#which is almost never because she's never around and is too busy being a murder lesbian in the middle of the woods in isolation

[anarkhebringer]

I can't make a noble OC that actually acts like a noble to save my life, because when I do they're poked fun at by my other noble OCs or made to be genuinely unlikeable jdsihufih

[rboooks]

Child Support Part 2

Tim watched the other young heroes as they tried to look around the watch tower without seeming like they were. He's been here plenty of times, but the rest of the Teen Titans and a few of the Young Justice hasn't.

Much was due to the older heroes leaving the younger ones alone. Some not taking them seriously enough to welcome them at the big HQ as much as that made his blood boil.

They were taking the same risks. They were fighting the same good fights. Why was their age the main reason they weren't treated equally?

Some teenage heroes weren't part of a team per see, but they always answered when a call was sent. For example, Cass and Steph were present, speaking softly to Static Shock. Damian was standing next to Jon and his little friend Colin who was just getting into the swing of the hero business.

Bruce almost bit through his tongue when Damian told him Abuse would be joining Robin on parol, and he could do nothing to stop them. (Tim felt like he was watching Damian tell Bruce a paraphrased version of "But Daddy, I love him!" and it kept him smiling for weeks)

It was wild to see almost every young hero in one place. He doesn't think this happened since the last time Justice Leauge got mind controlled and almost destroyed the whole world.

"Any idea why we're here?" Kon asks to his right, lowering his shade to stare at the Outlaws. Jason's team stood to the side chatting iddly while cleaning over thier weapons.

Kon's always like their punk point of view, and he knows his best friend wants to go over there to talk to them. If it wasn't for the issue of the clone still being mad about what Jason did at the Teen Titans tower. Almost murder was hard to forgive for people outside the Bats.

"None. All I know is that John Constantine sent out a message to every teenage superhero group calling for a meet-up," Tim responds.

Bart whistles with a grimace on his right. "Must be bad if that guy is asking."

"I heard Hawkwoman tell Superman that she was worried and wasn't sure she wanted anyone of us mixed up in Constantine's mistakes." Cassie chimes in from where she leans on the couch. The three turn to her as she lowers her voice, attempting to keep the others from hearing. "Batman told her off for it."

"Batman did?" Tim asks, surprised.

Cassie shrugs, throwing a bit of her blond hair over her shoulder. "As much Batman can emote anyway."

Yeah, that sounded about right. Though it must have been something Bruce found disrespectful. His dad usually never reprimanded strangers unless they were saying something or doing something that sounded far too much like bigotry to him.

But to apply that to Constantine? Someone, Bruce generally disliked communicating with because the man tended to backstab his contacts? Yes, Constantine wasn't evil, but he wasn't pleasant either.

If Bruce had magical issues, he tended to contact Zatanna first.

Just then, the watch tower's zeta beams activate. Everyone who gathered turns to the teleporting pads where Constantine appears looking, for lack of a better word, absolutely exhausted. Even Tim knows that his eye bags aren't that bad, and he's usually going hours without sleep.

"Oh good, you all made it," Constantine says, sipping from a mug and wearing nothing but sweatpants and what looks like a nightgown. His signature trench coat was nowhere in sight. "I'm going to be quick about this. I need a team of young heroes willing to accept my son into their fold."

The room is dead silent. Constantine sighs. "Look, I've tried everything, but it's like Danny is allergic to laying low. He fought with a demon the other day over a child's doll- which you all know happens. People get haunted! But Danny refused to do it the right way, and now I had to beat off the demon's marriage proposal at least ten times. Not to mention his lack of social skills! No matter which one I stick him in, he can't seem to make friends in school. He got shoved into a locker on his first day! I thought that was an American exaggeration of the telly!"

Constantine pauses and takes a large gulp of whatever he's drinking before continuing his rant. A hand runs through his already messy hair, leaving it in bigger disarray as he speaks. "He's behind in terms of trends and technology cause his other father raised him outside of the typical timelines, so sometimes it's like talking to someone from the early two thousand, and other times it's like he's a modern Victorian era lad. His powers are also all over the place because the ectoplasm in our world is thicker, so when he breathes it in, he losses his control. Just the other day he accidentally made himself fly through our ceiling and almost reach the atmosphere before I was able to bring him back down."

A few of the fliers in the room wince. Jon nods and whispers under his breath, though his voice carries in the silence. "Yeah, been there before. Flying can be scary if you don't know how to come down."

Johns glances around at all the young people, eyes showing a tad bit of desperation. "He's sad all the time now, and I don't know how to help. If working with you could help him make friends, I would be grateful. He's a great kid. He just needs to adjust."

Tim had no idea what to do with this information; how do you respond to arguably one of the strongest Justice League Darks' heroes asking for a play date for his son?

"How old is the child?" Damian's voice rings out. Colin's hand is attached to his sleeve, a slightly nervous smile on the boy's face as he attempts to hide from the staring heroes behind his brother. Tim bets that if he wasn't wearing the domino mask, they would be able to see slight tears in Colin's eyes.

Damian's other hand goes across his body to cover Colin's hand, and Tim fights a shit-eating grin. His eyes lock with Jason, and the two send each other knowing grins. Looks like Bruce did have to worry about Damian having a secret boyfriend.

He can't wait to tease Damian later.

"He's fourteen....or well, physically?" Constantine answers eagerly.

"What does that mean?" Kon asks this time.

"Okay, so he's half human, half ecto-being. He sired him with his other father, Clockwork, which was only four years ago in this dimension, but since he was raised in the Infinite Relemas, times move differently there? " The British man says, and Raven goes rigid.

"Clockwork, as in the most powerful Ancient?" She asks, looking horror-struck when Constantine nods.

Before anyone asked what that meant, the zeta tubes activated again without permission. Someone had hacked into their systems which were ten levels bad. Everyone naturally fell into a fighting stance, only to blink when a teenage boy stepped out with a loud excited screech.

"We're in space!" The teenager runs to one of the windows, pressing his hands and face up against the glass. "This is amazing!"

Tim only relaxes his muscles once Constantine clears his throat. "Chum...what are you doing here?"

"Oh. One of your curse rocks things started proposing to me again, so I ran out of the House of Mysteries. Thought I see what you were up to." The teenager says, turning around with a smile and utterly freezing at the sight of the gathered heroes.

He had dark hair, wide blue eyes, and the most adorable face Tim had ever seen. Not as sexy as Bernard, of course, but darn close. Judging by the looks of anyone attractive to males, most heroes thought the same.

"Um...hi?" He says, offering the Godsmack teenagers a helpless little shrug. "I'm Danny Constantine."

"It is a pleasure, Constantine." Damian marches over to him with all his little twelve-year-old authority. He barely reaches Danny's chest. "I shall look forward to working with you. Are you formally trained in combat or strictly magic?"

"Um...oh, I can throw a punch or two? I'm mostly self taught. I rely on my powers a lot?" Danny fumbles to answer throwing a desperate look at his presumed father.

"No matter. I shall have you begin training. My Beloved also needs to work on his form. There is no shame in this" Damian nods, and Constantine lets out a large sigh of relief. He jogs over to place a hand on his son's shoulder, giving him a one-sided hug

"Yes, Danny, you will join Robin, Superboy, and Abuse on missions. They agree to help you settle and get used to your ghost powers." Constantine smiles. "I'll give me time to discourage all those idiots from trying to trick you into marriage."

"Oh...okay. It's nice to meet you all. Please call me Phantom on the field. Um, are you the team leader?" He asks Damian as the three youngest boys lead him further into the watch tower.

Constantine watches them go with the brightest smile he's ever seen on the man's face. He looks back to the group, who were barely starting to pick their jaws off the floor and makes a shooing motion with his hand. "You lot are dismissed."

Then the man vanishes in a green portal.

There is a ringing silence until Barts blurts out. "I'm pretty sure this is where the Phantom Fan Club first formed. A historical moment."

Tim wants to take a nap.

( Part 1 )

[blushweddinggowns]

I can't stop thinking about Eddie having a massive bitch fetish for mean girl Steve, especially after they get together.

Like before, sure, he was just as much in King Steve's thrall as every other high school girl was, even if it was a secret he had planned on taking to the grave. Every time he'd hear him make a snappy comment to one of his friends or say something particularly cutting when he talked back to the teachers was enough to make Eddie flush.

But now that they're together it's even worse than high school Eddie could imagine. Because Steve Harrington is protective as fuck and when you mix that with being gay in small-town Indiana with a boyfriend whose the town pariah for murders he didn't commit, you get a lot of opportunities for bitchy Steve.

The check-out lady at the grocery store scoffs when she sees them holding hands? Steve's jumping in, "Wow Linda, guess you're not a champion for love huh? Is that why your husband left you last year?"

An ex-jock and current gas station attendant makes a comment about how Eddie should be in prison? "Weren't you the guy who shit his pants at Carol's party freshman year? Honestly, I feel like that's a worse social crime than anything my Eddie ever did."

An old teacher comments on how he's not "surprised" that Eddie never graduated when they run into him? "I guess that just goes to show how shitty of a teacher you were doesn't it? He passed his GED test on the first try, maybe you should just think of a different career option?"

He has an arsenal of embarrassing stories and tidbits for almost every person in Hawkins, courtesy of his near-daily gossip sessions with his mom. Even when they move in together, those don't stop, they just switch to weekly three-hour phone conversations. (The apple really doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?)

And Eddie loved how willing Steve was to stand up for him, he did, really. But every time Eddie had to bear witness to Steve tearing someone down for his benefit, it felt like he was losing his mind.

He'd flush, go bright pink, get weak in the knees, everything you would expect from a love-struck sixteen-year-old girl, not a twenty-one-year-old drug dealer. Half the time he had to drag Steve to the nearest unoccupied space just to kiss him, and the other half he was too busy trying to hide a humiliating hard-on.

Eddie keeps that specific obsession to himself, but he knows he doesn't have much time left before he figures it out. There are only so many impromptu make-out sessions mixed with snide comments before Steve puts two and two together.

And Eddie just knows that he will never let him live it down, which will only add fuel to the fire if he starts doing it on purpose to tease him. Steve already had him wrapped around his finger enough as is, he didn't need another thing to make him realize just how gone for him Eddie was.

No, this one was going to stay with him, a secret that he'd actually manage to take to his grave.

Or so he thought.

[sailoryooons]

Angel | myg (m)

☾ Pairing: Mafia!Yoongi x Sex worker! F. reader

☾ Summary: Yoongi never meant to keep coming back. You never meant to become Yoongi’s favorite. Being Min Yoongi’s favorite has dire consequences. 

☾ Word Count: 15,551

☾ Genre: Semi-established relationship, mafia, smut, surprising amount of fluff

☾ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. 

☾ Warnings: Sex work and mentions of sex work, Yoongi and the reader are very confident in their relationship but also don’t want to ask for more, uses of the word whore negatively in some parts, vague references to dismemberment in an offhand conversation, intense action sequences, depictions of violence, reader is smacked around and kidnapped, depictions of injuries and pain, two sequences of detailed anxiety attacks, graphic depictions of blood, violent scene in which reader fights for her life and gores someone, depictions of murder/panicking while committing murder? Idk how to describe that one, mentions of nightmares/light reference to PTSD post-murder, explicit language, explicit sexual content including oral (m. and f. receiving) light throat fucking, nipple play, ass play (f. receiving), unprotected vaginal sex, Yoongi… almost doing a strip tease but it’s not as goofy as that it’s more sensual?? Yoongi is a little bit possessive at the end. 

☾ Published: September 3, 2023

☾ A/N: You voted for it, you got it! Introducing the fic that came out on top for the Hali’s Happy Agust Bracket Challenge! Thank you to everyone who voted during the entire month of August, I had such an amazing time seeing everyone yelling and voting and sharing and having fun with it. It means the world to me that you guys have fun and enjoy doing these kinds of things! Here is mafia Yoongi in all of his glory - I did try to keep it tame with the murder/violence/criminal side of it because there are things in this genre I’d like to table in later (most likely on Hali’s After Dark) but I hope that you enjoy this! Somehow it really turned into two people who are just !!! eternally confident in one another, despite their strange trades. Shout out to the hurricane and covid for FAILING TO STOP ME FROM WRITING THIS I’M A GOD (not really I am very tired but I did it osifjdoigj). This is mostly edited.

☾ Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

Masterlist | Ask | Angel Playlist

Yoongi would rather be anywhere else but the low lit, smoky club. The production team on the dancefloor below uses way too much cryogenic smoke for Yoongi’s taste, fogging the dancing bodies with thick clouds, the lasers reflecting off the smoke in dizzying patterns. From the VIP section, he isn’t choked by the haze, but he is choking on the cloying perfume of the woman in his lap.

She’s pretty enough, one of Kwan’s finest. No doubt trained from a very young age to please her employer’s most prestigious guests. Yoongi doesn’t touch her though, save for letting her sit on his lap, her hand cradling the back of his neck. She leans into his chest, her breath close to his ear as he watches Kwan consider Yoongi’s deal.

Yoongi doesn’t have to make the deal at all. Offering to become a minority owner of the club is a mercy, really. Yoongi could go after the investors who fronted the money when Kwan opened his business in the middle of the entertainment district, and he could wipe out the petty criminals pushing drugs in shadowy alcoves near the bathroom, damaging the cut that Kwan takes from them at the end of each night. 

Yoongi could even go as far as to sow chaos every night, sending in his followers to pick fights with the elite clientele, make it a nightmare for the celebrity clients and cities government officials who use the back rooms for more nefarious matters, exposing the underbelly of La Vie if he felt like it. 

Investments, Hoseok always insists. Investments, not enemies. They already hate that you’re taking a chunk of what they built - especially the seaside property.  Let’s try to play nice and show face. 

Forcing hands is exactly how Yoongi got to this position, sitting in a club and offering Kwan a rather generous deal: Kwan retains eighty percent of ownership, Yoongi becomes a twenty percent owner, the only person allowed to supply the club’s drugs, is paid for security services, and has access to the information funneled through those that work the private client rooms. He could just take it like he always has, and he still has half a mind to do. 

Men like Kwan who think they’re savvy in business and the nuances of the criminal enterprises that run the city make Yoongi’s lip curl. 

“These terms are bullshit, and I don’t have control of the back rooms.” Kwan looks up from the contract, glasses sliding down his nose. He’s a little bit older than Yoongi, and good looking. He has a traditionally handsome face that idols and actors like to get moderated to look like. He looks like new money though, with designer pieces that don’t quite match and a Patek watch that is flashy, but not coveted. “While it is under my jurisdiction, it is a handshake deal with Anya that she runs them the way she wants. They are her clients, not mine.” 

“Then Anya will have a handshake deal with me.” Kwan’s face darkens. Yoongi is tired of this. Is tired of the feeling of the girl’s hand stroking the hair at the base of his neck, is tired of the way she presses up against him, and is tired of Kwan’s dawdling.

“Take the weekend to think about it,” Yoongi insists and stands. The girl falls off him, letting out a surprised sound as she hits the booth. Yoongi adjusts his suit and frowns when he sees there is body glitter on it. He casts a harsh look at the girl who stares up at him with big eyes before turning back to Kwan. “There are no terms for negotiating. Thank you for the drinks and the entertainment. You’ll hear from me.”

Kwan’s face is red like the neon of Yoongi’s favorite motel when he walks out of the booth. Synth and base rattle the metal catwalk that makes up the VIP section, overlooking the dancefloor. Seokjin slides into step with Yoongi as he goes, an imposing shadow as they circumnavigate the walkway. 

It’s loud and raucous when they get to the dance floor. Members of the security team watch Yoongi as he goes, their eyes alert. He pays them little attention, just like the gazes of the people dancing in the ground when they catch sight of him.

Sometimes, Yoongi feels a little bit like a myth in moments like this. Out in public, Yoongi is an astutely dressed man who speaks quietly and says very few words. He wears nice but not gaudy jewelry, and he always styles his long hair slicked back, showing off the faded, red scar over his eye. What Yoongi lacks in height, he makes up for in omnipresent stares and quick reactions.

Everyone in the city knows exactly who Min Yoongi is, and they know that he doesn’t make threats. He simply acts. 

Outside, rain falls from the inky sky. Hoseok leans against the brick wall under the awning, clove-tinged smoke drifting from the cigarette jammed between his lips. When he sees Yoongi, Hoseok pushes off the wall and adjusts his suit jacket. Where Seokjin looks tall, dark and imposing, Hoseok is wiry and sharp, dressed in all white, looking pristine as he raises his eyebrows at Yoongi in question. Yoongi nods towards the idling SUV as an answer. 

They don’t bother with an umbrella. Yoongi ducks his head down as he quickly walks across the pavement and into the car. The interior is moderately cool in the SUV. He takes a seat in the middle, Seokjin sitting alone in the row behind him and Hoseok to his right. 

Outside of the rainy window, the world turns into a smear of wet neon. Checking his watch, Yoongi notes that it’s just past midnight. If he hurries, he can stop by the Red before he goes home for the evening. If he goes home for the evening, at that point. The thought of sinking into sheets that smell like almond and cinnamon ease him. 

“So?” Hoseok flicks through his phone, face lit up blue by the screen. He looks hauntingly beautiful, all edges and sharp lines. “Deal or no deal?”

“Giving him the weekend to think about it.” Hoseok sighs. “He thinks it’s a bad deal for him because it it is, and he’s stuck on the operation Anya runs in the back rooms. He doesn’t want to lose that connection to her. She feeds him information for his extortion of city officials.”

“How else would he have cleared that permit near the docks to build,” Seokjin mutters. Yoongi casts a glance into the back seat where Seokjin sullenly stares out of the window. “Fucker is sticking his nose in a district he has no rights to. At least we had the means to get that operation cancelled.” 

“Yeah, and it’s part of why he doesn’t want to deal with us,” Hoseok says. “Even so, offering the deal is the right move. If he doesn’t take it, crush him like a fucking bug. He’s an intelligent businessman, it’s no surprise that he’s going to try and find a way around you. He might sniff around or try and fuck up some assets.”

“Hobi, you better fucking hope he doesn’t go to that fucker Seo.”

“He doesn’t have the balls. Seo Changbin is unhinged and volatile. He’s more likely to send Kwan to his family in chainsawed pieces.” 

Yoongi grunts, amused. “Bang has kept him under control as of late. Seokjin, have Jungkook look into getting some people in there. I’m not interested in them linking up as permanent partners.” 

A headache presses against Yoongi’s temples. He doesn’t care to debate politics and machinations with Hoseok and Seokjin. He closes his eyes and rests his head against the headrest, letting their discussion fall to a dull sound. 

Yoongi feels like he’s bleeding at the edges, the color of him spilling out of neat lines and all over the pages. His empire is growing faster than he can keep up with, he’s playing politics more than he’s playing the savvy gangster, and the more capital he gains, the more of himself he loses.

When Yoongi had started to climb the ladder of crime and chaos, he didn’t know where it would lead him. An early grave, perhaps. But Yoongi has always been smart and knows how to pick his battles, knows how to innovate. He is not the most inspiring man to lead people in the underbelly of the city, but he does know what he’s talking about and he’s good at guessing what people want most.

People, he’s discovered, all want the same thing, whether they’re at the bottom rung or the top. 

The boy he once was wouldn’t recognize him. The new Yoongi wears designer suits, the carefully curated art collections in the opulent halls of his home, the shaking hands with political figures to help install certain assurances within the city. There are more officials that line Yoongi’s pocket than there are gangs in the city, but it’s a weapon he wields well. 

Old Yoongi might not be so impressed. 

Yoongi feels the phantom ache of the scar on his eye. It doesn’t matter what old Yoongi wants, though. This new version of him is doing whatever he needs to live another day and to install another brick in his kingdom. 

The driver drops Yoongi off at home. Tall gates with security cameras and guard house at the entrance keeps almost everyone away from the Min estate. There’s been a few idiots here or there who have climbed the walls and met the three lovely dobermans that roam the property freely. 

Erebus catches Yoongi’s eyes as he walks to the large garage. The eldest of Yoongi’s canines sits and watches Yoongi approach with keen, dark eyes. He grins at the dog, whistling lowly. Erebus stands and joins Yoongi on his way to the side door, jamming in a code to the garage.

Inside, the automatic lights flip on. Yoongi squints from the harsh lighting, closing the door behind him. Rows of vehicles gleam under the fluorescents. Sports cars, old collectibles, sturdy SUVs. Yoongi has an armada at his disposal, though he so rarely drives himself anywhere these days. Not after Seo put a hit on him a few months ago, the insane fuck. 

Yoongi pulls the tie loose from his neck and begins to change. He presses his finger on a thumb-print lock to a wardrobe and pops it open. Inside are casual clothes: jeans, a t-shirt, a riding jacket, boots and a gleaming black helmet. Nondescript clothes that can belong to anyone. 

Every movement feels heavy. He should go upstairs and swallow down something to help him knockout, but he doesn’t. Instead, he finishes going through the motions and tosses the worn clothes in the wardrobe and walks over to the parked H2R in, all sleek, black metal. 

Erebus sniffs Yoongi’s knee once, a sort of send off. Yoongi bends down and kisses the doberman on the head before shooing him, sending the dog through the garage and up the stairs that lead to the main house. 

