You're Far From Home
Part i; Where Did You Run To
shinsou hitoshi x reader - 18+ - minors & ageless blogs dni - wc 9.3k
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Morning light streams through his window filtered by fog and the city's constant haze; it seeps through Shinsou's eyelids, disintegrating his visions of you. Awake, he still keeps his eyes closed. If he lingers in that chasm between sleep and wake, he can still hear your breathing, feel the soft warmth of your body held against his chest.
Once he surfaces fully into consciousness, and can no longer pretend to sense you, Shinsou opens his tired eyes. He spreads his hand over the vacant side of the bed. The sheets are cold. He wonders, for another one of the many mornings in a row; if you are being woken by the same light, if he is getting any closer to finding you.
Last night, sleep came accidentally. He knows he's better off sleepless than with only a few fitful hours behind his eyes. He's still in his clothes from yesterday; jackets, boots, and all. His spine aches as he rises, the muscles that run up his back are tight, nearly threatening to snap. At the tiny kitchen sink, he splashes ice cold water on his face. The cold is numbing rather than shocking.
"Coffee?" The mumbled memory of your groggy voice asks him.
Yes, I suppose.
He goes through the motions, his hands find what he needs easily because everything is either still where you left it, or where you said it should go. Though months have passed, your absence still weighs heavy on Shinsou. The emptiness you left behind is a wide and vicious sea. It floods the tiny apartment you once shared.
But, you will share it again.
He scoops the coffee grounds into a filter, a serving just for one.
As the coffee machine gurgles and sputters, he crosses to the little wooden table tucked into the corner of the kitchen. (You found it one night, when you were out feeding the street cats. Someone put it out for garbage day. You couldn't believe some idiot was giving it away. "Couple of scratches, but it's real wood!" The two of you carried it up the fire escape and wrangled it inside. Both of you preferred the fire escape as the main entry way to the apartment. Your face was alight with pride, "it'll look so pretty with the morning sun.") It is still very strange not to see you sitting in one of the mismatched chairs.
Now it's surface is covered with papers, many of which are stained with coffee rings. His laptop sits open, dead. Faintly, his pallid face stares back at him from the black screen. Evidence of his fatigue is present in the darkness under his eyes, in the strain of his shoulders. His wayward violet hair sticks up at odd angles.
The sound of scratching pulls his attention to the window. Since you left, the number of street cats dwindled with you. Only the oldest and most stubborn have remained. The scraggly cat that sits hunched outside the window, single eye peering unblinkingly at Shinsou, expectantly awaits his breakfast. He has to be the most ancient and haggard of the pack.
"Oh, be patient, Gramps," you would have said.
He opens the window; the cat has the audacity to hiss at him about it.
It doesn't hop up onto the windowsill; it sits still as an eroded gargoyle as Shinsou opens the cupboard above the stove.
He sets down a few slices of canned meat on the fire escape. Shinsou wonders if this old cat has been hurt by many, or if he has never felt the affectionate stroke of a hand. The latter is more tragic. You've tried many times to pet him, bearing treats and endless coos, but it seems you'd met your match with this old man.
His tail, chewed up and hairless in some spots, flicks back and forth as he eats. So ravenous, but he doesn't choke.
Shinsou pours coffee into a chipped mug and takes a sip. It's acrid and bitter; gritty with loose grounds. Nothing like how you make it, nothing like how he would make it for you. Still, he drinks it.
Wind blows in from the open window. It carries no hint of Spring, no promise of warmth. From around the corner, the brakes of a bus huff and creak, engines backfire and cars honk. Distantly, an ambulance's siren wails. The world's cogs turn around him, and the work continues. He itches for a cigarette.
His hand goes to his jacket pocket, no cigarettes, but he does find his cellphone. One missed text from last night. His newest job has been assigned. Coordinates, a time, a name, and most crucially - a deadline.
Without you, the work is different. Ruminating on how brings him pain, but it is a spiral he can't avoid on the lonesome, drizzly walks home or the vacant, gray mornings. The first job he took without you was normal enough; it was when he returned alone to the apartment, empty and dark, it was too much to bear. He'd sat on the fire escape all night. Watched the sun rise, imagining the tiny shape of you in the distance walking home. Toward him.
The weight of your absence does not grow any lighter, but he has become accustomed to it. What was once a sharp pain - raw and foreign - is now a familiar ache.
Shinsou looks down, the knobs of the cat's spine bulge up from under it's pink skin. It eats voraciously. It's a pitiful thing, really. A kindred spirit.
