”

“W-Wait just a moment!” Akane cried out in a fluster. “What’s wrong with you two? You’re talking about this like it’s obvious, but you’re saying there’s a murderer among us, right?”

“Yep. And not just one—there must be at least two among us,” Seven replied.

“Seven, that’s enough,” Ace chided. “What is there to gain from sowing the seeds of suspicion around? Aren’t we playing right into Zero’s hands?”

Seven couldn’t help but show embarassment in response to Ace’s sharp rebuke.

“What do you mean, ‘playing right into Zero’s hands?’” Lotus asked, leaning forward in curiosity.

“I’m saying that this is just another part of Zero’s plan,” Ace continued with a scowl. “We must not forget that we are still playing Zero’s game. And since this is a game, there will surely be winners and losers. Those who escape through the [9] door become winners; those who fail become losers. Zero is trying to force us to compete for victory.”

“In other words, you’re saying that Zero is intentionally trying to stir up dissent among us...” Akane summarized.

“Exactly. That is why we must avoid falling into the trap of suspecting one another. If we do not trust each other and fail to come together, we will fall right into Zero’s trap.”

“So Snake’s death...?” Lotus asked.

Ace nodded. “Right. That was most likely Zero’s handiwork as well.”

“That has to be it. Ace is right!” Akane said in agreement.

“Above anyone else, we must suspect the gamemaster himself. After all, he’s the one who abducted us all in the first place.”

Ace and Akane had a point. However, now more than ever, I couldn’t help but suspect those around me.

Thoughtlessly, I blurted out, “What if Zero is one of us?”

Next: Part 6, Chapters 6-9