Instead of starting the bike in the garage and peeling out the front of the home, Yoongi pops the kickstand up and walks it out of the side door, careful not to bang the tailpipe on the door or scrape the shiny black paint. Once outside, he walks it through the entire yard, arms aching a little as he keeps the bike balanced. 

Gravel crunches beneath his boots and the tires of the motorcycle. Crickets chirp in the yard until he makes it to the back gate in his home that opens up to a government only street. Being back-to-back with the minister has its perks, like an extra security measure that he doesn’t have to monitor constantly. 

Swinging his leg over the bike, Yoongi slides the helmet on, turns the key, and presses the on switch. It roars to life, vibrating underneath him. He revs it a few times before he pulls back on the throttle and shoots down the street like a bullet from a gun.

Iron gates, walls and security houses blur past him. He lives among the gods of the city, high up over the glittering lights and those who pay pilgrimage to the political, criminal and tech giants who loom over them. Yoongi was one of them not that long ago, rising faster than he could have thought possible.

Still, he descends often. Nightly, even. Like even the most powerful gods, Yoongi’s weakness is a vice he can’t - doesn’t want to - rid himself from. While he doesn’t think of himself as impervious, Yoongi doesn’t have many weaknesses. 

His biggest one, though, spends most days at the Red with a private suite in the luxury pleasure house disguised as a motel. 

Yoongi parks his bike in a secured garage that he has a paid spot in. The payment for it is discrete and in all cash, one of Yoongi’s several attempts at covering his tracks when he visits.

The garage is still a few blocks away from the Red. He tucks his hands into his pocket, enjoying the balmy evening, rain still clinging to the air though not falling now. This late at night, there aren’t many people out. Cars drive by, tires hissing on the wet road. Neon lights burn above fluorescent-lit windows of small food shops. 

At the end of a dead end street, a red motel sign buzzes against the night sky. The non-descript brick building doesn’t look like much, but Yoongi knows better than most. Instead of approaching the front door, he leans against the wall a few shops down, tucked underneath the shadow of an awning. 

Pulling his phone out, he dials and brings it up to his ear. As the phone rings, he looks up at the four-story building. There are windows with dark curtains pulled shut and never opened. Yoongi knows that the glass looks ordinary, but is bullet proof grade to protect the most private of clients. 

It doesn’t look like much. The brick is old, it’s bracketed by a laundromat and a hardware store, and across the street is a noodle shop and boarded up general store. 

“It’s late,” you answer, voice scratchy. Yoongi nearly shivers at the sound of your voice, eyes fluttering shut as he breathes in the rain-tinged night. “What’s a girl to do when a boy calls her this late, hmm?”

“Let said boy upstairs and out of the rain.”

“Hmm.” You don’t say yes, but Yoongi can hear the rustle of sheets and the soft creak of the bed when you get up. He waits in silence, though he imagines you’re walking across the bedroom to head to the main part of the state room. “It’s not even raining anymore, I bet.”

“It is. I’m soaked to the bone. Freezing. I might catch a cold.”

“Whatever shall we do?”

He grins, ducking his head. He can feel the warmth climb up his neck to his face, shaking his head. Only you can get him like this, heart skipping like he’s in grade school making out with someone behind the bleachers for the first time. 

“Come on,” you tease on the other line. “Your door will be open.”

“Thanks, Angel.”

“Mhmm.”

His door isn’t really his. But it is a private access door in the back of the alley that requires a keycard and has an armed guard sitting in a security room next to the entry way on the inside. Yoongi hangs up the phone and heads to the special door, avoiding the puddles dripping from fire escapes. 

Just as Yoongi reaches the heavy door, he hears the beep of the auto-lock and it swings open with you leaning on the frame. He wants to eat you whole. You’re not in work clothes, meaning you either wrapped up a while ago or didn’t work tonight. He doesn’t want to know so he doesn’t ask, instead walking up to you as you step to the side and let him in. 

Glowing light flickers underneath the security door to the left. You close the door behind you and pass him, letting your fingers grab his hand and link fingers. There are security cameras here, but it’ll look normal, with you pulling him through the halls and to the elevator. Touching is very much permitted here. Encouraged. Required. 

In the elevator, you stand by Yoongi. He leans into you, silent. You squeeze his hand, very small in his, but warm enough to soothe him. You smell faintly almond and cinnamon, making him go wild as he presses a kiss to the top of your head. You giggle, leaning into him fully, arm pressed to arm. 

Perhaps it’s stupid to be so open like this. When Yoongi first started coming here, he was still and awkward, never coming too close, never letting himself be too familiar. Now, the need for you is too strong. He doesn’t care if there’s a camera on him watching him melt into you. He doesn’t care if maybe it shows that this is a little more than money, a little more than just a quick fix.

Yoongi has been coming to you for almost three years. He doesn’t remember when it stopped being about sex, but it hasn’t been that way for a while. At first, he thought it was so silly. Mafia man in love with a woman he pays to have sex with him. Except it wasn’t so silly. You’d long stopped considering him a client and insisting he doesn’t pay you. 

He doesn’t dare. He doesn’t know what money you make from clients. He knows that it has to be good to be at the Red, which specializes in top clientele. He knows it has to be great, even, because you always meet on your terms. In this space. 

He also doesn’t dare to ask you to stop. He doesn’t know how many clients you take, or who. He doesn’t know when, he doesn’t know how often. He knows nothing about your work except that he doesn’t ask you to stop and you don’t ask him if he wants you too. 

It’s an unspoken rule between you. Yoongi is too afraid to ask you to come live with him, and perhaps you’re too afraid to ask him to take you. Whatever the reasons, neither one of you is brave enough to cross the line first. So instead, you dance along it, making whatever this is work. 

Inside the stateroom is clean and smells like expensive candles. The room is luxurious and is exclusively yours. A cut of your earnings go to holding the room, just like the rest of the workers in the other rooms. 

With the door firmly locked behind the two of you, Yoongi heads to the open kitchen and leans against the counter, facing you. You kick off your slippers and turn to face him, half shadowed by the darkness of the hall, half lit by the warm salt lamp in the living room. 

Yoongi drags his eyes up and down your frame. Soft curves, gentle lips, kind eyes. He was gone the first time he saw you, and he’s gone now. Even after all this time. 

“What?” you ask, fingers fidgeting with your t-shirt. He thinks it might be one of his, but he might be imagining it.

“Come here,” he instructs, patting his thigh. 

You grin and approach him. He opens his arms for you and he sighs as you press against him. Your arms wrap around his middle, squeezing him tight. Slotting your head between his shoulder and neck, you hide your face against him, breath warm against his throat. He envelops you in his arms, wrapped around your shoulders and draped down your back. 

Almond fills his senses. He closes his eyes for a second, breathing you in. You don’t say anything, content to sag against him in the low light of the room. This is what he comes here for more than anything. Everything else you offer is secondary. His foremost desire is this - you. 

“Everything okay?” you finally ask, because of course you do.

“Mhmm. Just a long night.”

“You smell like perfume.”

“Hmm?”

“Like peaches.”

He opens his eyes and looks down at you. You crane your head so that you’re peering up at him with one eye, brow arched. His mouth twitches. “Jealous?”

“Maybe.” 

“Interesting.”

“Not particularly.” 

He lowers his arms, letting them drape around your waist. He smacks the round of  your ass a bit, not enough to hurt but enough to make you pout. “We really going to get into the mechanics of this right now?”

Your smile is all he needs to know you’re not serious. At least, not enough to do something about it. “No, but it’s fun to tease you.” 

“Perhaps I should tease you back, then.” 

Hand in hand, you lead him to your room. Yoongi sees the white sheets and grins. White sheets are for him. Grey sheets are for clients, something you’d established in the infancy of whatever this relationship is. He appreciates the little layers of how you make things different for him. You make him feel special - and not the kind that he pays for. 

Falling backward into the bed, you look up at him with those fucking eyes that make him week in the knees. It’s dark in the room but he knows it well, standing at the foot of your bed and reaching down to snatch an ankle and pull you a bit closer. You squeal as he does, making a jolt of joy go through him, grinning. 

“How was your day?” he asks, lifting your foot to rest on his shoulder. He presses an innocent kiss to your ankle and he watches your brows furrow. “What?”

“Are you a foot person?”

“What if I was?”

You shrug a shoulder, watch him trail kisses down your calf. He nips the meat of your leg, an innocent bite but one that makes your leg twitch. “I’d say I’m surprised to learn something new about you after three years.”

“Yeah?” Yoongi lowers himself so that he’s on his knees, the carpet pressing into his slacks. The back of your knee fits perfectly over his shoulder, your leg resting along his back. You lean up on your elbows and look down at him, watching him settle between your legs. “Think you know everything about me, huh?”

Yoongi’s hands feel your warm skin. He marvels at the softness of your thighs, stroking his hands back and forth. Looking at you, he raises his brow in question. You’re too distracted by the feeling of his hands. It stirs something in him, and he cruves his fingers, dragging his blunt nails softly against your skin.

“Feels good,” you mumble, half-lidded. “I do know everything about you, Min Yoongi.”

“That so?”

“Yes. I could eat your heart if I wanted to.”

Yoongi’s stomach flips at how right you are, at how much you know it. Your confidence in his feelings never fails to make him feel like he is cut open and laid bare at your feet, waiting for you to step on him. To make him regret that vulnerability. 

You never do. At every turn, you’ve shown him that you won’t take advantage. That you have no desire to use the fact that one of the most powerful men in the city is in the palm of your hand. Power for the taking. You could wield him like a weapon, he thinks, and yet you don’t. All you want from him is for him to speak freely, to kiss you often, and to hold you tightly. 

So he does. 

Yoongi presses kisses up the softness of your thighs. You drop from your elbows to lay flat on your back again, your breath catching. He watches raptly at the rise and fall of your chest as you gasp a little. He knows exactly what you like, reaching for your sleep shorts to pull them off slowly. 

Tonight, he has nowhere else to go. Neither do you, letting him lean further up between your legs to press wet, open-mouthed kisses against your hips. You squirm a little, sensitive in the hip area. He loves it - would die for it - letting his tongue slip between his teeth to lave over your hot skin to soothe stinging flesh where he’s nipped you. 

His hands are familiar with every dimple in your skin and every curve. He traces them as he pulls your shorts down, grabbing the elastic band of your underwear as he does. He throws them on the floor, hands settling on the inside of your knees as he presses you open, dropping his eyes to your wet folds. 

Yoongi groans. You’re always so eager for him. That’s never been an illusion, the way your cunt drips slowly down to the curve of your ass at the most innocent of touches from him. It fuels Yoongi’s ego, knowing he has this effect on you. Knowing he’s the only one who can get you trembling in anticipation just by kissing the inside of your knees. 

He made the mistake only once asking if you ever get off with your other clients. The flash of anger and irritation had never made him ask again, but you at least gave him an answer: no. 

Thinking back on it now, Yoongi doesn’t know why he asked. He doesn’t care who you have before or between. All he cares about is being in the darkness of this room, your scent heady, his head shadowed between your legs. 

Leaning forward, Yoongi drags the flat of his tongue up your cunt slowly. You let out a moan and he hums, closing his eyes. He’s been craving your sweet tang all day, the tip of his tongue lingering just under your clit before he drags around it, missing your bundle of nerves on purpose. You let out a sound but he grins, removing his tongue to return to tracing sloppy kisses on your legs instead. 

Already lightheaded, he grounds himself by sliding his hands along the outside of your thighs, gripping you here and there as he lavishes you with attention. He knows he’s tired, but he at least wants this. Wants to taste you before bed, to have you melt in his mouth, fingers in his hair. He needs it. 

Yoongi doesn’t dip into the drugs that his operation injects into the streets. He doesn’t need to. There’s nothing that makes him forget who and where he is the way you do. Nothing that amounts to feeling your soft skin beneath his palms, smelling the barest hint of sweat beneath your vanilla perfume.

When Yoongi gets a taste of you, it’s an instant high. He feels lost, hands skimming up your thighs to hold your hips to the bed. Your hands seek his, linking your fingers and pressing your joined hands to your hips as he drags his tongue up the inside of your thigh.

This is why he keeps coming back. The intimacy. The reassurance that this is something more than an accident that Yoongi stumbled on a few years ago. That this is more than the roll of bills he will leave on the nightstand tonight, even when you say not to. 

There is nothing else he needs in these stolen moments with you. 

“Yoongi,” you murmur, voice soft. He hums in response. “Please, I’m going to lose my mind.”

“Good,” he shoots back, biting your knee. You twitch and curse at him, making him laugh. Your glossy cunt is a sure sign that you’re not lying, though. Clit swollen, hole clenching. “Fuck, you have such a wet pussy.” 

“Then put your fucking mouth on it, Yoongi.” 

He laughs. “As you wish, Angel.” 

A breathy whine in the shape of Yoongi’s name leaves your mouth when he starts to eat you out properly. He takes his time, eyes closed as he indulges, tongue rolling up and down your slick pussy. You turn liquid in his mouth, your hips canting as he flicks his tongue across your clit. You shiver in his hands and he grins, gently sucking your clit into his mouth. 

“Yeah,” you pant. “Fuck, like that.” 

Alternating between fastening his mouth on your pussy to suck gently and sliding his tongue into your hole, Yoongi goes with what he knows makes you a mess. Holds out his tongue and lets you fuck yourself against his face, your hand coming to grip his long hair. 

The wet slide of you against his face makes him ache in his pants. He ignores it, determined to hold you still as he buries his face in deeper, picking up the firmness and pace of his mouth and tongue. He feels your essence drip down his chin and his neck. Hears the squelch when he thrusts his tongues into your pussy. Can’t get enough of the way your thighs close around his head, muffling the sound of you whining and saying his name.

Yoongi’s scalp stings when you pull his hair. He doesn’t care. He whips his head back and forth between your legs, tongue pressed against your throbbing clit. You’re shaking underneath him and he pushes you further, dipping low to slurp at your pussy bottom to top, not letting an ounce of you spill out. 

“Holy fuck,” you squeak, voice high-pitched as you arch off the bed. He looks up at you, mouth attached. “Your fucking mouth.” 

He grins, and leans into you further, pushes your thighs higher. Your legs bend easily under his weight. His hips are pressed against the foot of the bed now, hips rolling slightly, seeking for friction. His eyes close as he gets the barest bit of friction against his cock, more focused on making you come into his mouth than getting himself off.

When you come, your whole body goes taut. Yoongi holds you tight in his hands, mouth moving against you messily as he licks you through your orgasm. You dissolve in his mouth, making him hum against your heat. You twist in the sheets, body twitching, muscles flexing. He avoids your clit, thrusting his tongue into your entrance until you’re gasping for air, hands pressing against his head to get him to stop.

Yoongi removes his mouth with one, lascivious lick. He sits backwards on his feet, panting as he looks at you melt into the bed. Your limbs are lifeless and tangled in the blankets, your hand over your eyes as you catch your breath. You look fucking beautiful. 

“Come here,” you rasp, voice rough. 

The bed creaks under Yoongi’s weight. He walks over on his knees, drinking you in. Your cum slicks your thighs, shining in the barest shaft of light escaping the bathroom from a nightlight. You turn to face him, face balmy with sweat. You reach up and work the zipper on his pants, making his stomach flip.

“You don’t-”

“Shut up,” you growl, tugging the metal down hard. He smirks as you press your fingers into his hard shaft through the cotton of his briefs. “Wanna feel your cock in my throat. Can you fuck my mouth?” 

“Fuck yeah, Angel.” 

Yoongi nearly falls getting out of his pants. You laugh, the sound so sweet that he feels himself blush. He’s hot all over, coming alive in the darkness of your room as he strokes his cock. You look innocent, splayed on the bed and blinking up at him. 

Precum drips from his dark tip and you open your mouth, tongue catching it. He curses under his breath, entranced by the way your tongue disappears between your lips. You hum, a glint in your eye as you smirk at him. 

“Vixen,” he says, shaking his head.

“Give it to me.”

One day he thinks he’s going to die of loving you. He knows that this is what it is. It’s more than you opening your mouth and sticking out your tongue for him. It’s more than him letting you suckle on the tip of his cock playfully, his eyes fluttering shut and his thigh muscles twitching. 

Yoongi loves you. It is an incredibly simple fact in his over-complicated world. Among all of the shit and the moves and countermoves he deals with every day, coming here to simply be in love with you is a relief. A home. 

A shiver crawls up his back as he slowly inches his cock into your mouth. Your mouth is wet and warm, your tongue rough on the sensitive underside of his shaft. He keeps one hand on the base of his cock and the other on your jaw, keeping your mouth open to make the slide easier. 

Everything fades away again. Yoongi sucks in a sharp breath as you open up for him. When he touches the back of your throat, he’s careful at first. He knows you can take it. You’ve taken so much more from him, gone so much harder. He doesn’t want to go hard tonight though. He feels soft at the edges, your taste lingering in his mouth.

The wet sound of your throat convulsing around him making him stroke faster. He knows you’re okay, breathing heavily through your nose as you gurgle around him, spit and precum slicking his shaft as he pulls in and out, marveling at the way you look at him, eyes watering.

Your eyes fix on him. Yoongi clenches his teeth, trying not to burst in your mouth. It’s hard when you look at him like that, gaze so dark and hungry and fathomless. You’ve never said you love him. You don’t have to. He knows. He knows in the same way he is aware you know he loves you. He knows enough to trust you with him. With everything. 

There’s not a single doubt with you. It is a rare gift to share this open trust with someone, especially in his position. It is an added bonus that you know he loves it when you swallow around his cock as he presses into the back of your throat. The tight heat of your throat constricting around him does him in, and Yoongi comes with a growl.

You take it in stride, gulping. Taking it down. His eyes roll back in his head and he thinks that if he didn’t love you already, this alone would make him fall in love. 

Pulling out his softening cock, he falls backward on the bed. He’s still in the top half of his clothes, but he is exhausted, lashes fluttering. Your hands are delicate as you begin to pull the jacket from his body. He rolls to the side and lets you, lost in the daze of a much needed orgasm. He feels at ease now, more than he has all day. 

“Come on,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to the spot under his ear. “Take a quick shower while I change the sheets, they’re sweaty. And I came on them.”

“I’d sleep in them anyway.”

“Hmm, too bad. Shower.”

“Meh.”

“Yoongi, you smell like a whore.” That makes him crack an eye and look at you. Your gaze is pointed. “And not like me. I don’t like it.”

“Huh. So you are jealous.”

“Get in the shower.” Your mouth twitches as you try to fight a smile. “Or else.” 

-

Getting up before the sun is your favorite thing. Even now, when you’re tired from being woken up in the middle of the night, you make an effort to crawl out of bed to make coffee. Your steps are heavy and you shiver in the freezing air of the kitchen as you open a drawer and pull out a coffee pod. You hold it up close to make sure you’ve got Yoongi’s favorite brand before sticking it in the machine and popping the lid down, punching the button to brew.

Yoongi is a sleeping mound in your bed. Leaning against the counter, you admire him from afar. He’ll be up soon, your body clock tuned to the hours of his operation. It’s been that way for over a year now, your circadian rhythm trained to be the most functional during the hours in which Yoongi is awake. 

When you were younger, you would have hated to admit that. Would have detested the thought of ever adjusting a single part of yourself for a man. Your entire job was to be moldable. To put on whatever face your client needed, to shape yourself into whatever person that you needed to be. 

You have been so many things. A wife. A mistress. A temptress. A lost loved one. And darker things still, sliding on the skin of client’s fantasies over-and-over again until you lost the substance that made up whoever you were for hours at a time. 

Back then, it would take hours and days to regain who you were. It wasn’t until you were more advanced that you were able to separate who you are from who you pretended to be. Now, it’s not necessarily. There is no other, no mask. Just you and Yoongi, the single client you decided was worth being moldable for.

The smell of coffee wakes him up before his alarm. You watch him sit up in bed, eyes not yet open. His hand spreads to where he expects to find you, only to discover open space. He swivels back and forth then, looking for you. Maybe a little panicked.

A pang aches your heart. It is so easy to forget that even after years of getting up before him first, Yoongi will never be trained out of the instinct that something of his has been taken. The day he doesn’t worry is the day he’ll lose everything and you know it.

“I’m over here,” you call gently. He relaxes and pulls himself together before getting out of bed and trudging out of the room.

Yoongi is pretty in the morning. His face is swollen with sleep, making him look so much younger. Like a dumpling, even. His mouth is fixed in a pout as he rubs at his eyes, steps uneven and dark hair sticking up all over the place. He looks at you, eyes glassy. The faded pink scar over his eye is less intimidating in the morning. You grin and open your arms. His reaction is automatic, sliding between them and sinking into your embrace, head thudding to your shoulder. 

“Hi,” you purr, your hands squeezing around his middle. His shirt is soft in your fingers as you play with the hem. He grunts back, not much of a morning person. You don’t mind. Instead, you let him lay his weight on you, unwilling to move even as the coffee finishes brewing. He smells like sage shampoo and something more unique to him. “You okay, sleepyhead?”

“Mhmm.”

“Can’t talk yet?” he shakes his head against you and you laugh. “Come on, coffee.” 

With Yoongi latched on to you, you walk over to the coffee maker. You giggle, elated as he clings to your front, letting you move him backwards. With his butt pressed against the counter and arms wrapped around you, you lean around him to grab the steaming mug and bring it in front of him.

Pouting, he drops his hands from you and takes it. 