"Still no sight of her."
The cat doesn't look up from his meal.
His memories were once fragmented shards of glass, they used to slice his palms and prick his fingers. Fresh blood spilled over old wounds. In his solitude, he has soldered these pieces into a window of stained glass.
One fragment, jagged and gleaming, larger than the others, lays at the center. The night of your penultimate job together. A botched job. It was messy and louder than the others, nowhere near as neat as usual. But, despite all of that, the two of you collected your earnings the following night. Dirty money sealed in a clean envelope.
Instructions were received from your employer the previous evening; a hit on a pair of older men. Flight risks, Shinsou assumed. You and he planned to stake them out at a bar and close in when they stumbled - drunk - to their car.
It was a task well within both his and your capabilities. A two on two. It should have been easy. Routine.
Your approach was unsteady. They heard you coming, no chance for stealth. From where he stood, Shinsou could see that your hands were shaking. The revolver rattled in your grip so bad that the older of the two was able to knock it out of your grasp. Normally, you wouldn't have let anyone get that close. Shinsou knew instantly that you were distracted. Unfocused. That was unlike you.
Shinsou can't remember all the details of this encounter, it's a blur of color and adrenaline. He shot his own pistol, aiming for the man's knees. It was all very quick and loud, he pulled you back onto your feet before the bodies even hit the ground.
The shots of course got the attention of the barkeep; you both took off running into the fog. It was almost nostalgic, memories of the first hits resurfacing. Then, you both had to scurry into the cover of night like rats.
—
The trek home was silent.
As the two of you climbed the stairs of the fire escape, Shinsou peeled off his jacket, grimy and blood stained. Behind him, you lingered on the fire escape. A cigarette balanced between your middle and index. After unlocked the window, he lingered there for a wobbly moment.
You leaned against the railing. "I'll be inside in a minute," you said, your back to him.
Some nights you needed a moment alone. Over the last few weeks, you'd needed them more frequently. He'd watch entire cigarettes burn to nubs in your fingers, your eyes blank. Each job was weighing heavier and heavier on you. Shinsou was growing uneasy with your silent pondering. Distance between you was widening, he could feel it.
He didn't climb inside just yet. He watched the smoke curl around you, watched you take quick, short puffs, as if your lungs refused to fill all the way.
He'd been trying to give you space. As much as it ate away at him, he wanted to give it an honest try. So, he swallowed hard and climbed inside through the tall window, leaving you out in the cold.
As best he could, he busied himself inside at the kitchen. He took out two well loved mugs from the cabinet above the sink. One was a dull pink with faded cat whiskers, the other a diner style mug with a chipping logo. He filled the kettle, picked out tea bags. He chose a lavender and chamomile blend for you, it would help soothe your nerves. He chose a spearmint for himself, maybe it would settle his stomach that was clenching with worry.
As he went through these motions, he glanced at you through the window repeatedly. The wind played with the ends of your hair and blew your jacket open. You didn't shiver, you hardly moved at all. Ash fell from your unsmoked cigarette.
Both mugs sat on the counter, steaming and steeping. He climbed out to join you, his long limbs bumped against the window frame. You didn't even glance at him, your eyes were fixed out on the horizon, into the flickering city lights.
(Perhaps seeing what could lay beyond, a new life blooming somewhere far away? This possibility occurs to him in hindsight.)
The rusty metal of the fire escape groaned in the wind. Shinsou lingered just behind you, leaned against the apartment's brick wall. He opened his mouth to speak, to tell you to come inside, but you finally spoke.
"I can't do this anymore, Hitoshi." You said, still turned away from him.
This was a conversation you'd both heard for years, since you both stepped foot into the hidden business of the underground. People in circles like yours often dream of getting out, getting anywhere. Grand plans of running away, of leaving the dirty tedium of their work behind to start over - as if it really is that easy.
These were not sentiments either of you had expressed before. It was - what he thought to be - a mutual understanding that you were bound, tied together by some intangible string. Any kind of life would be bearable as long as he had you, and you him. That was how it'd been between you since the beginning, since the messy early days of fumbled jobs and hits that barely paid enough to scrape by. An unspoken contract signed year ago, the night you both abandoned the lives laid out before you.
(As the hollow days without you tick on, he now sees that this understanding may not have been clear to you.)