Years of mornings and carefully pulling back layers of Yoongi has earned this rare silliness between you. You’re acutely aware of the fact that the sleepy man in front of you, no matter how soft and blushing he is in the mornings, is a murderer. He’s extorted people, has threatened them, sits at the top of drug trade, and has pushed people into political office with dirty money and blood. Your eyes linger on his scar, a memento of his violent youth. 

You don’t care. It doesn’t matter what Yoongi is and is not. All that matters to you is that he is Yoongi and that he is yours. At least, yours in the way it matters. You don’t dare ask him for more than what you have. It is the one thing you’re afraid of, because even though you know that he loves you, that you know he trusts you, asking for more is something you don’t want to do. Too many people want more of him. You just want whatever you can have. 

As he sips his coffee, careful not to let it spill over and burn you while you bury yourself in snuggling him, you close your eyes. A couple of years ago, you didn’t think a life like this was possible. Getting in at the Red was the first step in the right direction. Though still for sex workers, it was an upper level platform in the industry you clawed your way to. 

Both of you are similar in that regard. Yoongi started from nothing. A poor boy who dropped out of school to work a job and help pay rent at his apartment, too uneducated with not enough resources to make a dent in the world. It was the same story for you, though perhaps a little bloody around the edges, a hand that started selling you before you could make the choice yourself. 

At the thought of your mother, you feel your jaw clench. The bite of the memory is only soothed by the knowledge of Yoongi putting her down himself. Perhaps it makes you a monster, but you’ve accepted that long ago you were what the world crafted you to be, and you wouldn’t apologize.

If you were Yoongi’s shield, he was your sword. You protected him from the weight of his atrocities, and he slayed your monsters. 

It’s what drew Yoongi to you in the first place, the unapologetic approach to life. You appreciate it in him too. He doesn’t try to pretend that he is more or less than what he is, and you never try to hide the ugly parts of yourself. 

And here he is anyway, coffee-warm lips pressed against your forehead. It almost makes you ask for more, but you don’t. This is enough for now. 

The room at the Red isn’t where you live, but it’s yours in everything except lease. You long stopped using it for its intended purposes, now pleased to use it as a neutral ground to meet Yoongi and to stay where you know he is safe. His sprawling estate under guard and gun is surely safe enough, but you like having Yoongi where you can see him. 

After a mostly innocent shower together, Yoongi gets dressed and kisses you goodbye after you walk him down. It’s still dark outside when you swipe your security key. He puts on his biker helmet and gives you a little salute before jogging down the alleyway, splashing into the morning and vanishing around a corner. 

You linger for a moment, watching the empty space where he vanished. It would be nicer to be somewhere you didn’t have to escort him out. Somewhere you could be together all the time. You don’t think Yoongi would say no if you invited him over to your apartment, but you don’t have the security and the heavy protection that the Red offers. 

Collecting your things, you scribble a note for the cleaner before heading out. You’ll only return to the room if Yoongi intends on swinging by again. Though it is more than a suitable place to spend all your time, you like your small apartment tucked downtown above a coffee shop. It has a hominess that feels more like you. That is a little less sterile. 

Sun cracks over the city, spilling light like yolk over the buildings. You shield your eyes as you make your way down the sidewalk, shafts of light falling between buildings. The subway is full of people heading to work. Everyone shuffles without speaking, some buttoning collars of uniforms while others close their eyes in seats, headphones snug over their head. 

The lull of the train as it starts makes you drowsy, but you fight to stay awake. Now that you don’t spend hours sleeping in and recovering from servicing clients late into the night, you value your mornings. Want to be the kind of person whose business hours are during the day, to feel the sun on your skin. 

At your stop, you disappear in the flow of people going up the steps. The concrete above is still wet from the rain the night before, your steps tapping wetly as you go. It’s still summer, but the wind in the shade is cool as you enter the parking garage of your building, heading toward the elevator. 

It’s mostly empty, people having left for work already. There’s a single black SUV by the elevator that you don’t recognize, the windows too dark to see inside. As you approach the car, you realize that it’s on, idling quietly. 

Years of living in the wrong part of town have you slowing your steps. Your eyes flicker to the plate to see a metal shield over it, hiding the numbers on the vehicle. The back of your neck tingles. You come to a full stop, staring at the running vehicle. No one makes a move to get out and there’s no indication that someone is inside.

While you don’t live in the luxurious part of town, your neighborhood is relatively safe. It’s not without instances, but you live deep into Yoongi’s territory, his foothold on this block strong. You’ve never had to worry about walking down the road by yourself at night or making it to your apartment when drunk.

Now, you’re worried. Instinct needles you sharply. There is no reason to think the SUV means you any harm, but something is screaming at you to walk away. 

Then the elevator opens and a normal looking man and woman exit. They don’t pay you any mind as they get into the vehicle, shutting the back door. Your nerves ease and you laugh at yourself for being so ridiculous. There’s no reason for anyone to be doing something nefarious this early in the morning. 

Shaking yourself out of it, you walk the rest of the way to the elevator. As you reach your hand to press the button to call the elevator car, you hear the sound of the car doors opening. You whip your head to look over your shoulder as men get out of the passenger seat and the back seat.

Instinct kicks in. You turn and run, screaming shrilly for anyone that can hear you. They take off after you, steps thundering against the pavement as the SUV squeals its tires to back out of the spot and peel after you. There’s nowhere to go but out into the street. You head for the sidewalk only to be snatched from behind and lifted off your feet.

You react immediately. You throw your elbow back, connecting to one of the men’s faces. He screams and you hear bones crunch. He drops you but your knees buckle, a mix of fear and lack of coordination making you fall to the ground. The other man is on top of you, pressing you into the ground as you scream savagely, kicking your limbs to wiggle out of his grip. 

He grabs your hair and pulls. You yell out, eyes smarting from the sting in your scalp as he then shoves your face into the ground. It hurts. Pain blooms in the side of your face. You’re aware of tiny pieces of gravel digging into soft skin, cutting up your face. The sting is small in comparison to the throb that pulses through your cheekbone as he grinds your face into the pavement. 

Screams echo in the garage as you’re yanked backwards. There are several hands on you, grip like iron. You snarl and yank your limbs to no avail. Just as you’re pulled into the interior of the car, a piece of cloth is slapped hard against your face. You gasp in surprise, a pungent smell filling your nose before you feel a swift fog take over, your mind fading until there is nothing left. 

-

Pain. It’s the first thing you feel when you come to. It’s a slow sort of drift toward awareness, like sluggishly swimming to the surface of a deep lake. You manage to drag yourself there, but immediately want to sink back into the nothingness again once you feel how much you hurt. 

Your face perhaps hurts the most. Not only does your skin burn, but it feels like you’ve been rocked with a cinderblock on the left side of your face. You dully recall having your head pressed into the concrete with near bone-breaking force. It explains why when you open your eyes, the left feels a little swollen. 

The room you’re in is empty. Your shoulder muscles are on fire, hands tied behind your back in the chair you’re sitting in. It’s hard to pinpoint what hurts worse, body littered with bruises and injuries. Still, you’re alive and that has to count for something. 

A man leans against the wall across from you. He watches you curiously. When you become aware of him, you straighten a little in the seat. Your ass tingles with the numbness of sitting there for who knows how long, and your biceps strain with the movement, making you hiss. 

“I’d like to untie you,” the man offers. “But I need a guarantee that you’ll behave.”

You want out of the ropes, so you nod your head. He nods once and pushes off the wall, walking over to you. You use the nearness of his proximity to gather as many details as you can: Patek watch, a basic model. He smells like mandarin and something spicy like pepper - maybe an Arabian fragrance. The suit he’s in is well-tailored and when he pulls a knife out of his pocket to cut the ropes around your wrist, you see a mother-of-pearl handle. 

Money. This man has money. 

Relief makes you sigh, melting into the chair when the pressure in your shoulder blades releases. You immediately lift your hands and place them into your lap, rubbing your trembling fingers across your palms, pressing firmly to encourage blood flow. Your handles tingle as the circulation begins to return to normal, though you can’t make a fist or move all of your appendages immediately. 

The man backs away and leans against the wall once more. He’s incredibly handsome, the kind of guy who might be an actor or in the movie industry, perhaps. You continue to assess him, placing him a few years older than yourself. His hands are linked in front of him. No marriage ring, no tan to indicate there was once a band there either. 

The expensive cologne matched with the watch leads you to believe someone else picked them out, which leaves you with two options: a lover or a sales associate. Judging the make of the watch, you know it doesn’t look like a limited edition series, so not a very personal gift, if a gift at all. And while the cologne smells expensive, it’s too spicy for a day scent, indicating that he doesn’t have someone to tell him the difference between night and daytime colognes.

If you have to guess, they’re things he’s purchased himself on the advice of a sales associate or because of the amount of numbers on the price tag. It’s a habit that comes with new money.

“I apologize for the roughness,” he offers. “It wasn’t my intent to hurt you.”

“Intent matters little. Results matter a lot.”

“Well said.”

Feeling starts to come back to your hands as you flex them. You’re in some sort of construction building. It looks like maybe an apartment building in the making, with plastic tarps covering the windows and metal scaffolding exposing unfinished concrete. Outside, you think you faintly hear the sound of docks and workers.

“Do you know where we are?”

You look him up and down. “We’re in a building. You’re against a wall, and I’m in a chair.”

He scoffs. “Smart mouth.”

“You asked a question.”

“So I did. We’re in a building that was supposed to be my next venture. Someone, however, got in the way and created a bunch of red tape with the city. Now my funding has been slashed and this building has been sitting unfinished for a year, draining me of my property taxes.”

“Well,” you deadpan. “I’m a whore, not a lender. I can’t get you a loan.”

He grins, but you can’t tell if he’s amused. “You’re not just any whore though, are you? I have on good authority you service high profile clients. One of your clients is the reason this building is stuck in paperwork, and now he wants to take even more from me. I can’t let that happen.” 

Yoongi. He’s talking about Yoongi and you know it. You try not to squirm in your seat, meeting his dark eyes head on. Your mind is trying to make decisions and keep up as much as possible, funneling through the list of names Yoongi has mentioned, anything at all that can give you a leg up.

“High profile clients are where the money is,” you admit. You think perhaps this man is Kwan Daehyun, whom Yoongi has been playing chess with for the better part of a year. “I don’t like to sell information on my clients, but I suppose you know that since you kidnapped me.”

“Consider the sales price on this particular client’s information to be your life. I just need a little bit of information, and you’re free.”

You shrug. “You’ve got me there. What do you want to know?”

“Min Yoongi.” You continue to stare at him, giving away nothing. Your heart is racing in your chest and you try to keep your hands from shaking. When you continue not to answer, he clicks his tongue, annoyed. “What can you tell me about his weaknesses?”

You can’t help it, you laugh. Kwan frowns as you giggle. It hurts to laugh, face bursting with pain as you catch your breath and shake your head. “What a cheesy fucking questions. What, you think I just have a list of things that can hurt Min Yoongi?”

“I know how pillow talk goes. He must talk about his stress. Brag about his assets. What else do men go to whores for?”

“To get their cock sucked, usually.”

Kwan pushes off the wall and storms toward you. You sneer up at him, a little less afraid of him now. He appears small and gutless to you, kidnapping a sex worker to ask for pillow talk secrets to gain a fucking advantage. It means he has nothing on Yoongi and has resorted to pisspoor tactics to get anything usable against Yoongi.

Though how he managed to get to you is unsettling. You’re unsure how he made the connection, or how long he has been watching Yoongi. You find that to be the most irritating, to know that Yoongi has been under surveillance for any period of time. Not that you’ve been smacked around and put in an abandoned building on threat of murder. 

“I will fucking kill you.” 

There is truth in his words. Questioning you is a desperate attempt, but perhaps not his only. It occurs to you that he doesn’t thin you hold any value beyond questioning you, and though he’s said he’ll spare you life, you don’t think that’s true. He only sees you as a vacuum for information, and if you don’t have it or you give it to him, he’ll kill you.

You need to be valuable. And fast. 

“Kill me and you ruin any chance of that deal with him.” Kwan hesitates, eyes darkening as the words spill out of your mouth, “In fact, that was probably already off the table as soon as you had me physically harmed and dragged into a car here. So now, you should stop asking me about what Yoongi’s weaknesses are and start asking, what will Min Yoongi do if you call him and tell him who you kidnapped and tied to a fucking chair.” 

Kwan narrows his eyes. You see him assessing the weight of your words. You fight the urge to leap at him and reach for the folding knife in his pocket. Just because you can’t see a gun doesn’t mean there’s not one, and just because you can’t see or hear anyone else in the building doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

Outside you can hear the cry of a seagull. When you breathe in, you smell ocean water and salt. Definitely keeping you in a building by the docks. You think you know the one. Kwan takes a few steps back from you and crosses his arms over his chest. 

“You think he gives a shit if I have you?”

“You asked for Yoongi’s weakness. You’re looking at it.” 

“I think you’re bullshiting me. I think you’re a whore he won’t deal for.”

“One way to find out, right?”

Instead of answering, Kwan turns on his heel and walks towards the opaque tarp. He walks through it and two men replace him at the entrance. Both of them are armed, staring down at you. Ignoring them, you roll your neck in slow circles, trying to ease the soreness.

Tentatively, you reach a hand up to your face, pressing your fingers into your cheek. You hiss, the pain still raw and present underneath your fingers. You can feel small scabs from where the gravel broke skin, but thankfully it doesn’t feel like your eyes are too swollen. 

Time passes. You remain in the chair, fidgeting now that you’re awake. Your tongue is heavy in your dry mouth and your lips begin to burn from wetting them constantly, only to be dried out by the salty air. You feel itchy and irritable, trying not to squirm too much in the chair lest you disturb the guards.

Most of all, without having to put on a brave performance, you feel afraid. Afraid of being here by yourself in this warehouse, afraid that you’ve made a mistake trying to make yourself valuable, afraid that Kwan isn’t going to give you a chance to talk to Yoongi as proof of life. 

You’re not versed in this part of Yoongi’s life. So much of his business has been held separate from you. The violence and the extortion and the sketchy deals have always been something he did outside of that room at the Red. You’re not afraid of this life, though. Just unprepared and trying to guess what to do next, fueled by poorly written crime movies and stories that Yoongi has told you in the warmth of your bed.

It feels like hours have gone by when Kwan comes back into the room. You sit up straight when you see the phone in his hand and see the fire in his eyes. He looks like a man who has had something go right - which means you have him right where you want him, if he’s doing what you think he is. 

Kwan holds out the phone to you. “You have five minutes to talk to him as an act of good faith on my proposal.”

You see Yoongi’s name on the caller idea and try not to start crying. Swallowing thickly, you lick your lips again and bring the phone up to your ear. The tremble in your hand and your voice isn’t a performance when you say, “Hello?”

“Where are you? He hasn’t told me.”

“Yeah, I’m alive.” You sniff a little. “Agh, don’t make me cry. My face will get saltier than it already is.”

“I need more than that, Angel. He’s trying to make deals with me, but I need to know where you are to come get you. He won’t tell me where you’re at unless I wire over money and legally sign over assets.”

“No, he hasn’t hurt me. He’s been polite, though I’ve been kind of a beach- bitch. I’ve been a bitch. Sorry, I’m very tired.”

“Is it the building in the warehouse district at the docks? That apartment shell?”

“Yes, I can do that. Just… please agree to whatever he says, I feel tired and loaded. Bloated. Sorry, I’m confusing words again.”

“Yeah, well I’ve got fucking guns too. We’re going to come get you okay?”

This time when you sniff, you feel actual tears. Of relief that he understands your weird turns of phrase, of the terror at knowing he’s going to have to come get you. To risk his life for you. You knew he would, and yet you almost hate to ask him. 

“Thank you.” 

“You’ll be okay, Angel, but I need you to listen.” 

“Okay.” 

His voice is firm as he says, “I need you to do whatever it is you need to do to protect yourself. Don’t think twice about it. It is you or them, do you understand me? There is almost a certainty you are going to have to kill someone when we come get you. Start thinking about it now. Try to get used to it so that when the time comes, you’re not afraid anymore.” 

“Okay. I love you.” 

“See you soon.”

-

Yoongi likes to think that he is an expert in control. His compartmentalization is unmatched, and though he is incredibly proud, his pride is not easily wounded. Foolish slights and insults don’t rile him the way they might have in his youth, and physical threats of harm are amusing, especially when no very few people carry through on their threat. 

When Yoongi hangs up the phone, he loses every ounce of control he’s ever felt. Never has his urge to destroy been so sharp. He sees red, slamming his hands across his desk and swiping everything off. He tastes metal in his mouth as he bites through his cheek, screaming as he hammers his fists on top of the desk hard enough that he thinks he might split the wood. 

Hoseok and Seokjin hear the commotion, crashing into the office with Namjoon and Jungkook behind them, weapons drawn. Yoongi is shaking when he looks up at them, the phone screen cracked in his hand. He cannot stop shaking, the adrenaline coursing through his veins like a dose of heroin. 

All of their voices sound like a mess of sounds. The ringing in his ears overpowers everything they’re saying as he stands there, hands at his side, mind racing and chest heaving as he pants. Why is he panting? Yoongi feels like he’s suddenly not getting enough air, dropping his phone to loosen the tie around his neck, trying to give himself more room to breathe. Why do his clothes feel so fucking tight?

Suddenly it’s like there isn’t enough air in the room. Yoongi feels the tunnel vision come up on him fast. Chills spread through his body as he wavers, hands held out as he tries to catch his breath. He feels hands on him trying to steady him, but he yanks away from them. They feel too close, too much in his space and he needs more room. Room to get this blazer off and breathe. Breathe, why can’t he breathe? 

Yoongi stumbles into a wall. His vision pulses on the edges and he can vaguely make out Hoseok’s voice. He looks up at him and sees his friend, his advisor. Hoseok isn’t touching him, but his head is cocked as he tries to keep and maintain eye contact with Yoongi. 

“Inhale for seven seconds,” Hoseok says. “Then exhale for seven. I’ll count.”

“What?” Yoongi demands.

“You’re having an anxiety attack.” Hoseok states it as if it’s the most common thing in the world. “You have to regulate your breathing or you’re going to pass out. If you pass out, we can’t help.” 

It’s the only thing that gets him to listen. He counts with Hoseok, drawing in long breaths.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

Yoongi has to shake this. Has to get ready and call his people, needs to make plans to come get you. He knows exactly where you are - wants to fucking kiss you for how clever you mange to be even while terrified. 

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

He knows you’re afraid. Yoongi has never heard your voice tremble like that since he’s known you. He knows every tone of your voice, every color to the spectrum of your sounds, able to pick them apart to know how you feel. And while you spoke in a clear tone, it was all wrong. Colored with terror. Voice soft and rough and wavering. 

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

The ringing in his ears fade. Yoongi continues to take slow, deep breaths. His hands are still shaking and he feels a little light headed, but when he blinks a few times and looks around, he sees his closest men and confidants standing around him, waiting. 

“Talk to us,” Hoseok urges. “What’s going on?”

“Kwan has my girl. They’re in that apartment project we froze in the docks.”

“He told you where they were?”

“No, she did.”

Hoseok looks weary. “That sounds like a trap - did he already offer you a deal?”

“He said several things. He didn’t tell me where they were, she did.”

“In front of-”

“Hoseok, stop asking stupid questions or I swear to fucking god I’ll hit you first. She’s not used to any of this, but she isn’t fucking stupid. She used the words salt, beach and loaded. They’re in that building and they’re armed.”

“Poetic,” Seokjin grunts. Yoongi cuts his gaze to his head of security and the man pales. “Sorry, bad timing.”

“Get every fucking person we know on the fucking ground and here. We’re going to get her.”

“They’ll see us coming from a mile away.”

Yoongi stares at Seokjin. “I don’t give a fuck. Kwan wanted to find a weakness, well he found one. And now I’m going to paint that shitty little development with his blood.”

An hour later is when it hits Yoongi. He stops in the middle of tying a shoe and he stands. He’s replaying the conversation with you over and over in his head, looking for any other details he could have missed. He was so fucking proud of you for getting your point across even while scared, but now it’s something else he thinks of.

I love you. He had almost not realized you said it at all at the end of the call. He can’t remember if he said it back, but he’s suddenly sick over the what if of it all. What if he doesn’t get to say it back? What if he gets there and swarms in, only to find you dead? 

In a moment of panic, he texts Hoseok to request proof of life on the hour every hour from Kwan under the guise of considering his horrendous deal. Kwan, of course, thinks he’s got Yoongi. He doesn’t, naturally. They haven’t agreed on a time or place to meet, and Kwan does not seem to understand just how poorly he’s miscalculated. 

None of it matters. All that matters is that Yoongi is going to come get you like he promised, and he is never letting you out of his sight again. 

-

Surprisingly, your living conditions change a little upon Kwan learning that you’re more valuable kept alive and in decent condition than beat up or dead. He has a cot and a fan brought in, along with an ice back for your cheek and a thermos of water.

You crush the thermos almost immediately. Though you’re kept under armed guards now, you’re relieved to be able to lay down and stretch your sore limbs. When the ice pack finally grows hot and melts on your aching cheekbone, one of the guards gets you a new one without question.

It almost makes you feel bad for what is to come. Almost. 

You know Yoongi. It’s why you gambled with a hostage play in the first place. He won’t let them have you and it doesn’t matter what Kwan offers him, Yoongi is far too powerful to accept deals from the likes of Kwan. It isn’t so much a matter of pride as it is a matter of power. You know Yoongi has the power to pull you out of this without further harm. 

At least, you have put every ounce of trust and confidence in him that you have. 

Time moves slowly. It’s hard to know how fast Yoongi will mobilize or what his plan is. It would make sense for him to perhaps cause a distraction elsewhere to get Kwan’s eyes off of you, but it’s also a dangerous game to play with a hostage. 

It doesn’t matter. Yoongi has his job and you have yours, which is to work the screw out of one of the cots joints. You’ve picked one that isn’t imperative to the overall structure of the cot. It can bear your weight without the screw as long as you don’t lean on the joint too much. It takes you a while to unscrew it with your bare fingers, all while lying on your back trying to look uninterested in anything.

I need you to do whatever it is you need to do to protect yourself. 

Finally, you pull the cool metal free. You slide it into the pocket of your sweatpants. The weight of it feels better than nothing. It won’t do much damage, but a well placed punch to the face with the screw between your knuckles will do what you need, even if you damage your hand to do it. 

You’ve never killed someone. Thought about it a few times, maybe. Had some people try to sway you to slip something into a client’s drink, but you never accepted. Killing isn’t your business. It’s Yoongi’s, but you know that if he’s telling you to take the chance, it’s because he wants you to live. 

The thought is chilling. You rest your hand on the pocket, feeling the shape of the screw. You don’t know how to kill. You’re not even entirely sure that you have it in you. You’ve seen people die and you’ve seen people murder. It seems easy.

You’re not sure if it’s that simple. 

It’s late into the night when a commotion draws you from your half-slumber. You lift your head as someone comes in and mutters something to the guards. They nod and one of them leaves, the other turning to face you with a glare, hand resting just inside his jacket where you assume there’s a gun.

Outside, you hear the sound of peeling tires as a car takes off. 

Nerves take over. You feel your heartbeat pickup as you continue to lay on the cot, one hand under your pillow. It’s hard to think of what might be happening over the sound of your own pulse, but you try to regulate your breathing. There’s nothing happening right that second that you can control, so there’s no reason to panic.

A few minutes go by. It’s agony, waiting with bated breath. It’s quiet outside except for the sounds of the ocean and the mostly empty warehouses and docks. Plastic snaps in the breeze, loud in the silence of your waiting. You think that this is the worst part, the anticipation for what’s to come. You can’t sleep now even if you tried. 

When the first round of gunfire comes, you almost lose control of your bowels. It’s a shameful sort of fear that takes you by surprise, making you freeze up. You have been waiting for it, and yet now that you can hear the sound of automatic weapons somewhere below, it feels worse than you imagined. 

Looking up at the guard at the door, you reel in surprise to see him rushing toward you. Time seems to slow down. The sound of guns and yelling fade to the background everything suddenly becomes hyper focused. 

I need you to do whatever it is you need to do to protect yourself. 

As the guard leans to pick you up, you strike like a snake, pulling the screw from your pocket and jabbing upward with a savage scream.

His guttural cry splits the night. You feel hot blood spray your hand and dot your face as you plunge the blunt screw into his eye socket. Blood makes your fingers slippery and as he falls onto his back, hands clutching his face, you lose your grip. 

I need you to do whatever it is you need to do to protect yourself. 

No hesitation. You dive for him, stained hands searching for the weapon. The metal of the gun slides in your slick fingers. Through the blinding pain, the guard realizes what you’re doing and grabs your forearms. You pull back against him but can’t shake his grip, your hand stuck in his jacket on the gun. You finger the trigger and squeeze, but it doesn’t budge. The fucking safety. 

Sliding a knee down, you crush the cap of your knee between his legs, pressing his balls with your full weight. He screams and his grip goes slack. You yank on the gun, almost dropping it as it slides free from the holster. Your grip is clumsy and shaking, your heart pounding so hard you think you might die of fright before you manage to find the safety on the hammer and pull it back. 

I need you to do whatever it is you need to do to protect yourself. 

Click. Squeeze. Bang. 

You don’t aim. Don’t have the sense to at that moment. This close, you don’t have to aim at all. You hit your target and his yelling turns to shrieks. You can’t tell where you’ve shot him, all you know is that you have. You scramble away, hands slipping on the floor, gun clutched clumsily in your hand. 

A hand goes around your ankle and you scream as he drags you backward. You roll onto your back, bringing the gun up again, trying to aim in the general direction of his chest.

Squeeze. Bang. 

It’s so loud. Your ears are ringing and you’re unable to hear anything as the grip on your ankle immediately goes slack. The guard goes limp, the fight leaving him immediately. You don’t look - can’t look. Can’t focus on anything but the way your vision tunnels. 

Dizziness sweeps over you as you crawl away from him again. Your knees and palms might hurt if you could feel anything at all, but numbness starts to take over as you manage to press yourself against a wall near the doorway. You don’t dare move toward it, too untrained to handle a gun while terrified. 

“Angel!” you hear Yoongi’s voice screaming somewhere in the building. You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Your lips tremble. You try to find your voice, willing the words to come. Mouth open, his name on the tip of your tongue, you can’t find a response. “Angel, come on, baby! Where are you?”

“Yoongi,” you whisper. It’s not nearly loud enough and your voice cracks on the name. You close your eyes and take a deep, shuddering breath as you muster strength behind your voice. “Yoongi!” 

“That’s it, keep talking to me.” 

It sounds like he is yelling somewhere down a stairwell, voice echoing up concrete walls. “Up!” You start to curl into yourself. “Yoongi, up!” 

Steps thunder in the stairwell. You drop the gun next to you and look at your hands. They’re slick and wet. In a panic, you start wiping them on your sweatpants, smearing red as you do. You viciously wipe your hands. You want the blood off, you don’t want it all over you, it’s hot and stick and it’s not yours and it belongs to the dead man who was trying to take you-

Warm hands grab your face and tilt you upward. You blink through blurry tears. Yoongi looks back at you, his forehead sweaty and his slicked back hair a little messy. He turns your face from side to side as more of his men flood into the room, guns raised.

Yoongi’s mouth moves but you can’t hear him. You shake your head, looking up at him. His grip softens and the gentle brush of his thumb back and forth across your face eases the rising panic inside of you. You sniff, taking a few slow, trembling breaths. 

“Are you seriously injured?” Yoongi asks again, voice rough. Cracking. “Do you need medical attention?”

“No.”

“The blood-” You shake your head violently, closing your eyes. “Okay. It’s okay. You did what you needed to do, Angel. I’m going to get you on your feet and take you home, okay?” 

“I don’t-”

“My home. Not yours. You’re coming home.”

Yoongi doesn’t need to explain what he means. As he slowly pulls you to your feet, you know what he’s telling you. You’re going to his estate, because it’s yours too now. The agreement is unspoken but mutual. You don’t want to go back to your apartment. You don’t want to go back to the Red. Right now, all you want is to wash the blood from your hands and get away from this place. 

Seokjin is at the door with a blanket. He wraps it around you as Yoongi keeps his hands around your waist, steadying you as you walk. You get down two levels of stairs before he tucks you into him and presses his lips against your temple.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs, mouth moving against your skin. “I won’t let you trip.”

You do as you’re told. His steps are confident and careful as he leads you through the bottom floor. You hear the murmur of voices, the flapping of plastic tarp, and the humming engines of vehicles. Yoongi lifts you lightly and helps you get into the cool interior of a car that smells like leather. 

When the door shuts, you flinch and open your eyes, staring straight forward. Yoongi is next to you, arm going around your shoulders as he pulls you into his side again. You realize for the first time as you glance at him that there’s blood on his face and in his hair. His knee bounces up and down, his hand resting against it, still gripping a gun with the safety off. 

“Are we safe?” you whisper, staring at his gun. 

“Yes.”

“Then why-”

“It makes me feel better,” he admits. “I just need to come down.”

“Okay.” 

“Look at me.”

You do. His eyes are dark and though his mouth is pinched at the corners and the vein throbs in his forehead, his eyes are soft for you. “I love you,” he murmurs. “We’re safe.”

-

A week makes the pain in your cheekbone fade away. A week does not make the memory of squeezing the trigger fade. At night, the memory is worse. What your mind had been unable to remember at first comes back in full-clarity at night, gripping you in your sleep and dragging you down into an endless terror until Yoongi pries you from the clutches of your nightmares and wakes you. 

It’s easier with him by your side, though. You’re at least able to fall asleep, if not stay asleep through the night. When he wakes you from screaming and thrashing in the sheets, you’re able to settle against him, his hold on you firm. Comforting.

Yoongi takes this in stride. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t lose his patience. He simply murmurs that he gets it and holds you, his skin warm and smelling like home. 

Home. 

The estate is a sprawling mass of elegance that stuns you each day. Beyond the opulence of the home and the luxury that it offers, what matters most is the security. The personnel at every entrance, the high gate with cameras and alarms, the three lurking dobermans that still terrify you when you see them standing in a dark hall at night or watching you in the kitchen when you get a glass of water after a nightmare. 

Nox has come around to liking you, at least. She’s become your shadow in the house, which had made you a little unsure at first. Now, she trails you up the stairs and to the master bedroom. You’ve grown used to her - prefer it, even, when Yoongi is not home like right now. 

Erebus and Khonsu are on the floor of the master bedroom. Both watch you as you enter, unbothered but aware. Where their younger sister has adopted you as an owner and a thing to protect, they still seem set on Yoongi only. 

The three dogs remain in the bedroom as you end the bathroom. It makes you feel safe to know that even if someone managed to get through the gates, up the driveway, through the secured doors and the dozen people that Yoongi has stationed at the estate since your kidnapping, the dogs are another line of defense. 

So is the gun under the bathroom cabinet and in the nightstand, but you don’t want to touch a gun ever again. Not if the nightmares it gives are like this. 

Steam fills the room accompanied by the scent of eucalyptus. Carefully, you peel the clothes from your body and toss them into a corner. The stone shower is warm with heated floors and a digital panel both inside and outside for control of the fifteen different water settings. There’s even steam options, but you simply turn on the rain feature, slipping under the dripping ceiling. 

The hot, wet taps of the water lull you into a trance. You stand with your head tilted down, letting the rivulets of water run the full length of your body.

“Angel, I’m home,” Yoongi calls from the bedroom. You smile, appreciating that he announces his presence instead of sneaking up on you. He’s always careful to make noise when he enters rooms now and announces his arrival. “You just get in?”

“Yeah,” you call back. “Join me?”

“Give me five.” 

When he finally enters the bathroom, you turn around to look at him. He’s already pulling the tie around his neck loose, dropping it to the ground. You catch sight of the red across his knuckles. Though he is free of blood - an effort on his part now to bring it home to you - you notice the days where he comes home and his knuckles are split or bruised, hands aching. 

Watching Yoongi undress captures your full attention. His movements are slow and methodical. His back is to you, shirt dripping off his broad shoulders to join the tie on the floor. He looks up in the mirror and pauses, dark eyes catching yours. You raise a brow and gesture for him to continue. When he does, it’s with his tongue poking his cheek and a smirk. 

Knowing that you’re watching, Yoongi turns it into an art. His fingers trace the top of his slacks before he slowly undoes the belt, pulling it with a satisfying hiss through the loops before holding it out to the side and letting it clatter to the floor. Your eyes are zeroed in on his reflection in the mirror as he works the button open, peeling the top of his pants apart to reveal the logo of his briefs. 

Yoongi pauses. Your eyes dart up to his in the mirror to find him watching you, eyes dark. The scar looks menacing today. You squeeze your thighs together, chewing on your bottom lip. He notices, smirk growing as he rolls the slacks down his thighs and kicks them aside. You see the imprint of his half-hard cock in his briefs, your attention on him alone enough to get his blood pumping.

You’ll never get over having that effect on him. Knowing that even after the nightmares and becoming an inconvenience - in your eyes, at least - the chemistry between you isn’t gone. It’s still there, a burning candle. 

Slowly, Yoongi peels off his briefs. His heavy cock bobs as he steps out of them and you feel your pussy clench around nothing, just thinking about him stretching you open. He says nothing about the small bead of precum at the tip as he turns and walks over to the shower.

He’s built beautifully. Broad shoulders with a slim, tapered waist. Strong arms and large hands, firm chest and soft but muscular stomach. Yoongi is the perfect blend of pretty and rugged, a combination that you didn’t know existed until him. 

When he steps into the shower, you step further into the water, making room for him. He shuts the door and frowns at the distance between you, holding out his hand. You take it immediately and he pulls you forward, careful not to let you slip on the tile.

He doesn’t waste a moment. Yoongi’s mouth captures yours, wet from the shower water as he sucks your bottom lip between his teeth, nipping lightly. You hum, bringing your arms to loop around his neck, fingers combing through his wet hair. His cock presses against your lower stomach, and you shiver. 

Yoongi’s kisses are addicting. Slow, like he has all the time in the world, but hungry, like he can’t get enough. His tongue brushes the roof of your mouth, his teeth pulling at your lip again when he pulls his mouth away to press open-mouthed kisses on your jaw. 

Tilting your head back, you let him pepper kisses along your throat. You close your eyes, letting him hold you to him. The room tilts as you sway in his arms, the feeling of him licking the hollow of your throat entrancing. It’s so simple yet it feels so good. 

One arm loops around your waist to keep you pressed to Yoongi, his other slides up your wet skin to cup your breast. You let out a breathy moan when you feel his thumb circle your stiff nipple, the stimulation so bare but so good. 

Yoongi keeps you cradled against him, mouth working your neck and shoulder and back up to your mouth while his thumb lazily plays with your nipple. You're pliant in his arms, letting him do whatever he wants with you.

His mouth starts to descend and when he finally takes your nipple into his mouth, you can’t stop the whine that escapes you. He hums as he sucks gently, tongue flicking back and forth over the peak. You can’t help but twitch in his arms, a ripple of pleasure sliding through you. 

Heat pulses between your legs and you feel the slick gathering in your folds. Your legs squeeze together again as Yoongi drags his teeth over your sensitive nipple before letting go and switching to the other. This time, he looks up at you through dark, wet lashes, sticking out his devilish tongue as he uses the tip to trace your skin.

“Show off,” you mutter, voice shaking. 

He laughs and runs the flat of his tongue over your nipple before giving a sharp suck that has you arching into him. “You love having your tits in my mouth,” he shoots back. He bites the top of your breast softly, teeth scraping your soft skin. “Don’t deny it.”

“I plead the fifth.”

“Hmmm.” 

“You don’t have to say anything,” he teases. The hand around your back slides down to your ass. He grabs a handful, squeezing generously. “Can you turn around for me? Legs spread so I can see that pretty pussy.” 

“Fuck.” 

He drops his arms so you can turn around. You press your palms against the wall, shivering as the cold tile leeches the warmth from you. The temperature difference makes the room tilt. You slide your legs apart and stick your ass out toward him, lifting a little. 

“Fuck yeah.” 

You can’t see him, but you feel him as he slides down to his knees. His palms grip your ass, spreading your cheeks open. You close your eyes and let your head hang between your arms when it feels too heavy to hold up yourself. 

“Just want a quick taste,” Yoongi mutters.

“Shiiiit,” you hiss, feeling his tongue dance up and down your cunt. He licks you in broad, slow stripes before he puts his entire mouth on you and sucks sharply. “Just like that.” 

“Fuck.” The smack of his lips against your wet heat are bracketed by the slick sound of him stroking his cock, the filthy sounds echoing in the shower. “I could eat you out every day.”

“You do.”

“Fine.” His tongue zigzags back and forth, reaching to swirl around your click. He kisses your cunt and stands up. “I’ll make it twice a day, then.” 

The blunt head of his cock slides between your folds. You press back toward him, eager to have him push in and split you open. He tuts at you, giving you a gentle smack on your ass. “Eager.”

“I’ve been waiting all fucking day for it, Yoongi. Give it to me.” 

“Mmm.” 

The feeling of Yoongi sinking his cock into you slowly drives you mad. You feel like you can’t breathe, every inch of his thick length stretching your walls to the max. It feels like he’s in your guts when he bottoms out, the pressure immense and good and dizzying. 

He starts slow, giving a few shallow thrusts as you adjust to be pried open. You relax around him, falling into the pleasure as he begins to fuck you in earnest. Hands on your waist, he pulls your ass backwards, meeting every one of his strokes in a loud, wet smack of hips on ass.

A shiver ripples down your spine and you moan when he adjusts the angle, prodding your g-spot. “Yeah?” he asks through gritted teeth. “That the spot?”

“Yes, please fuck me just like that.”

Nothing else exists beyond this. The steam makes your skin even hotter, cloying the air and making it hard to breathe. It makes everything fuzzy, like you’re drifting in and out of reality, pleasure unfolding in you as you squeeze around his cock. 

Each snap of his hips is punctuated with stilted breath. You’re gasping, thighs burning as you take every inch of him, fingers curling against the wall, eyes rolling back as you fall into a mute space. You make sound but no words come out, the pressure against that spot inside of you driving you mad. 

Yoongi slides a hand from your waist over the curve of your ass and between your cheeks, thumb pressing gently on the rim of your ass. You let out a loud moan, fingers trying to grab the wall to no avail. The new stimulation feels delicious, Yoongi’s thumb pressing against your asshole in time with his strokes. He doesn’t push past the ring of muscles, but it doesn’t matter - it’s enough to send you careening closer to your orgasm, toeing the line of insanity. 

“Fuck, Angel,” he pants, fucking into you harder. “Just like that, make it fucking creamy. You gonna come?” 

“Fuuuuck yeah.”

His thumb presses harder against your rim. “Come on, give it to me.” 

“Shit shit shit shit.” 

You lose the ability to say anything. Your body folds forward, only held up by Yoongi and the press of the freezing cold wall as he fucks you with precision. It sends you over the edge, your knees knocking as you come, fists pressing into the wall as you yell through it. 

The sound of the shower is drowned out by your babbling. Yoongi thrusts hard a few more times, hand slipping away from your ass to grip your waist hard, chasing his high. He comes with a loud curse, fingers digging into your skin. 

For a moment, he leans into you, pressing his cock as far in as he can go. Your pussy throbs around him, every pulse ebbing around him. He presses kisses up your spine, hands sliding up your ribs to pull you upright until your back is against his chest. 

“Fuck,” he pants, voice rough. “I’m so glad you’re mine.”

“I’ve always been yours.”

“I mean entirely. Without sharing.”

You pause, looking up at him with a frown. “You know I haven’t been… taking clients for two years, right?”

He pauses. “What?”

“You stupid boy,” you laugh, laying your head against his shoulder. “Of course I wasn’t. I just wanted you.” 

“Then why stay there?”

You shrug a shoulder, letting your eyes fall closed. The warmth of the orgasm blooms through you, Yoongi’s skin hot against your back and  the shower hotter still. “It was a place I knew you’d be safe when you visited. And I didn’t want to ask you for more. Everyone always wants more from you. I just wanted you.”

“All that time, I could have just… asked you to come home?”

“Yes. But it’s okay. I’m home now.”

He kisses your neck. “You are home, Angel.” 

[lucifer-is-a-bag-of-dicks]

The hospital was shockingly easy to break into, though Dabi supposed it was more due to it being built for keeping mentally ill people with quirk restraints in as opposed to keeping villain terrorists with full access to their quirks out. A distinct oversight considering exactly which top ranking hero's wife was being housed there.

All Dabi had to do was burn open a hole in a metal fence hidden behind an overgrown bush (and if he almost set fire to said bush multiple times in the process that was nobody's business but his) and then climb a particularly perilous tree, shimmy across an extremely narrow and dubiously sturdy ledge, and slide the window open with one hand, all the while clutching a bouquet of blue rindous in the other.

Easy.

No sweat.

He could do it with his eyes closed. Probably. At least he'd say he could if anyone asked, which they wouldn't, because if anyone found out that the A rank cremation villain Dabi was breaking into a hospital to leave Endeavour's wife flowers every few weeks they'd be too concerned about the fact that they were now burning to death to ask any further questions.

Dabi always frowned slightly whenever the window slid open without resistance. The hospital still hadn't fixed the latch, which was great for Dabi since he wouldn't have to break it again, but he couldn't help but feel slightly annoyed by the hospital's incompetence.

Didn't they know just about any unwanted creep could crawl through a fence, climb up a tree, shimmy across a ledge, and climb into this window? If he weren't a highly wanted criminal of secretive origins he'd write a formal complaint.

Maybe he should just murder whoever was in charge of security, they might be replaced with someone who actually cared for the safety of their patients. He tucked that idea away for later.

For now he had to focus on making sure Rei Todoroki was asleep and wouldn't notice him, she was usually out like a light at this time of night, she hadn't even stirred that one time a piece of ledge dislodged beneath Dabi's foot and he let out a rather undignified squeak of terror. Maybe she was being sedated, he hoped it was willingly, he didn't dwell on that thought, it wasn't as though he could do anything about it if it wasn't.

He could see the outline of her body under the covers from the little amount of light provided by a streetlight beyond the boundary fence, no movement, good.

The vase was still on the windowsill, excellent, one time it had been moved to the bedside table and he'd almost had to crawl right inside to reach it.

Dabi pulled out the old wilted rindous and laid them down beside the vase before carefully passing the fresh flowers from one hand to the other, shifting his grip on the windowsill, leaving his body vulnerable to the unforgiving laws of gravity for a brief moment. He cursed his weak stomach as it lurched violently at the minor jolt, it didn't matter how often he did this, it made its displeasure known each and every time.

He tucked the flowers into the vase and gave the still figure on the bed one last glance before getting ready to shimmy back across the ledge. Something about her looked... odd, misshapen almost, maybe she'd gone to bed with her dressing gown still on. Strange since she didn't normally feel the cold.

He didn't have the luxury of dwelling on the thought, the nurses could be around for check in any minute, agonisingly they were never on a regular schedule.

He had just shuffled away from the window when fingers as cold as his own suddenly wrapped around his wrist. He spun his head so fast he nearly lost his balance, but the grip on his wrist kept him steady against the wall.

Steely grey eyes latched onto his as Rei Todoroki leaned halfway out the window, holding onto him tight.

"Touya." she breathed, expression bright and almost smug. "I knew it, I knew it was you. They said I was delusional , that you were dead, that Enji must be leaving the flowers, but he never remembered my favourites, but you knew, you always picked them out of the garden for me."

Dabi froze, mouth slightly ajar as a denial danced on the tip of his tongue, his reason keeping it at bay.

No, I'm just some random villain breaking onto hospital grounds to leave you flowers, Touya who? Like shit she'll buy that.

Instead he tugged half heartedly at his wrist.

"Let go." he growled.

"Don't leave me Touya." Rei almost sobbed, her grip tightening.

"Let go mum." said Dabi, his voice weaker this time.

"Touya please," he could see tears starting to glisten in the corners of her eyes under the pale streetlight. "Don't leave me."

No no don't you cry don't you dare cry, because if you start I'll start and the last thing you need to see right now is the fucked up living corpse of your son bleeding from the eyes.

Rei's grip was bruising, he could almost hear his wrist creak under the pressure. She probably wasn't even gripping that hard, as tough as he acted there was a reason Dabi stuck to long range attacks, his body was barely more than a brittle bag of bones, a stiff breeze could dislocate his joints, especially with how many times he'd popped his own wrists out of place to slip out of handcuffs.

"If I stay I'll be caught." he argued, wriggling his wrist more urgently, maybe if she felt it pop she'd let go. "I have to go."

"He won't let me leave." Rei said, her words coming in a breathless rush, frantic, desperate. "The doctors cleared me months ago but he won't let me leave Touya. Fuyumi tried everything, Natsuo tried everything, and Shouto wants to help but he's just a child."

Her eyes were wide with panic, the more Dabi pulled away the further she leaned dangerously out the window.

"And what the fuck am I supposed to do?" Dabi hissed, almost on the verge of panic himself, "I'm a criminal, a villain, you think anyone's gonna listen to me?"

"You're the only one left who can help me." Rei's voice was as steady as her hand. "I need you Touya."

Dabi very very much did not like how effectively those words punched the air from his lungs. Needed, she needed him, not Fuyumi, not Natsuo, not even perfect precious Shouto, she needed him. The failure, the fuckup.

No fuck you, you are not that pathetic, get it together you idiot.

"What do you want?" Dabi asked, his voice almost pleading as he kept tugging at his wrist, it still hadn't popped out, of all the times for his joints to behave themselves.

Rei leaned so far over the ledge that for a moment he almost thought she had lost balance, she stared at him with a burning intensity.

"Get me the fuck out of here."

edit: there is now a part two!

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Exactly as you are

Previous chapter / Next chapter

a/n well look at us meeting at part three already. Thank you so much for all of your love. And an extra thank you to @brekkershadowsinger for being my knight in shining armor and a beta reader! Love you so much!🤍

summary: when two broken souls meet something is bound to happen.

warning: mention of past trauma, anxiety, sexual assault, murder.

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The sun peaked through the open window. The sun - which was supposed to warm and bring hope did little for the coldness that lingered in the room. Kaz rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. Sleep just didn't find him tonight. And how could it be when all he heard were your cries? Screams and pleas that dragged way into the night. Kaz leaned back into the chair that he had pulled over hours ago. His gaze fell on your curled-up body, now fast asleep in his bed. His pillow beneath your head, his blanket warming up your body, his shirt clenched between your hands as you held it closer to your chest.

When Kaz had made his way back, the first person he was greeted with was Jesper. He could tell that the man was lingering. Purposely trying to wait out to catch Kaz there. Kaz thought about ignoring him, and he was going to until Jesper spoke up, "I'm sorry. You know that I am", dirtyhands spun around to face his crow. A cold, predatory gaze seeped through his eyes. Not family. Not friends. A boss and his investment, "Are you, though?" Now step away from one another, they were practically breathing at each other's throats. "Imagine that was Wylan? What would you do, Jesper? How far would you go?", Kaz barked out and turned away in an instant. Too much. Jesper had already seen too much. There had been too much. Too much was at stake. Too many people were involved.

"You love her", Jesper breathed out. "You…", but Kaz quickly turned back to him, the tip of his cane now pointed straight at Jasper's throat. "One more word, and I will rip your throat out". The warning was primal, raw, and something that deep down Jesper hoped Kaz would never actually do, but from the way, Kaz's eyes blazed and the way his hand shook ever so slightly, "Consider yourself lucky because Wylan was there if none of you would have been…", but his words died down. Choked out by that fear of losing once again. Kaz had already run through every possible scenario and every feasible way that those two could have hurt you. He needed names. Needed a reason. Now he wished he had left at least one of them alive. One of them to tell Kaz, who had been stupid enough to try to get to you when you were his. Because those faces were new to him tonight. Not prepared. He was as unprepared as the crows, and for that alone, Kaz couldn't find the strength to properly punish Jesper.

"Take Inej and sift through the docks. I need reports of all the newcomers, their names, who they work for, and why they came here. Find out who those two were", Kaz ordered, fingers running through his hair in frustration. He needed to calm down. To properly pull himself together. His emotions were too much of a giveaway that he cared. But shouldn't he? Shouldn't he care? His business might be in danger. There was a tassel in his club. His property was damaged. Who knew how much it would cost to get the blood off the floor? "Inej is upstairs with Nina looking after Y/N", Jesper muttered, and Kaz only nodded his head. "Good, go after it or go alone. I don't care".

"Kaz", you had muttered at least a thousand times since Jesper had walked in with you in his arms, shaking like a leaf. Nina dragged a wet cloth down your back, locking eyes with Inej, who was just as worried, before turning to you. "He will be here shortly, darling. Fix a couple of things, and I will be with you", she said as lightheartedly as she could, although Nina doubted if the state Kaz would come back in would help you in any way. The heartrender had suspicions. Most of the crows did. You two were almost glued to each other. And for goodness sake, who else besides you got to sit on Kaz's bed, let alone lay or sleep in it? No one. They couldn't even breathe the same air as him for longer than intended. But then there was you. And no matter when or for how long you stayed in Kaz's office, there wasn't a time when you were cursed out and pushed through the door. Together. Almost always together. Kaz's heartbeat changed first. At least that was what Nina caught onto. Maybe it wasn't affection at first, but still, you managed to alter Kaz's heart. Give strength to the beats, but lighten them at the same time.

"Kaz", you muttered your mantra, once again, big puffy eyes looking up at the two girls. Inej was a breath away from comforting you once more, but Nina cut in swiftly, changing the subject, "Let's get you out before you turn into a prune. Come, up you go", she pulls at your hands, making you stand, before wrapping a towel around your naked body. "Inej, why don't you fix a cup for all of us, huh?", but there was more behind this, and Inej could tell. Almost a silent plea to go look for Kaz. That whatever Nina was doing to keep you calm wasn't going to hold for much. She could feel it too. Slowly bubbling. Building up.

Kaz selfishly did not want to seek you out after all. Why would he? You had Nina and Inej. What would he do there? Stand and look? But then shouldn't he go up there and demand answers? Maybe the two had told you what they wanted. Because this seemed more than just a quick fuck that they were after. If that had been the case, Kaz would have been too late to stop it. Too late… Promised to protect. To keep safe. The image of you stripping in his office the first night flashed through his eyes. Kaz clenched his fist angrily. He had killed them all. Found a list of every man who had put in money to buy you off. They were begging for it to stop, but all Kaz did was repeat your name over and over to them. Dragging their deaths painfully slowly. No one knew about that. It wasn't something anyone else needed to be a part of. It was for Kaz. It was for all the rage that waked in him every time you flinched, every time his eyes caught a glimpse of your scars that painted your wrists and ankles, the torn skin on your back while you were changing, and the emptiness in your eyes.

Then Kaz heard it—the faint sound of your voice once again. His name slipped out of your lips in desperation. Calling for him. Searching for him. Kaz stood up, rushing towards the door, but then he halted. Still as a stone. He could not face you. He could not see you. Not now. Not like this. Not for everyone to see. Your voice grew louder. Kaz. Kaz. Kaz. Kaz. Kaz put his palms over his ears. Turning to walk to the furthest corner. Yet he still heard the way Nina was trying to soothe you. Kaz could almost see you trashing in her arms. The cries made him tightly close his eyes. He wanted to. There was nothing more that he wanted than to hold you now. To answer the call. To pull you out again, but he couldn't. There was no way.

Slow her heartbeat, make her pass out, Kaz thought to himself. Come on, Nina, be useful. And as if the heartrender had heard him, the cries died down softly. Followed by a little sob from Nina and a ray of apology slipping past her lips. The silence stood again. Kaz braced himself against the sink, catching a glimpse of his worn-out face in the mirror. Weak. Worthless. How can you protect her when you can't even go to her when she needs you the most? The anger rippled again, and without a second thought, Kaz's left fist slammed into the mirror.

The room was dim. The last remaining light source was the fire slowly dying down in the fireplace. Wylan was rubbing his hands over Jesper's shoulders. Nina was leaning onto Inej. The tea that sat in front of them had gone cold. Neither of them had touched their cups even once. It had been several hours since the last cry echoed through the house. Nina had stopped sniffling. She had never before used her ability in that way. It was one thing to make someone fall and cripple them in the middle of the job; it was a completely different story to choke the air out of the lungs of someone you cared for while watching their limp body in front of you.

Even at the thought of that, Nina's lips trembled once more. Jesper reached towards her, placing a supportive hand on her shoulder. Tonight had been a mess. Everyone's brains had been scattered with questions. All the ifs and whys, maybes, and whats. And with Kaz nowhere to be seen… He had made it clear to everyone that Y/N was someone that each of them had to look after. And tonight they all abandoned their posts. Sure, it was Jesper's night to keep an eye on you, but the blame couldn't be placed solely on his shoulders. They all let loose. Disappointed Kaz, but most importantly, hurt you in the process. They didn't talk about the other side of this. There was not even a thought about it that lingered. Jesper, while telling everyone about the conversation he had with Kaz, cut himself off right before the question of love was brought up. Not his to discuss. Not his to be brought to daylight.

"Why are all of you still here?", Jesper had stood up so quickly, nearly sending the little table flying, the tea cups rattling. All of them stiffened, like kids who had been caught misbehaving and now were awaiting the scolding of their parents. None dared to meet Kaz's eyes. It felt like he had brought coldness with him, as the room suddenly became almost freezing. If Kaz was being honest, he wasn't sure if he wanted them to fall over one another while they apologized or if he preferred silence. The silence that carried fear. The power he had over them.

"I gave orders to Jespere…", dirtyhands spoke once more, and Inej was quick to cut in, "He told us". Kaz nodded his head, and said, "Good. Then why are you here?" It seemed like such a simple question, but then again, what were they supposed to say? Because they wanted to see him? Because they tried to find strength in one another? Because being alone felt too vulnerable? Yet this set of silence was met with a growl from Kaz. "Go", he muttered angrily. Turning to the side so they could walk past him. "Kaz, she…", Nina started, being the first one to lift her eyes, and the coldness that pierced her made a shiver run deep within her body.

Kaz lifted his hand, silencing her. "I'll take it from here. I have unfinished business with her as it is", Nina shook her head. "Kaz", you were too weak. The demons within you had feasted on your strength. If he were to come at you Kaz-style, he would send you into yet another panic attack. But Kaz only let out a snarl, "Did I ask for your opinion?" They lowered their heads. Jesper wrapped one of his arms around Nina, bringing her closer to him, and clasped Wylan's hand in another. He glanced at Inej, who only nodded her way. Get the two settled, and then they would hit the town just like Kaz had ordered them to.

When Kaz finally made his way up to his office, he tried to pretend that you weren't lying in his bed. That he couldn't hear your breathing. When that got too hard, he tried to trick his mind into thinking that this was the usual night. Like always. He had chosen to work too late, and you had ended up falling asleep. The only difference was that on nights like that, Kaz found himself watching you. The way your face would relax. There was no sign of the slight frown that lingered then. Calm and relaxed. Comfortable enough to sleep in his presence. Now, however, Kaz tried to keep his eyes away from you. Too afraid that it would only break him more.

But the uneasy breathing was hard to miss. You let out a cry, and Kaz's eyes drifted to your frame. Only now did he notice the shimmering drops of sweat clinging to your forehead. Hands clenching the sheets. Kaz blinked again. There in your place now laid Jordie. Turning and tossing as the plague spread further and further. Kaz stood up, crossing the distance between him and the bed in a couple of steps. He ripped the gloves off his hands. The taste of bile in his mouth picked up again. What was this cruel joke? Sure, he was a bad person. Had done so much wrong, but why you? Why Jordie? What have you two done? Or was it a curse for just letting Kaz be a part of your life?

He kneeled once more. One deep breath in, and his hand came into contact with your warm forehead. Not burning up, but warm enough for a slight fever. A part of him was trying to stay rational. To get a fever after a night filled with such events was normal. It could happen, but what if this was something more? What if they had poisoned you? What if he had missed it? Kaz reached for a jug of cold water before dipping a piece of cloth in it. The moment the cold material came into contact with your skin, your eyes opened up slightly.

The fright in Kaz waked again. He wasn't ready. Wasn't prepared to see you conscious just yet. You glimpsed up at him tiredly. Body eased slightly at the sight of him. Kaz swallowed thickly. He didn't know what he wanted to say or what he should say. A part of him wanted to shout at you, but one look at your eyes, which had lit up ever so slightly at the sight of him, halted him once more.

"I'm sorry", you murmured, licking your dry lips as the uncomfortable tightness pulled at your skin. Kaz shook his head, reaching for a cup, "Nothing to be sorry about". The words had come out more sarcastic than he had wanted. As if he didn't genuinely mean it. You gave him a look. One that he had learned to identify. One that let him know that you were more than aware that he was lying. But he wasn't.

"I would do it again", he muttered, turning his gaze away from you. And he would have. As much as he tries to tell himself that he would never reach for you again, he knew deep down that it was a lie. Because he would. Because you were now a part of him. In ways that Kaz couldn't fully identify. Ways that were unfamiliar to him. He had only felt somewhat similar when it came to Jordie. Sure, Kaz cared for his crows, but that was different. You were different. Your eyes filled with tears as you watched him. You had been so desperate to apologize. Aware that you crossed the line by touching him tonight. For reaching out to him in a way that he didn't want to be reached. And here he was telling you that he would do it again. You shook your head, "No." Your voice died down. Cut off by the fear. By the lack of words spoken for a long time.

"Don't push yourself", Kaz ordered you firmly, but you jerked your head once more. He needed to know. You wanted him to know. Through your heavy, tired eyes, you looked at Kaz. You searched for him as you always did. "No one has ever touched me without bad intentions. You…", you stopped yourself as the tear ran down your cheek, stinging in your eyes getting unbearable. "You were the first who wanted to hold me without the intention to hurt me".

The sob finally slipped past your lips. You quickly moved your hand to cover your mouth. Trying to silence the cries, knowing how much Kaz hated emotions displayed like that. Kaz closed his eyes, lifting his head ever so slightly. If you hadn't crossed the line before, you sure have now. You reached for the sides of the sheets. Not waiting for him to scold you. Not ready to face him pushing you away. But Kaz was quick to snatch the side of the blanket out of your hands, pressing it down onto the bed and keeping you covered.

There was so much that Kaz wanted to say. So many words at the tip of his tongue. So many thoughts. And you knew it too. You could tell, so you settled back down. Both of you used up your emotional resources tonight. Drained yourselves dry. Yet Kaz looked at you once more. Reaching for the cloth to dip it into the cold water once more. Just this time, his palm lingered on your hair for a moment. A silent promise that he wanted to figure this out together. Step by step. No matter what was to come, you were going to do it together. Then he turned away from you once more. Pushing the rising water down. You watched him for some time until your eyes grew heavy, and the darkness pulled you under once more.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Kazzle Dazzle taglist: @igakc @anxiousbeech @vicky-09 @coldheartedmar

[youngstarfishphilosopher]

I have a write request if that is ok can you do please hatbox ghost and his daughter reader please

Sure. Here are some headcannons for you.

×××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××

Hatbox Ghost with Daughter!Reader

×××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××

-For some reason I feel like Alistair Crump would enjoy having a daughter just a bit more than a son.

-Also, Congrats! You're Illiterate!

-OK, ok. But in all seriousness, you probably wouldn't be able to read or write all that well. ( It being the 1800s and all that). Also, since Alistair cannonacly “doesn't trust any woman who . . . Reads?”

-Needless to say, if you're interested in learning, you would have to do so without his knowledge

-His relationship with you is a little complicated to say the least.

-He's not abusive, per say. He tries not to be like his father in that way. He's just sorta neglectful. He's a rather busy man and usually wouldn't have that much quality time with you as you got older.

-You would normally see him at his parties where you two would catch up and he would show you off to others.

-And when you were much younger, you were rather attached to him. Following him around like a duckling following its mother.

-He would also make you learn an instrument like the violin or the piano.In order to entertain his guests every once and a while.

-Is somewhat less misogynistic with you ( Again, rich jerk who lived around the 1800s)

-Also, like I said in one of my other posts, his love language is gift giving. So you would often be given things like many gifts or some of your favorite foods at his parties.

-There's a 50/50 chance that you'll get along with his wife ( depending on which one.) And there also a 50/50 chance that you'll either be much nicer that Alistair, or almost just as worse attitude and personality wise.

-If it's better, then you'll often be found being much nicer to the servants of the household. Sometimes, even distracting your father when he's laying into one of them, mouthing a small “ Sorry” as you walk away to show your father what you found.

-If it was on the more malicious side, then you two would probably be a little bit closer as you got older. Gossiping together at parties like a group of school girls( though Alistair would be much more proper about it)

-Either way you swing, Alistair would still never tell you about his murders, let alone partake in helping him if you were somehow ok with it.

-And then there's the discussion of suitors

-In all honesty, woman or not, I don't think Alistair would be too fond of his child getting a suitor.The thought probably didn't even cross his mind until you went into your teenage years.

-This is because he wouldn't really ever think anyone would be good enough for his only child

-If you're not really interested in dating, then that's great.

-But if you are, then good luck.Because there's a good chance that after a few months, you won't see them ever again.

- The man literally killed someone because the food they made wasn't to his liking. So you know he wouldn't hesitate to slaughter someone trying to steal away his little girl.

-“ So tell me, when exactly can I start dating?”

-“ When I'm dead. Plus, three days. Just to make sure I'm dead.

-Would brag about you, Nonstop, to his dad's old friends.

-“ Your kid can do _____. Well, my daughter can probably do it better. As a matter of fact, today she-”

[bobbin-buckley]

In The End, You Were My First Love ❤️‍🩹

Chapter 1

He’s Back

Tara Carpenter x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Smoking, mentions of Ghostface/murder, Amber being an ass, mentions of Abuse/Neglect, slight Homophobia

A/n: Not spelled checked 🙃

•———————————•

“He’s Back”

Flipping through the daily news

Even if it was a new era, you could basically get the news on tv more or on phones, but you, yes you, didn’t have a phone only a house phone.

You lived in a trailer in Woodsboro, were the classic murders of the famous Ghostface lived.

Boy were you glad you weren’t involved, but that might just take a turn.

Sitting on your singular chair in your living room, looking at the papers in your hands as it talked about another Ghostface attack has just happened last night.

The person you was attacked happened to be a friend. Not just any friend, your crush.

Tara Carpenter.

God damn she was gorgeous, her dark brunette hair that almost looked black, tan skin that looked so soft, and those eyes…you loved her eyes. You loved pretty much everything about her. You guys were that close, but Tara always seemed to talk to you a lot but it was cut short when her asshole best friend Amber Freeman appears.

She was your enemy, Amber hated you. You weren’t sure why, all you did was call her a skunk behind her back but- she hates you, and calls you names whenever Tara isn’t around. Maybe Amber likes Tara, or she’s jealous of the fact Tara talks to you more.

You had zero clue, Amber was hard to understand

But looking at the news made you try not to bark out a cry, Tara was the first victim. Your Tara

You sure damn felt bad, you wanted to go check on her make sure she was alright. But your gut was telling you not to, worried her friends will shoo you away.

It was Tara, Mindy, Chad, Liv, Wes and Amber. That was the friend group you always noticed sitting on the benches outside of Woodsboro High. You don’t have any friends other than Tara, you never stood out and people always thought you were weird.

Tara saw you as the good kind of weird, but everyone else thought the bad weird.

Was is because you had abusive parents don’t have parents anymore?

The question made your stomach turn

Your parents left you when you were 15, leaving you without much money, no car, and not a good house. You were barely surviving, surprised you could even still be in school. You aren’t sure where your parents went, they never told you where they’d move, they just blocked you out and disappeared.

It didn’t upset you too much, you knew it was going to happen eventually. You came out to them, they called you a disgrace and a burden. All because you couldn’t help who you like.

What a shame, you tell yourself

Keeping things positive wasn’t easy. Every time you’d try the positive, it’ll become negative the next minute. It always does.

The only person who kept you mainly sane was Tara and your neighbor.

The neighbor was Dewey Riley, yep, the Ex-Deputy and Husband.

He was a good man, he was involved in the very beginning of the Ghostface attacks. You never harped on him about it, and he liked that. Anyone who’d recognized him would jump to conclusions about his past, making him sad. Which you were a little upset about, and you felt the same way. Amber would tease you about your parents abandonment.

Ugh…you hated the raven haired

•—————————•

WoodsBoro High

It was lunch break. You were now sitting alone outside on a brick wall. Headphones on as you sketched anything around you in your notebook, even though you were supposed to be doing homework

Feeling as if someone was staring at the back of your head, you turned and made eye contact with Amber

Well shit

Let’s just hope to the gods she doesn’t approach, you were actually having a good day she hadn’t bothered you once!

You swiftly turned your head away, still feeling her drill her eyes in the back of your head.

“Why do you hate Y/n so much Amber?” Liv asked.

“That’s none of your business.” Amber turned her gaze from you to the pink haired.

“We’ll okay jeez..” Chad wrapped an arm around Liv’s waist, making Liv feel better. She smiled at him.

“Yeah, Liv’s right.” Wess spoke, looking up from his lap, “what’s your beef with Y/n? She seems nice.”

Amber scoffed, “that thing? Nice? She always gives me these weird looks and she doesn’t talk to anyone.” “So?” “So! For fucks sake she could be Ghostface! She’s been talking to Tara and look where Tara is now!”

“Amber!” Mindy yelled. “What!?” “You can’t just go off accusing people! And Y/n is not a thing!”

“Well…I mean- Amber has a point,-” Liv hits the back of Chad’s head. “Ow! That was mean!”

“Well how do you know for sure Am? She hasn’t done anything to you has she?”

“That little shit has a freaky obsession with horror movies! And you think she’s not Ghostface?” Amber points at you, “that weirdo more than likely loves Stab!”

“But I’m obsessed with horror films, and love Stab. What if I’m ghostface?” Mindy points out. Amber rolls her eyes

“Whatever guys, it doesn’t matter because we’re all suspects. Including you Amber.” States Wess.

“Psh- well don’t come crying to me when one of you gets murdered by weirdo.”

Everyone groaned

-

You knew they were talking about you. You were well aware of their presence.

Though you weren’t sure if Amber’s friends even liked you. It seemed as if Wess and Liv were defending you, maybe Mindy but did that mean they liked you?

Who knows…all you knew is that there were some likes and dislikes. Chad seemed to be for both, he wasn’t defending you of not being Ghostface, and to your surprise Mindy was. I guess just because your a twin doesn’t mean you think the same.

•—————————-•

It was the afternoon, you rode your bike to Dewey’s for your every night hangout. But this time it was different.

When you arrived you noticed his car wasn’t the only one sitting outside. Someone else was here.

Dewey’s front door swung open revealing two young adults. Quickly you hid behind Dewey’s truck, tossing your bike down.

Both of the man and woman got into a car and drove off, leaving you confused. Getting out from behind Dewey’s truck you see his front door open and he walks out, he stops when he notices you.

“Y/n what are you doing here?” He asks, you just step closer to him. “Dewey, who were they?”

He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Just…stay here kid, I’ve got something to do.” He said sternly.

Dewey walked past you and opened his truck door, you turned around and got into the passenger seat. “Wh-what? No kid, stay here.”

“No, I’m going with you.”

“Y/n-”

“No. I’m going whether you like it or not.”

Dewey just nods, starting the truck and driving off to wherever your adventure may lead…..

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/n: this is short chapter but I needed to finish it 😭

Sorry for the long wait but here it is ✨

[buckybarnesss]

I don't know own if you've stated this before, but what is your theory on Eli's existence?

I love reading everyone's theories on how Derek came to parent this adorable mini-Stiles.

i've speculated a little before. mostly tongue-in-cheek (or was it hem).

like, we talk a lot about teen wolf's messy timeline but eli hale existence breaks it on a fundamental level. the teen wolf movie takes place in 2026 and eli is 15 years old. this makes him born in 2011.

season 1-3B all take place in 2011 and it's a very tight timeline.

i would like jeff davis to sit down and tell me when derek hale had not only the time but the desire to go have sex during s1-2. eli couldn't have been conceived any later than maybe april to still be born in 2011 and that's pushing it.

like, derek was very busy going through The Horrors in season 1 in which he was trying to find out who murdered his sister, dealing with scott and stiles, jackson's needy ass, being tormented by kate and feral peter.

season 2 picks up almost immediately after s1 as lydia's still in the hospital and takes place over a few weeks. during this time derek's trying to find out who the kanima is, dealing with the argents and attempting to build a pack (and starting to become aware the alpha pack is coming).

derek ain't got the fucking time.

and no jennifer cannot be the mother because jennifer fucking died and also jennifer and derek didn't meet until like early september.

and also no braeden cannot be the mother because derek and her didn't even meet until 3B which was in late october and they didn't fuck until season 4 which takes place in 2012. it's too late.

and no it's not kate. fucking gross.

but heather, you ask, maybe the conception happened prior to wolf moon?

it's possible but i have such a hard time seeing that version of derek engaging with anyone beyond a surface level that the only way it makes sense is if eli's an accidental baby and the mother couldn't get in contact with derek for a significant period of time.

we know by age 3 eli was with derek as scott had seen him. which coincidentally would've made it 2014 the same year the show actually ends.

(never mind that the final final scene of them all in the parking lot is supposedly 2 years after that making it 2016 putting eli around 5 but i guess no one saw him despite them all hanging out but whatever).

conclusion: jeff davis pulled eli hale out of his goddamn ass

and i can already hear oh but what if he was laura's or what if eli was adopted from another pack and those are good scenarios but in terms of canon itself jeff fully intended eli to be derek's biological son.

so my theories are this:

derek accidentally got someone pregnant shortly before wolf moon and she was unable to reach him but knew his name. at some point before eli is 3 derek comes into custody of eli.

it was the nemeton and eli just straight up exists out of some kind of magic.

tl:dr

[shanastoryteller]

Happy Halloween! Anything full metal alchemist?

Pretending to be a boy is the easy and obvious thing to do.

Mustang already thinks she is one - apparently the paperwork he'd found on her had only called her Ed and he'd decided that was short for Edward. It's not like there was anything feminine about her while she was lying in bed trying not to bleed to death.

The military might agree to take a twelve year old boy, but will never consider the same for a twelve year old girl. It's safer, too, for people not to know what she is.

"I don't like this, Sister," Al says as she transmutes a heavy coat to wear over her thick leather pants and chunky boots. She almost cuts her hair, but their father had long hair, and she's already lost two limbs. If her hair is what gives her away, then clearly she has bigger problems.

"Remember that it's Brother once we get on the train to central," she warns.

He can't make facial expressions anymore, but the mulishness to his silence is easy for her read. She's his big sister, after all. “It’s just until we get our bodies back, Al. It’s fine.”

“Won’t it bother you to be called a boy?” he asks. “It would bother me to be called a girl.”

Yes. “Not really. It’s just temporary, and you and Winry and Granny know. It’s fine.”

Eden isn’t looking forward to it, but her brother doesn’t have his body because of her. She has to fix this, and whatever it is she has to do in service of that is what she’ll do.

~

They get to Central and meet Mustang again and his office and Maes Hughes and his very nice wife and no one even bats an eyelash at calling her a boy, or when Al calls her Brother, or at referring to her as Edward. She can at least tell them she goes by Ed, which is true.

The physical that disqualified Al might be an issue except she’s twelve and they don’t ask her to take her boxers off. Standing there shirtless feels weird, even though her chest is completely flat, but they’re more interested in her automail than in questioning her gender.

She’s dubbed the Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, and the victory is bittersweet for more than one reason.

~

Sometimes, in the beginning, when they’re far from central she’ll take down her hair and transmute a dress and just go out and be a girl for a little bit. Soon, that becomes too risky, because she’s so well known, because Al makes her identity obvious.

Al stops calling her Sister except when they’re in a room alone and she tells herself it doesn’t bother her.

When she’s fourteen, the jokes about her voice not having dropped yet start at around the same time as she starts having to bind her chest to keep it looking flat. The baggy jacket worked for a while, but now she needs an extra step. She’s fifteen when she really starts to hate it, when her chest is large enough that flattening them constricts her movements and makes it so she can’t expand her lungs fully. It’s too much of liability. She wears a sports bra and gets a baggy tank top and saves the binding for when she has to report into Mustang.

Nearly three years of no one guessing anything and then they’re in Liore when Rose takes one look at her and says, “I thought the Fullmetal Alchemist was a boy?”

“I am a boy,” she says, but it comes out awkwardly, because she’s never had to say that before, never had to try and convince someone before. There’s a little spark of pleasure at Rose just looking at her and knowing, but it’s drowned out by the terror at the possibility of being found out.

Rose frowns, but then her face clears as an embarrassed flush rushes across her face. “Oh! I didn’t know that you were – uh, right. Sorry, I – yes, um, of course, you are definitely a boy. My apologies!”

Wait, that’s not what she – oh fuck, whatever. It amounts to the same thing, she supposes.

Then she’s too busy chasing after this fake priest and Rose is furious at her and Ed is pretty sure she’s going to get murdered by this whole town at one point, but it works out, more or less. The town is sort of a mess, but there’s no more fake priest offering false hope and false gods, so that has to be good, right?

Rose is tear stained and empty and she’d known that Ed was a girl. “Hey,” Ed says softly, “it’s going to be okay. You can rebuild.”

“Rebuild what?” she hiccups, trying to contain her sobs. “We’re in the middle of nowhere and no one cares about us and without those miracles, fake or not, people will be hungry!”

Fuck. This isn’t Ed’s problem. But she wants to help. She wants to help Rose, who’s nice, and pretty, and saw her. “What if there was a river around the city? Then you wouldn’t be in the middle of nowhere and you could grow something or catch fish, or whatever.”

“The river isn’t anywhere near here!” she shouts.

“It could be,” she says and now Rose is staring at her and Al is sighing.

She’s the Fullmetal Alchemist. What’s one river?

She and Al take the train to the nearest branch of the river, marking off what they’ll do on the map and debating circles and Al doesn’t say a word about this being a waste of time, but he wouldn’t. He’s usually the bleeding heart between them.

They buy two boats, split up to each take it to a bend in the river that almost no one uses, and get to work. It takes almost two weeks to push the new bit of the river near Liore and she meets Al in the middle, the two of them connecting the new river right outside of city gates.

They go back to Liore, to tell Rose and everyone else what they’ve done, and they find something they hadn’t expected.

That damn priest is back.

The ensuring fight nearly kills her and she was certain it actually would, but the strange creature literally slithers away from her rather than killing her. It at least proves to the people that that thing isn’t a prophet, although it does leave a large portion of the town destroyed.

They can rebuild closer to the river anyway.

Ed is broken and bruised and Rose is tending to her and she tries not to think how she’s going to write any of this up in a report.

“What’s the river called?” Rose asks as she checks on the stitches she’d made. She’s not as good as Winry, but she’s not bad either.

Ed bites her lip to distract herself from the pain of disinfectant on her wounds then says, “What? I don’t know. Whatever you want.”

“You made it,” she says stubbornly. “You should name it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she insists, wincing as Rose rubs some sort of salve into her many bruises, sliding her hand beneath her sports bra to get the one that’s all along her side and her ribs. She’s probably broken at least one. Then, without thinking, “Eden. Call it the Eden River.”

Someone should at least get to use her name if she can’t.

Rose pauses, staring at her, and Ed looks down rather than meeting her gaze. “Ed,” she says gently, “please don’t take this the wrong way, and I promise I won’t ask again, but – are you a boy?”

She should say yes. Even though Rose had guessed right the first time, she should say yes, and protect the same secret she’s been protecting for the past four years.

But it’s been a really long couple of weeks.

“I’m what I have to be,” she says, shrugging even though it hurts.

Rose smiles at her, warm and pretty and ugh, why does she have to be so pretty? This is so unfair. “In this room, all you have to be is yourself, Eden.”

She can’t help but return Rose’s smile. She hasn’t been able to be herself in a long time.

~

Ed is sixteen and has just received a summons from Mustang, who apparently hadn’t been satisfied with her initial report of Liore and had finally tracked her down after months of dodging him to demand she return to Central, which is annoying as shit. She’s finally found some books that even sort of explain what that creature in Liore was, and now he wants her to come back? What a waste of time.

“Um, Sister,” Al says and Ed automatically looks around, but they’re completely alone in this corner of the library, “do you think, now that you’re enlistment age, that you might tell them truth?”

She stares. “Why would I do that?”

“Well, we haven’t been back in a long time, and you look a lot – especially this past year, you know?” She continues staring, because she does not know. “Most people see what they expect to see, but you might have to – I don’t know, do something, if you don’t want them getting suspicious.”

“Why would they be suspicious?” she demands, baffled.

Al groans and throws up his hands. “Because you’re older and you look like a girl, Sister! You’re not a kid anymore, and they’ve known us for years, and they pay attention to stuff.”

This is a serious problem that she has to deal with.

Which she’ll do as soon as she can make herself stop smiling.

[lesbianrobin]

family friend

2,051 words

eddie has a new neighbor. his new neighbor has an unusual visitor.

Eddie's gotta figure out how to get away with murdering Steve Harrington.

Steve was a douche in high school, sure, but nothing crazy. He was just standard ignorant jock douchey, not, like, hauling slurs at everyone and beating on his girlfriend douchey, which is why Eddie almost couldn't believe what he was seeing at first.

The Mayfields moved in across the way, and Eddie saw Steve carrying boxes. A bit weird to see Steve Harrington in the trailer park, sure, but maybe the mom paid him twenty bucks or something to help with moving. Not a huge deal. Then Eddie saw Steve Harrington pull up outside that same trailer in his BMW the very next night, around one in the morning. The little redheaded freshman girl came out of her place carrying a backpack and got into the car, and before Eddie could blink Steve was driving off, and Eddie felt like he might throw up.

Sure, technically it's none of his business, but Jesus fuckin' Christ, the girl can't be any more than fifteen at the oldest, and that’s if he’s being generous. He’s almost sure she’s fourteen. Steve's a grown-ass man, so Eddie would probably be well within his rights to call the cops, but what the hell would he say? Officer, I saw them talking. He gave her a ride. The hell kind of evidence is that? Besides, the cops don't give a shit about anything that happens on this side of town, and they sure as hell don’t give a shit about anything that Eddie Munson has to say. Eddie's gonna have to figure something else out.

Three months later, and he’s still drawing a blank. It's not that he's scared of Harrington, he's just being… pragmatic. Wise. Other things that aren't just being a cowardly little wimp. Harrington doesn't come by every night, sometimes he'll even go a week without visiting, but every time Eddie thinks that maybe he's finally decided to leave this poor girl alone, he comes back. Always at night. Well, probably. Eddie's obviously not just staking out this random girl's house all day. Because that would be weird. So for all he knows, Harrington could be coming by sometimes at noon, but Eddie's only noticed it at night, and the girl always comes outside to his car, Harrington never going in, and one time Eddie sees Harrington tug on her braid when she gets into the passenger seat and the kid smiles at him, and Eddie wonders if she knows how wrong this is or if she's just happy to have somebody giving her attention. Too many girls around Hawkins are like that, convinced that even the smallest scrap of affection means they're loved, and maybe it's a bit hypocritical of Eddie to say that because he's so desperate for love and respect that he devotes almost all of his time to making sure a bunch of teenage nerds think he's cool, and maybe if a grown-ass man had shown him a little attention when he was fourteen he'd have fallen into that exact same trap, but Wayne wouldn't have let it happen, and Eddie finds himself hating that poor single mother across the road a little bit even though he knows it's not fair.

Harrington may be a creep, but he's smarter than Eddie would have expected. He never does anything untoward in public, nothing that could give Eddie an excuse to get involved. What the hell is he supposed to do? Threaten Steve Harrington and get his ass kicked? Try to hit Steve Harrington, get his ass kicked, and get arrested for assault? Tell the girl’s mother and get chewed out for spying on them all the time? So Eddie watches. He just watches like a total piece of shit. Harrington’s the only man he ever sees at the trailer, which isn’t surprising. The kid’s mom seems to work too much to have time for dating. Eddie saw Lucas Sinclair once or twice, right around when they first moved in, but he hasn’t been by in a couple of months, and he hasn’t brought it up with Sinclair because how the hell is he supposed to even start that conversation? Any time he considers telling somebody about the Harrington situation, he starts planning what he’ll say, how the conversation will go, and it always ends with somebody wondering why the hell he’s paying so much attention to the little girl across the street and turning Eddie in to the cops, who already hate him and want any excuse to lock his ass up and search the trailer. Besides, Sinclair may not worship the guy like Henderson does, but he still seems to think he's pretty great, so he probably wouldn't be receptive.

One Sunday afternoon, Eddie’s eating cereal and watching TV when he hears a car pulling up outside. The engine's way too smooth to belong to anybody in Forest Hills, so Eddie stands to peek out the window.

Harrington’s BMW comes to a stop so hard that Eddie can hear the brakes squeal. He jumps out of the driver’s seat, leaving his car running, and takes the stairs two at a time, barging into the Mayfields’ trailer like he owns the place, and Eddie’s blood runs cold. Eddie's pretty sure the girl’s the only one home right now.

Steve Harrington gets into a lot of fights.

Eddie puts his cereal down on the coffee table and starts patting himself down. Shit, where’s his knife? In his jacket, probably, and his jacket’s in his room, and there’s no fucking way Eddie’s gonna take on Steve Harrington with his bare hands, so he runs through the trailer, hoping that he didn’t leave his jacket in the van, because the van’s locked right now and he can’t remember where he put his keys, and he keeps listening, waiting for a scream, but he doesn’t hear anything, which somehow makes him even more sick.

Finally, finally, he finds the jacket, finds his switchblade, and he glances quickly out the window on his way to the door—and pauses.

Harrington is carrying the Mayfield girl piggyback down the stairs. He says something, and she thumps his ear. Ow! he can see Harrington exclaim, but he doesn’t put her down, doesn’t retaliate in any way, and Eddie slips his knife into his pocket. He needs to hear what they’re saying.

The trash can’s only half full, but it’ll work.

Eddie tries his best to act nonchalant as he carries the too-light bag of trash outside, pretending like he doesn’t even notice Harrington and the girl are there.

“Don’t worry about it,” Harrington says, bending down so that the girl can open the passenger side door. “Here, careful…” He slowly lets her down, and Eddie sees that she’s balancing on one foot, holding the other one an inch or so off the ground. Harrington offers her a hand and she leans on his arm as she lowers herself into the car.

“I don’t need a hospital,” the girl says, “I just asked if you could take me to get an ankle brace, Mom,” and Harrington sighs.

He lowers his volume, but King Steve’s voice has always carried pretty well, so Eddie hears clear as day, “Look, I can cover the bill, alright? You know I can. Please don’t worry about it, Max, I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Eddie can just barely hear what Max says next, but he’s pretty sure it’s sorry.

Harrington reaches down and tugs on her braid, a small, sad smile on his face, and he says, “Just be more careful next time, alright? Don’t try new tricks and shit without somebody around to make sure you don’t break your neck.”

They look at each other for a few moments, and the silence makes Eddie suddenly aware that he’s just been standing next to a trash can doing absolutely nothing. He lifts the lid and drops the bag in.

“Alright, your feet in okay?” Max nods. Harrington closes her door gently. He jogs around to the driver’s side, and that’s when he and Eddie lock eyes. Oh, shit.

Harrington gives him a polite smile, holding one hand up in a wave. “Hey,” he calls, and Eddie jumps. Harrington gestures toward the car. “Kid broke her ankle on her skateboard.”

“It’s not broken!”

Harrington rolls his eyes. “You’re not a doctor just because you can put band-aids on skinned knees,” he says as he opens the drivers’ side door, shooting a look back at Eddie like, Can you believe this kid? Harrington gets into the car and snaps his fingers, saying, “Hey, come on, seatbelt, asshole.”

Max Mayfield throws her head back and groans, but she puts on her seatbelt. Harrington buckles his own, waves at Eddie, and puts the car in drive. Eddie watches them drive off, standing next to the trash can, and it feels like his feet are stuck in place.

Eddie noticed a lot of things, keeping an eye out for Max like he was. He noticed Max spending hours at a time wiping out on her skateboard, over and over, skinning her knees and bruising her shins, until she nailed whatever trick she was trying to do. He noticed how many six- and twelve-packs her mother carried inside on a regular basis. He noticed how their TV and their lights often stayed on until the early hours of the morning. He noticed how Max always had dark circles under her eyes, how she never smiled, not really, always trudged to and from the school bus with her headphones on and her eyes to the ground. He noticed that Max sometimes smiled in the passenger seat of that BMW. He noticed that Harrington was the only man who ever came over to the trailer, but more than that, Eddie realizes, he was the only person.

When Eddie gets inside, his cereal is beyond soggy. He eats it anyway, gagging on every mouthful, and thank fuck he’s such a coward or he might have scared off the only person in a lonely girl’s life who’s actually looking out for her. Actually doing shit to help her, not just watching from across the street. Getting her away from her alcoholic mother, from her quiet, shitty trailer, and Eddie suddenly remembers how he heard Madonna playing from Harrington’s car radio one night, and at the time he thought it was disgusting, some old creep playing a little girl’s favorite music so she’d let her guard down, but now it makes his chest feel funny in a good way.

Shit, Henderson was right. How many kids has Steve Harrington adopted? Eddie’s always figured that Henderson worships the guy and Sinclair thinks he's cool because he’ll buy them beer or something, but he’d never quite bought his own theory, because Henderson doesn’t seem like the type. This makes more sense. Dustin’s mom is a little… uh… much, Sinclair had said one time when Dustin left Hellfire early. She might, like, actually have a heart attack and die if he’s home late again. Henderson lives alone with his mom, too, no brothers or sisters and no dad in the picture, and Eddie’s never claimed to be bright but he’s not too bad at recognizing patterns. So, Steve Harrington: not a creep, probably. That’s good to know. Eddie’s not gonna let up on Henderson, obviously, because Harrington’s still a stupid asshole jock, but it’s nice to know his little buddies aren’t hanging with a perv.

Three hours later, Eddie hears the BMW again. He watches through the window as Harrington opens Max’s door for her and helps her up the stairs on her new clunky boot. They're chatting about something, taking turns rolling their eyes and laughing on their way inside. Harrington seems to stay inside the trailer until Max’s mom gets home that night, and when she does Steve meets her on the porch. They go inside together for a bit. When they reemerge, Harrington hugs her, and Eddie thinks he might see a tear or two from Max’s mother, and then he looks away, busies himself with his third attempt at slogging through The Scarlet Letter because it's none of his business.

Steve fuckin' Harrington. God, Hawkins never stops getting weirder.

[yikes-kachowski]

Hiii! I dropped by on accident and found out your avatar headcanons and OCs so so nice

I gotta ask a few curiosities of mine if that's cool? *takes out a notebook and a pen*

- since katara and zuko are a thing, did it make their friendship with aang weird or was he cool with it instantly? And how did it even began for them? Did it followed the show's events? Did Aang even got a crush on Katara?

- What happens to Azula?

- How does all these next gen kids react when Korra shows up? Is it weird, is it fine, is it all the same? I mean, they all knew the previous avatar and he was pretty much their family and all. Tho I think them having their own lives also mean it's not that much of a deal?

- Is Katara still one of Korra's teaching masters?

- Sokka's kids get along?

- Does Tenzin and Bumi eventually get okay with each other?

- Korra still loses her connection to the past avatars and therefore Aang? Do they even talk, like he did to Roku and all?

- do you have any other headcanon or change of other characters from tlok or tloa that you mind sharing? like, a plot from tlok that you think it could be better improved or discarded, or something that happens on your universe and you haven't talked about yet?

Sorry for this such a big of an ask, i really REALLY liked these ideas you had (and your art is also amazing and so awesome and pretty too 💞).

heyyyy anon! sorry for the late reply, i hope you still see this.

First of all, thank you! I love genuine interest in my stuff I never expect it. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy and clever. ALSO thanks for complimenting my art! i'm a slow artist so my blood sweat and tears (mostly tears) are in every drawing !!!

onto answering your questions to the best of my ability:

1) Aang is completely cool with Katara and Zuko's relationship. He's basically their biggest shipper :) He did have a crush on Katara (and Zuko tbh), but he was able to let it go pretty quickly. As the Avatar, after the war he was almost too busy to even be sad about it. Overwhelmingly, he was just happy for his friends

Also, Katara and Zuko get together after the war, when Katara's about 17 and he's about 19. Katara goes to the South Pole and they fall for each other through letters and short visits.

Most show events aren't really taken out for me. Just really the kiss right at the end.

2) Azula has a redemption arc. I like to think of it as being a redemption arc she herself is hardly aware of. She just thinks she's really in the long haul of fooling the gaang into liking her. Her redemption arc starts immediately after the war because Zuko keeps her safe in the palace.

Aang becomes her friend first and encourages everyone else to give her a chance. Sokka provides an outlet for all of her older brother issues, since she and Zuko have an awkward relationship. And Katara is tutored by Azula in Fire Nation etiquette and history so she's better equipped to be Fire Lady.

sorry if this is confusing, but believe it or not this rambling all makes sense to me.

3) Korra is very important to the next gen kids, aang's kids and the zk especially. Her arrival is in the middle of great political conflict that never would have happened if Aang wasn't murdered, so they're eager to get her in on the Avatar business.

My idea with Aang dying so young, is that all of his business is half finished. His kids didn't get real closure for their relationship. So Bumi, Yelaan, Palkyi and Tenzin all have complex feelings toward her. Bumi's in particular are very intense.

Being around Korra FEELS like being in his father's presence, which is hard for him. He doesn't want aang to have been a good person or a good father because then he'd really have to miss and mourn everything he was gone for. but this is a lot and hard for me to say so

the steambabies also need Korra and consider her central. They watched their parents' reactions when Aang died (particularly Zuko), and that has affected them deeply. Sakari has been advised to always follow the avatar, so she's happy to have guidance. Besides, she hopes the Avatar will restore and era of peace since she worries for Bumi and Akiak.

Akiak has changed since Aang died, a lot. In ways he's not always proud of. Facing Korra is somewhat hard for him for that reason. Especially since sometimes she opposes some of his methods. He thinks her way of bringing peace is naive.

Tophs kids (and Tenzin to some extent) are the same :)

4) Yes! Katara is one of her waterbending masters. I feel like when you're an Avatar's Master, that's your role for life. She already knows how to train the Avatar. She, Zuko, and Toph taught Korra in the right order, and are old friends with her. Korra has already met the whole Gaang even if she doesn't see Toph or Zuko as often as she'd like

5) I usually choose not to give Sokka kids. I feel like he doesn't want to be a father (even though he'd definitely be the best at it). He and Suki work too hard and have agreed they just aren't super interested in kids. He and Suki are full time Aunt and Uncle to all of the Next Gen. Now, ive made some OCs for asks and I'd say that they do get along :)

6) Bumi and Tenzin's relationship is ROUGH in this story, but yes, they do. It takes a while but eventually they're only mildly hostile with each other. Tenzin helps Bumi reconnect with Air Nomad culture, and Bumi helps him commune with the spirits better. This is jumpstarted by Korra.

7) Korra does keep communication with her past lives! But her path to being a fully realized Avatar is much more difficult. The decision to raise her in a compound was a mistake, and so her growth as an avatar is severely set back. This means, she speaks to her past lives when they reach out to her (and she's in tune enough to listen). Aang is not easy for her to talk to, but eventually she masters it. She doesn't really tell anyone because she's scared everyone will then only want to talk to aang, not her.

8) First of all: for atla, i write very particular cultures and geographies to expand the universe. They affect things in only minor ways for the most part in atla. Also, Aang is trans. I love it too much for it to not be true (if youre wondering how he had kids he made deals with spirits)

Now for tlok. In my opinion, it's very necessary for the different conflicts to not have clear starts and ends. These should all be interweaving conflicts that everyone's caught in the middle of. Not only does this facilitate a lot more character interactions, but it also builds stress and feels realistic.

Mako and Bolin are former triad members and pro athletes, they should be rougher around the edges. Also, Mako would NEVER EVER become a cop after seeing the direct damage they cause marginalized communities. I think that perspective would be very important for korra as an avatar.

Season two plotlines should just be a civil war between north and south. Tbh, I'm not digging all of the subtle ways the north takes over the south, and I imagine the south isn't either. They separated from the north for a reason, and then during the war, the north didn't even help them. The tensions were rising and Aang never came up with a good long term solution when he was alive, and that affects Korra.

Season three's plotline can mostly stay the same except there is no harmonic convergence that introduces new airbenders. The airbenders are the group that they are. They're travelling the earth kingdoms doing peace talks since much of the earth kingdoms don't want to be under ba sing se. Particularly the Si Wong Desert. Aang was in active peace talks when died and was never able to come up with a long term solution.

Season four is also mostly the same except no mechs or spirit nukes.

All the while the equalists are raging on at home.

ANYWAY. thanks for the ask! I hope you see this after i posted it SOOOO late.

See the pattern? Korra must fill aang's shoes while also dealing with all of his unfinished business. Every character serves a unique perspective that helps inform korras decisions.

I dont think these ideas are perfect and the only way to write Korra, but I think they make sense. They help tell a story Im more interested in.

[this-sapphic-paradise]

Barbie starts dating and Gloria feels jealous, maybe even an eventual love confession

Hope you like it!

And let me know if I should write a follow up!

"Mom," Sasha's exasperated tone makes Gloria's hackles raise before she can even finish her sentence. "You *have* to put yourself out there again. It's been what, a year since you and dad divorced." The teen looked at Barbie for support, but doll-turned-human used her perfect poker face, staring straight ahead to avoid being pulled into the discussion. (One year in the real world had been enough time to learn some social cues.)

"Traitor," Sasha mock-whispered at Barbie.

"It's *only* been a year," Gloria corrected, busying herself with dinner. "I don't hear you nagging Barbie to start dating."

"That's because I am dating," Barbie supplied, hoping to be helpful. (Not *all* cues.)

Gloria almost dropped the pan she was holding in her haste to turn around. "You are?!"

The look of shock and... sadness? in Gloria's eyes confused Barbie. "Should I not be?"

"No, no..." Gloria shook her head and softened her features into a careful neutral face. "Of course you should. You should date as much or as little as you want, just-" a sad smile tugged on her lips, "don't let bad people harden your heart, okay?"

Sasha observed the exchange, looking from her mom to Barbie and then back again. *Okay...* She mouthed to herself, knowing it would go unnoticed by the two women who were staring lovingly at each other.

"Whatever. What's for dinner?"

------

It's not like Gloria hadn't tried to get back into the dating game. She had downloaded all the typical apps—Tinder, Bumble, Hinge—, she had even ventured on Plenty of Fish before she understood the error of her ways and deleted her account immediately. But the apps made her feel like she was shopping for people, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth, and so, she had deleted them.

What was left for her to do? She wondered, still thinking about Sasha's incessant request a week after the incident in the kitchen, getting cozy on the couch under a soft blanket to watch the latest cult documentary (a welcomed change from all the murder true crime shows she watched). She wasn't in her twenties anymore, she didn't want to go out partying every weekend, so where was she supposed to meet men her age? Did men her age even want to date women as old as them??

"You have that look on your face," Barbie commented, joining Gloria on the couch and shimming under the blanket to make herself warm.

"The look of a tired, working mother?"

Barbie grinned, having grown rather fond of Gloria's little sarcastic quips. "No, that look is beautiful," she said earnestly. "The look that something is bothering you."

Gloria shook her head, trying to ignore how Barbie's honest compliments always sank sharp teeth into her heart. She pressed play on the remote and she pretended to pay attention to it simply so she wouldn't have to look into those soul-searching eyes as she spoke. "How has dating been going for you?"

"Hm..." Barbie took a second to think. "I've been on seven dates since last week—"

"What?!?"

Barbie blinked. "One each night, basically."

"How can you afford that??"

She shrugged, "I never have to pay for anything. All the men and women I've seen insisted on paying for me."

Gloria was mid thought of 'Of course they are paying for you,' when it registered that Barbie had said she was going on dates with women too. It should have been obvious, really, that Barbie would see women as perfectly viable companions, but for some reason Gloria had never considered that for herself.

"And... which have you liked best, women or men?"

Barbie scrunched up her nose as she thought about it. "It's difficult to find any man here who is interested in more than my looks and many of them are terrible kissers—though I'm not sure I'm a good one myself-"

"Of course you are," Gloria interrupted without thinking about what she was saying.

"Can you tell just by looking at me?" Barbie asked, wondering if that was another human thing she still had to learn.

"Uh..." Gloria blinked a few times, trying to come up with a good explanation for that intrusive thought at the same time as she tried to comprehend why the thought of Barbie not being a good kisser felt like an affront to her.

"I-I just know that you're very intuitive and kind, and I'm sure someone like that would know how to kiss well," she explained, hoping it sounded like a well-thought-out reason.

Barbie beamed at that, taking Gloria's words at face value.

"So, yeah, I think I'm much more inclined to keep dating women than men. But no girl has invited me nor agreed to go on a second date."

Gloria frowned again. How was that possible?? "Have any of them told you why?"

"They said they couldn't get into another situationship with a woman who's living with her partner and her daughter." Barbie shrugged and continued, "I don't know why that's such a problem for them, but if they see it that way, then I'm better off."

"Barbie..." Gloria tilted her head, her heart melting. "They think you and I are dating, or that we are exes but still live together. That's why they don't want to get involved." She chuckled, but her chest ached a little. "We *are* partners, but not in the way they think."

"Oh! Well... that makes way more sense now," Barbie laughed and got more comfortable on the couch, unbothered by the fact that a misunderstanding might have cost her a few dates.

-----

Rollerblading had been something Gloria and Sasha had taken up as mother-daughter bonding activity and both truly cherished the moments they spent together (even though Sasha still put up a bit of front as it was expected of a teenager).

They were enjoying the breeze as they skated down their regular route when Gloria suddenly blurted out, "Would it be weird if I started seeing women?"

Sasha almost fell flat on her face—not due to the question, but the abruptedness of it. She eyed her mother with an unreadable expression for a few seconds before smirking and asking, "Women or Barbie?"

"What?!? No! I mean-"

"Mom," Sash laughed, grabbing her mother's hand. "Either is totally fine and not weird at all. I mean, it'd be *really* weird to have a real life Barbie as a step-mom, but-" she shrugged, "I've been waiting for you to realize you've been in love with her from the moment you laid eyes on her."

Gloria wanted to deny it, she wanted to say Sasha was mistaken, that she had still been in love with her ex husband when they met Barbie, but she knew she would be lying. All Gloria could do was thank the heavens for the fact that Sasha did not seem to be traumatized by the changes in their family.

"There's no step-mom just yet," Gloria said shyly, choosing to stay away from heavy topics for the time being. "Do you think she would go on a date with me?"

"Are you kidding me?" Sasha scoffed, rolling her eyes at her mom. "I've seen the way you too look at each other. I think it gave me literal cavities. It's disgusting, really."

Laughing at her daughter's dramatics, Gloria sighed and said, "I guess I'll ask her out then." Her heart soared with the possibilities the future held, and she could only hope Barbie would say yes.

[saltygilmores]

THOUGHTS WHILE WATCHING GILMORE GIRLS: S3/EP6: TAKE THE DEVILED EGGS (Pt 2) (This One's Gonna Be a Real Rage Inducer) (Lots Of Interesting Development Though) (So many things happening) (Salty Rambles about Jess Mariano's Birthday)

There is something to be said about Luke (on multiple occasions) readily admitting he pays Jess in ketchup packets to toil in the Coffee Mines more or less against his will. I get that it's just a part time job after school...before school..while he's cutting school..always working...never stopping...never reicieving any tips from Lorelai and Rory... Rory needs a job... Rory and Lorelai need to pay for their food... Anyway these comments shed a light on the shaky economies of small businesses in small towns which is interesting to me. Gilmore Girls is really, at it's core, a show about class. One day he could wake up to find his diner has been turned into a Dunkin Donuts (this is Not-Quite-But-Almost-New England after all, where DD is king).

Hahahahaha!! Jess stole money to buy a car and he committs attempted murder! Hahahahaaha! You're SO FUNNY LORELAI GILMORE. Your daughter stole a boat.

Yeah. And maybe back home, he did had to steal to survive sometimes. How about them apples, Lorelai Gilmore. God, do I loathe her.

Don't say that around Lorelai, I think she'd believe you were being serious.

A couple of the moots and I recently decided that in the recent past, Liz managed to land and then lose a halfway decent boyfriend/ father figure to Jess who had a car and taught Jess to drive and do repairs and some other light adulting. I honestly feel like this is the only thing that makes sense.

HE LOOKS SO GOOD IN THIS SCENE!!! Fuck meeee. Look at that li'l curl...

LOOK AT IT!!!! You know what, I'm calling it. I'm putting my foot down. This is the hottest Milo had ever looked in the entirety of seasons 2 and 3. It's that perfectly gelled hair, the jean jacket, the cool tshirt. Very James Dean. Woof. Let's see, what would I choose for second place? I have to go with the party scene in KegMax, another episode with impeccably jelled hair and a jean jacket (and even while he was apparently sick shooting that episode too). He just progresses in hotness the further season 3 marches on.

These four words "I'm still a minor" are a point of contention for me in the ongoing debate about his birth month. My beliefs: Jess is a Virgo. He was born in August or early September. This would make him just older than Rory by just a smidge. Since well over a year has passed in the show since the episode he arrived in Stars Hollow as a 17 year old (when he arrived, it was early September as Rory had just started school in that episode), he had just celebrated his birthday before arriving and so he has to have already turned 18 by this episode. However, I will consider the theory that Luke was clueless or misinformed about his age at the time he arrived (because it's not like LIz is in any way reliable with information) and he was actually 16 going on 17 when he hopped off the bus last year, and maybe he has an October or November birthday making him slightly younger than Rory. It would make sense that both missed the kindergarten cut off dates in 1989 at their respective schools (which is rock solid canon already for Rory, as she was born in October 84 but graduated in 03 instead of 02), putting them in the same grade.

Salty has put a pathetic amount of thought into this. So, how can I accept this statemen? I attribute it to the same brand of biting sarcasm that gave us "I mugged an old lady" moments ago and also because this scene doesn't make a whole lot of sense to begin with. He's still a minor, but he got his own insurance all by himself under his own name, which is not really a thing, but not his own car registration? Committing insurance fraud perhaps? Sketchy insurance company that didn't ask too many questions? He knows a guy who knows a guy who can print up some fake documents? At that point why not go all the way with the white collar crimes and forge Luke's signature on the registration too? See, Lorelai thinks Jess is a thief and murderer when he's really a white collar criminal like Taylor Doose.

My memory was certain that he produced a cigarrette and not a pen in this scene. I had to edit this post to remove a line about him smoking. I guess I confused it with the Then She Appears/ Cmurrh kissing scene, where he's also wearing a jean jacket with a popped collar. Damn. I can't wait for that scene...

Just some light fraud. If the car belonged to someone in Stars Hollow, whoever's registration he stole probably deserved it anyway. This is how I approach all "Crimes" Jess commits in Stars Hollow. There are only a few people who don't deserve it. Your honor, my client is innocent.

Oh no, the couch of doom. No good conversations ever happens between Rory and Lorelai on the couch, especially after one of them comes home at night and finds the other one on the couch. The Gilmores recieve an invitation to Sherry's baby shower. The moots and I have determined that Doula and Gigi will eventually band together to form the most powerful duo of neglected half sisters the world has ever seen. For the record, today Doula would be 17 and Gigi would be 21. Since Jess eventually comes to adopt and raises Doula she has a somewhat decent chance of coming out a well adjusted adult. At the very least, if she was stuck with TJ and Liz, Jess would still be a positive influence on her life, visit her and look out for her and make sure she didn't get sucked into any cults. The odds are a lot more grim for Gigi with Crusty and Sherry as her forever "parents" and let's face it, very likely her relationship with big sister Rory or any of the other Gilmores is non existent.

And things were so peaceful. Especially since Dean hasn't reared his ugly head in the last two episodes, either.

You flip flop with Crusty so much how can anyone possibly keep track of whether you're on the outs with him or banging him at any given time?

And by saying that out loud you're gonna tip the balance of the universe and he's going to show up. I looked ahead and although this is sadly still a Crusty-Focused episode, he doesn't actually make an appearance. Small blessings. To Lorelai's surprise, Rory admits that she's been in contact with Crusty and Lorelai is okay with it but upset that Rory was hiding it from her. God, he's such a parasite.

Emails. How quaint.

Highly debatable.

[queenofcats17]

The Ink Demonth 20

Today's theme is Gossip.

Warning, this does involve some sexism.

============================================

If there was one thing the employees of Joey Drew Studios loved, it was juicy gossip. Rumors were constantly being passed around, with old ones often being discarded the second a new one came around.

But one rumor that had persisted was the one about Sammy Lawrence and his secretary.

Sammy was difficult to work with. Everyone knew this. He was grumpy, temperamental, and prone to yelling at people over the slightest inconvenience. The only people who were able to reliably deal with him were Jack, Susie, and... Cordelia. Jack was Sammy's best friend, seemingly, so it made sense that he would know how to calm Sammy, and Susie clearly had some kind of romantic relationship with Sammy which allowed her to reign him in.

Which left Cordelia.

Given Susie's romantic relationship with Sammy seemed to be the reason she was able to deal with him, it wasn't too much of a leap to assume that Cordelia and Sammy had a romantic relationship as well. Besides, what other reason would there be for the two of them to be as close as they were?

No matter what other rumors arose in the studio, the rumors about Sammy and Cordelia persisted. The whispers and sidelong glances were always there, always in the periphery. The employees watched the two of them intently, looking for anything that could be used as evidence to prove the rumors true.

Sammy, to his credit, dealt with the rumors the same way he dealt with nearly everything in the studio. By snapping that they were a waste of time and that surely people had better things to do than spread such bullshit. He did seem a bit angrier about the rumors than some of his normal annoyances, but no one thought that was out of the ordinary.

Cordelia dealt with the rumors with all the grace and professionalism she usually displayed, saying the rumors were silly and untrue and she would never do something so unprofessional. However, it didn't take long to figure out that if she was pushed hard enough, she would fight back.

Up until the first time she snapped at someone over the rumor, no one in the studio had ever seen Cordelia angry. They'd seen her get annoyed and frustrated, but never truly angry.

She'd been organizing some papers when the "brave" employees had approached, snickering and whispering to one another. She had to have known what they were there about. The ones who approached her about the rumors were never subtle. No one remembered what exactly the young man had said. It didn't really matter what he'd said, in the end. What mattered was Cordelia's reaction.

The young men had expected she would react the same way she always had. With a tight smile and a scolding about how they should be doing their work instead of listening to gossip. Instead, Cordelia's expression had immediately darkened and she'd slammed the papers down on her desk.

"Leave," she said, her voice low.

The young men blinked, glancing at one another. "But we-"

"Leave," Cordelia repeated, more forcefully this time. "I'm not in the mood to deal with this nonsense right now."

"But-"

"What part of what I said was confusing to you?" She snapped, cutting off whatever excuses they were about to give. "I have actual work I need to be doing right now and I'm not going to have my time wasted again because two more idiots want to ask about things that are frankly none of their business."

Her voice was cold and her expression looked positively murderous. Both men took a step back from the sheer force of her gaze.

"I will tell you this once and only once," she continued. "No, I am not sleeping with Mr. Lawrence. And even if I was, it wouldn't be any of your business. Do not ask me about this again."

"Ye-Yes, ma'am," the men said together. They almost wished she'd yelled at them. That would have been much less terrifying than the cold and calm anger they were experiencing now.

"Now." Cordelia picked up her papers, narrowing her eyes at her unwanted guests. "Leave."

They didn't need to be told twice, immediately scrambling away down the hallway and back upstairs to the art department.

In his office, Sammy couldn't help but smile, turning back to his work.

No one asked Cordelia about the rumors for the next few months.

[sophie1973]

Bloodstream (tell me when it kicks in)

New York, 1890. Henry is a slayer, Alex is a vampire. Somehow, they are not in a hurry to kill each other.

You can also read on AO3 or come yell at me on Twitter

Manhattan, Meatpacking District - November 1890

Not for the first time that night Henry wonders what the bloody hell he’s doing here.

Here is an empty, sinister back alley in the Meatpacking District, after nearly tripping on the freight train tracks on 10th Avenue. Thankfully, no one is around so late to witness his clumsiness.

No one human, that is. 

It’s a frosty November night, and he shivers. Despite being made of the finest wool by one of the most upscale tailors of Bond Street, his coat is still not warm enough to fend off the cold of an American winter. He’s just happy Bea and he arrived in New York after the Great Blizzard of 1888 and hopes this year is not a prelude to a repeat performance.

Patrolling in New York is similar to patrolling in London. The smells are the same, hints of sewer and garbage, a potent odor of meat and dairy coming from the surrounding warehouses, and the sound and humid air emanating from the Hudson instead of the Thames. 

He could be home with a nice cup of Earl Grey and his old, battered copy of Pride and Prejudice. Or maybe Jane Eyre. He meant to start that one a while ago but hasn’t found the time yet. Too many books, too little time.

His hand squeezes around the stake he’s holding, focusing on his surroundings. It wouldn’t be very clever of him to be ambushed because he was daydreaming (or is it nightdreaming, in this case?) about Mr Darcy or Mr Rochester.

He hasn’t used the stake yet tonight since Bea and he went their separate ways, but he can hear some shouting and grunts in the distance. Sounds like Bea is more busy than he is. He’s not worried though. His sister excels at this. She always has.

It is their legacy after all. 

Bea thrives on it.

Henry…Not so much.

He’s good at it though. The last 5 years of training made sure of that. Besides, just because his heart was never in it doesn’t mean he would allow himself to fail and dishonor his family’s name.

Putting almost 6000 kilometers between them and their grandmother had been a crucial necessity propelled by his father’s unexpected passing and his older brother’s increasing worry for his younger siblings. (he hates that word. his father hasn’t passed away. But when he needs to be alert and focused like tonight, the word sounds better in his head than ‘murder’)

But Henry is not naive. Even from an ocean away, there is no doubt Mary Mountchristen-Windsor still has her eyes on them and their every move.

Antagonizing her even more than they already have would be madness. 

Just as he decides to give up for the night and join Bea, a vampire appears from around the corner on his right and Henry sighs.

The fight is quick and expeditive, and in less than a few minutes, the vampire is a pile of dust on the dirty ground.

Henry wipes his hand on his trousers, turns around, and bumps into a wall.

Wait, not a wall. There’s a man in front of him, and Henry’s slayer senses failed him spectacularly, as he didn’t even hear him sneak behind him. 

The first thing Henry notices is his height. Henry’s a tall man, but this one has a couple of inches on him. Despite the darkness, Henry can’t help but appreciate the fact that he’s also extremely handsome with golden brown eyes, dark glossy curls, and a devastating smile…

…which reveals a nice, shiny, white pair of elongated canines.

Oh, bollocks.

Henry barely has time to entertain that thought before being pushed against a stone wall.

“Well, well, what do we have here? A baby Slayer? Christmas must have come early,” the vampire drawls with an appreciative grin.

Henry rolls his eyes at that. Yes, he looks young, and the slow aging process doesn’t help, but he’s 25, for God's sake.

He has a retort on the tip of his tongue before he thinks better of it and shuts his mouth. He raises his hand, ready to stake the stupid - and very handsome, God help him- sod and finally be reunited with his warm bed and his books.

The next thing Henry knows, the stake is on the ground and he’s being pressed against the wall by the vampire’s strong, obviously muscular body. 

Suddenly, Jane Austen is the last thing on his mind. The vampire has one hand curled around his neck, and the other presses Henry’s shoulder against the cold bricks. A predatory grin adorns his lips, and Henry thinks that this is decidedly not a good time to wonder about how long and pretty his fucking eyelashes are. 

The pressure on his neck and shoulder intensifies, and he can feel the man’s thigh slip between his own and put some pressure on his crotch. His nose detects a rather intoxicating, spicy mix of santal, cardamom, and violet, and…is that cinnamon?

The vampire brings his lips against Henry’s throat and gives it a lick.

Henry gasps.

The tip of the vampire’s fangs are now grazing his skin, but he doesn’t bite, nipping softly at the smooth flesh, as if searching for the best spot to feed.

Henry’s always been told they ‌go straight to the jugular, but alright, this one likes to play with his food.

If Bea doesn’t arrive in the next few seconds, he’s probably fucked. And not in a good way.

That being said…He assumed that he would probably be scared out of his mind if confronted with this situation. He’s found himself in some dire straits sometimes, but never to the point of being so overpowered like this.

He’s waiting for the terror to settle in, the feeling of finality and ‘well, this is how it ends’ to overcome him, the resignation of dying so young without a real chance of accomplishing anything useful. He didn’t even get to say goodbye to Fitzwilliam, his beloved beagle.

But it never comes.

Instead, long, slow swoops of…something curl in his belly. He becomes extremely conscious of the way the vampire's knee rubs against his neither region, his hot breath on the sensitive skin of his collarbone, and how every nerve ending in his body seems to detonate like fireworks. He closes his eyes and bites on his lower lip, afraid of letting out the wanton moan building in his throat.

When the feeling of horror finally, finally invades his chest it is not because he thinks of his impending demise. With sudden clarity, Henry realizes he’s not scared.

He’s aroused. 

His slayer’s instincts kick in and with his free hand, he reaches into his coat’s pocket, pulling out a small pistol and pressing it against the man’s chest.

“I know you’re not a werewolf, but I’m sure a silver bullet through the heart might still inflict some damage,” he says, surprised and a bit proud at how steady his voice sounds.

The vampire releases him and steps back, raising his hands in surrender. He smirks, and Henry sees a look of…appreciation flashing briefly in his eyes.

“Alright. New deal. I don’t bite you, you don’t shoot me. We stay out of each other’s hair.”

Henry nods but doesn’t lower his gun. Despite his gran’s claim that “a good vampire is a dead vampire” he learned early on that, just as humans, all is not black and white in the vampire world and some of them are useful members of society. He prefers to remain prudent still, especially considering the way the vampire narrows his eyes at him, and Henry feels himself squirm under his scrutiny. 

“You’re Henry. The Mountchristen-Windsor Line. Arthur Fox’s son,” he says with a final certainty. As if Henry is some sort of renowned personality whose face and family’s line of work are plastered on every newspaper. As if he’s not just boring Lord Mountchristen-Windsor who prefers to spend time in his library than waltzing on a ballroom floor. He almost laughs at the idea of the faces some of the people he meets in these shindigs - as Americans say- would make if they knew of his nighttime activities.

He doesn’t though.

“Keep my father’s name out of your filthy, bloodsucking mouth.”

“Hey, I don’t mean any offense. I was an aficionado. Saw him a few times on Drury Lane when I lived in London. He was a fantastic actor. I mean, Vicky herself was a fanatic.”

Henry’s brain comes to a screeching halt. “Vicky as in…Queen Victoria?”

The vampire nods and Henry’s eyes widen.

What the…The utter disrespect.   

He hesitates between laughing and being offended on behalf of Her Majesty. The adrenaline starts to wear off, and the former wins. He quells the bubble of nervous laughter as the vampire shrugs, “She’s the one who asked me to call her that.”

“Right.”     

“Anyway…this has been real fun, but if you’re here that means the lovely Lady Beatrice is not far and as a Slayer she’s much scarier than you. No offense.”

“Offense is absolutely taken,” Henry answers through gritted teeth. He wishes he had a more clever retort and he’s going to hate himself when he comes up with one in the morning - too late.

“Henry!”

Bea’s voice resonates from down the street and the vampire grins. “That’s my cue. See you around, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor.”

He walks away before turning around with a mock salute. “I’m Alex, by the way.”

And he’s gone.   

Flabbergasted by the whole ordeal, Henry doesn’t even hear Bea catching up to him. She looks almost pristine in her coat revealing a pair of trousers that once belonged to Henry and had been adapted to her frame. One can’t exactly slay vampires wearing petticoats. The only clue of her previous slayering activities is a strand of ginger hair that escaped her bun, and a slight pink flush complimenting her fair skin. She looks lovely, but her petite frame also exudes confidence, her every movement deliberate and poised. That, paired with a devilish smile and an unwavering gaze, never fails to surprise the undead who see her as their next, easy meal. It’s a deadly combination and she never hesitates to use it to her advantage. No wonder the vampire - Alex - took to his heels. Realistically, Henry has to admit he was right. Bea is scarier than he will ever be.

The pride he harbors for his big sister knows no bounds.

“So? How many did you get? It’s rather busy tonight.”

Henry opens his mouth and closes it before saying. “Well, there was this vampire…” He trails off, not sure how to explain what happened.

Bea gestures to the pile of dust a bit further down.“You staked him?”

“Uh, no. That was another one. This one was different. Tall, handsome, well dressed…very long eyelashes. Oh, and he knew Dad, and you. Also, he was rather chatty. And insufferable.”

Bea gives him a look. 

“That was…rather specific. And you didn’t kill him? You just had a nice chat in the middle of Manhattan at night?”

“Well, he tried to bite me, and I threatened him with my pistol, so the intention was there, but then we didn’t? I’m not completely sure what happened to be honest,” he fibs, as he is pretty certain his sister doesn’t want to hear about how his traitorous body reacted to the vampire’s proximity and the unwelcomed feelings it elicited in him.

Very unwelcomed. Henry can’t stress that enough.

She keeps looking at him, obviously debating if the subject is worth pursuing and he gives her his most innocent look, making his boyish look work in his favor for once. She’s not fooled one bit.

“Alright,” she says, changing the subject. “I heard about this nest-”

“Behind you,” Henry interrupts her, looking pointedly above her shoulder and she swirls, her stakes raised and ready.

“Do you mind? We’re having a conversation here.”

She easily stakes the vampire, muttering, “How unbelievably rude,” before dusting her coast with a grimace. “We should go home. This is becoming more crowded than Covent Garden on a Sunday morning.” 

She starts walking towards their carriage, and after picking up his stake, Henry follows her without further ado. 

“Do you remember that coffee shop on the corner next to the millinery? They had those little blueberry scones that were simply delicious. I miss London sometimes.”

“Enough to go back?” he inquires, bewildered.

She lets out a brief laugh. “God no. Phillip risked way too much for us to go back.”

They reach their carriage and Henry grabs the reins as Bea is about to climb on the front seat.

“He said his name was Alex,” he blurts out because he can’t let the topic go for some reason.

“Who?” Bea frowns and turns around.

“The vampire. The other one. The one I didn’t kill.”

Understanding dawns on her face. “Oh. Probably Alexander Claremont-Diaz then. He fits the description you gave me, especially the pretty eyelashes,” she says with a teasing smile and Henry repeats the name in his head.

Alexander Claremont-Diaz. It suits him. A long-ass name for a pretentious, uncultured prick.

And yes, as far as name goes, Henry is aware of how hypocritical he’s being.

“So you do know him?”

She shrugs. “I met him a few times. His sister too. Lovely woman. She works for the Washington Post..”

“Who is he? I’m sure I’ve never seen him before.”

“You probably did. You just didn’t pay attention.” 

Henry nearly scoffs at that. If he had crossed paths with Alex before, he definitely would have paid attention. 

“Anyway,” Beatrice keeps on, “He's Vanderbilt's lawyer, and he works for some other prominent families as well. He and his sister were turned at the beginning of the century. I don’t know the whole story. You should ask Percy.”

“Percy knows him too?”

“Percy knows everyone, dear brother. You know that.”

They both climb in the carriage. Henry clicks his tongue and the horses move forward.

“If you manage to get away from your books, you might see him again at one of the next soirees,” Bea tells him. “But I suggest you steer clear of him.”

Henry lets out a quite inelegant scornful snort.“I’m not afraid of him and I doubt he will attempt anything after tonight.”

Bea shakes her head, a fond yet slightly exasperated look on her face. “Oh, darling. He’s not going to kill you. He’s going to break your heart.”

                                                      *********

Brooklyn, Alex Claremont-Diaz’s house - October 1891

The room is solely lit by the fireplace, barely illuminating the two figures on the bed and giving it a golden hue, creating a warm and comforting atmosphere. The house is silent at this late hour, and the quietude is only broken by the occasional whispers, gasps, or soft moans.

“Is that a stake in my ass, or are you happy to see me?” The tone is slightly breathless but full of mirth.

“Oh my god, Alex, Seriously? Are you trying to kill the mood?”

This is a hypothetical question because at this point no power in the universe would be able to pry Henry’s from Alex’s very capable hands. And body. And everything else.

Alex is in Henry’s lap, the aforementioned hands sliding up his back, slow, tender, fingers spread wide and he feels every touch like fire burning from the inside out.

Alex shifts his hips, setting a slow and steady pace and their gaze meets, and Henry tries not to lose himself in his brown eyes.

He tries not to lose himself in his everything. 

He thrusts up, sinking himself inside Alex, quicker and deeper each time. Alex catches his lips in an open-mouth kiss as he smiles and murmurs “Hen,” a touch of reverence in his voice.

A pleasant heat starts coiling at the base of his spine and his hand trails back up the soft, golden skin of Alex’s arm. “I’m close,” he whispers breathily.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” the vampire lets out in a hoarse voice.

It makes Henry’s toes curl in the sheets just as pleasure blooms low in his stomach and he tilts his head back and shivers as white fangs shine in the dark.

“Now,” he exhales and closes his eyes as Alex plunges his canines into his neck, right at the same time he’s hit, in perfect synchronicity, with a wave of pleasure, lighting every nerve ending of his body on fire. A breathy laugh and a string of intelligible words escape from his throat.

Alex is right behind him and lets go of his neck gently to let out a guttural groan as he comes between them, making a mess of their stomachs, his release mixing with the crimson trail flowing slowly from Henry’s puncture wound.

They meet in a searing kiss as they both come down, his lips molding to Alex’s like they are one and the same, and Henry feels his body sag, his head a bit dizzy both by the intense pleasure and blood loss.

His eyes are still closed but he hears Alex biting his own wrist before pressing it against Henry’s lips, and he takes a few sips, feeling immediately replenished.  

Alex leaves a trail of kisses against his jaw, his hand searing a path down his abdomen, gathering some of the come and blood on his finger and bringing it to Henry’s mouth, who opens it and welcomes the salty, coppery taste on his tongue. Alex repeats the gesture, this time bringing his finger to his own mouth and licking it clean with a sultry look from under his eyelashes that makes Henry want to go again almost immediately.

They stay entwined like this, uncaring of the mess between them, their breathing slowly evening.

“You ok, baby?” Alex asks softly, and Henry nods, burying his face in his lover’s neck, still unable to form a coherent sentence.

He never expected this.

Never expected the tenderness and the caring and the complete bliss he found in Alex’s every touch.

At first, it had been a way to itch a scratch, to get that bloody impossible cretin out of his system. A quick shag and they both would go on their merry way, preferably separately.

That had been 4 months ago. 

And yet he’s still here.

Bea’s words from almost a year ago resonate, unwelcomed, in his head

He’s going to break your heart.

He had been warned and had nevertheless rushed headfirst into the worst decision of his life.

(Or was it?)

 He gives Alex one last, lazy, languid kiss before he pulls out, wincing at the loss of heat, and trying to ignore Alex’s soft whimper. He grabs a cloth on the nightstand, cleans his stomach and Alex’s, then gets off the bed, throws the cloth in the basin on the vanity, and starts collecting his clothes.

Alex frowns. “You’re leaving already? It’s barely 2 am.” His face is impassive, but his voice betrays his disappointment.

Henry buttons his shirt, and looks at him briefly. He suspects Alex is as deep in this as he is, and the elation he feels in his heart is at war with the logical part of his brain screaming at him regularly that this dalliance is a bad, terrible idea.

“I don’t want to risk people seeing me coming out of your house in the wee hours of the morning, love. You know that.”

Alex shrugs and climbs out of the bed, unbothered by his nakedness.  There's no doubt he flaunts it because he knows the effect it has on Henry. Henry doesn’t exactly complain either. 

He walks to a round table and pours himself a glass of brandy.

“Besides,” Henry goes on, pointedly not looking at him, “I don’t want to come face to face with Bea.”

“Does she know?” He walks back to Henry, standing beside him and watching as he puts his trousers on, not bothering to fasten his waistcoat or tie his cravat.

“Yes. I don’t keep secrets from my sister. That doesn’t mean I want to come face-to-face with her in the hallway at dawn. She’s an early riser.”

“What did she say? When you told her?”

“She doesn’t disapprove. She likes you. For some reason.”

Alex chuckles. “For some reason? Are you saying you don’t like me, sweetheart?”

Henry tries hard - and sadly fails - not to blush at the term of endearment but still gives Alex his most bland, uninterested look.

“I tolerate you. Barely.”

“Well, you seemed to tolerate me well enough an hour ago when I was eating your a-”

He doesn’t get to finish his phrase as Henry grabs him by the jaw and captures his lips. He learned very quickly in their relationship - since the werewolf incident- that it was the best and most gratifying way to shut Alex up.

Alex hums into the kiss, leaning and letting out a whine as Henry takes a step back and grabs his coat.

“Come on, Hen. Stay another hour.” There is a vulnerability in his voice that tugs at Henry’s heart, because God knows he would love to stay a few more hours too.

A few more days…A few more years? A lifetime? 

He wished desperately he could stay and lounge in bed with Alex, and not just for the  - spectacular - sex but for the odd companionship he found with the vampire. The hushed conversations in the dark. The knowing smiles and heated gazes from across a crowded ballroom. The jokes and even the gossip about some members of the High Society.

But it’s just too dangerous. What they are doing is already reckless but selfishly, he can’t stop.

He put on his coat and looks at Alex who still stands beside him, a soft look on his face, his curls in disarray, his fucking eyelashes, and freckles of gold in his brown eyes, cast there by the light of the fire. There is an array of emotions in those eyes that Henry doesn’t have the time, but mostly the will, to decipher at that moment. He’s already very close to throwing reason out of the window and pushing Alex back against the bed.

It takes a lot of willpower not to do it. One he didn’t even know he possessed. 

“You’ll catch your death, darling. Go back to bed”

Henry’s volition only goes so far, and he leans for another kiss, sweet and light, as he breathes him in and presses their forehead together for a few more precious seconds.

“Are you going to the Vanderbilts tonight?” He asks as they finally find the will to separate.

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll see you there.”

Alex nods, and Henry takes a step back, opens the door, and checks the corridor. A last longing look, an imperceptible shake of his head, and he leaves.

A few minutes later he is in the street, walking briskly, a dark shadow reminiscent of the creatures he hunts at night.

The taste of Alex still lingers on his tongue.