Shinsou pushed off the wall and came up close behind you. He rested his hands on the fire escape's railing on either side of you. Next to his, your hands were so tiny. Softly, he kissed the top of your head. "I can go solo for a while," he mumbled into your hair, "you can stay back." At the time, his reasoning was that everyone gets burnt out from work. All you needed was a little vacation. The work had always weighed heavier on you than him, and he was sympathetic to that. That's one of the many reasons he loves you, you feel so deeply.
You ducked under his arm, "No-" crushed your cigarette and turned to him, eyes glassy - desperate in a way he'd never seen on you before, "I don't want to be anywhere near this anymore." You sucked in a breath, made a noise in your throat as if you were going to say something else, but just crossed your arms. You turned your face away again, eyes returning to the skyline. The sigh you heaved out clouded in the cold night air.
"Aren't you sick of this?" You asked after a still moment. Voice quiet, laid bare.
He blinked at you. He knew it wasn't wise to tell you the truth; No, not really. He could tuck the work, the things that must be done to survive, away as long as you were his. Your shared sins washed away when in each others arms. If Shinsou had you, he could live.
Carefully, he fixed his voice to be low and kind. He'd wanted to coax you out of this line of thinking, and swiftly. "What would we do instead?" You both knew that this wasn't the line of work you could just quit, it's a small world after all. "Where would you have us go?" He knew these were not kind questions to have asked, but he hoped their frankness would help you see reason.
You didn't answer him, the pair of you stood in frigid silence, your gaze dropped from the horizon to your shoes. Another gust rattled the fire escaped and forced a shiver through you. He reached for you,"let's go inside, you're freezing." He unwrapped your crossed arms and took your hands. You had acquiesced easily, allowed him to draw you into his arms and back inside. In the moment, that pleased him, but looking back he now knows this should have raised suspicion.
But, he was just happy to be back home with you, in your safe haven for just the two of you. Your brooding had eaten away into the precious hours he was able to spend alone with you, he was eager to get off the subject.
He just needed to show you patience, prove that he will be there for you, even through your bleakest days.
Later the same night, Shinsou returns.
Or, the following morning is more accurate. It's past 3 in the morning when he steps foot back into the apartment. His visitor has since departed, slinked away after leaving not a morsel behind.
The tepid rain has melted the last stubborn mounds of snow, leaving the pavement and asphalt coated in sand and salt. He slips the binding cloth from around his neck, hangs it on the quaint row of hooks you'd installed years ago, the tattered ends barely graze the floor.
(This evening's job was easy; an upstart that got too big of an ego too fast. He didn't even bother bringing Persona Chord.
Shinsou waited outside a nightclub, next to the dumpsters. He came close to closing time, so it wasn't long before the young man stumbled out, roaring frantically, obviously coked out. Whatever allies he brought with him must have abandoned him early in the night. This kid was too proud to have his own security. His build was sinewy, sort of mismatched. Like his smaller frame wasn't meant to carry the mass of muscles that bulged from under his tight t shirt.
Shinsou watched the kid pace. He spat a string of curses and talked to himself, emphatically beating his chest. He thought himself a gladiator heading into battle, and not a lamb being led to slaughter.
Shinsou took a step forward, into the streetlight. The kid's face lifted, ears perked like a doberman. The light caught on his jaw, it was rounded and unstubbled. He really was a kid. He must have been several years Shinsou's junior. For a moment, he saw this boy in the blue and red jumpsuits of UA, saw a bleary life where perhaps they crossed paths in broad daylight, in school hallways and at festivals.
"The fuck are you looking at?" The young man slurred, dissolving Shinsou's half formed mirage.
The young man spat on the pavement between them. Revolting. Shinsou felt his lip twitch in disgust. No other timeline where they shared the same alma mater. No other paths existed for either of them
Shinsou spoke for the first time that day, "Do you know Giran?"
"Who the fuck is-" Once under the effect of his quirk, he fell still and silent. Shinsou instructed him to his knees.
In front of the fledgling gangsters face, Shinsou holds up a picture of you, small enough to fit in his palm. It's worn at the edges. You're sat by the open window, petting your favored stray cat. A little white one who's paws were always stained gray; you called him Gabriel. The light illuminates your soft smile, your relaxed eyes. It's dear to him.
"Do you recognize this girl? Have you seen her?" Something he wasn't able to do in his adolescence, but now it comes easy. He can pull those affected by his quirk into a deep enough hypnosis that he can reach into their minds to extract information.
The young man blinked his bleary eyes to focus them on you, then shook his head no. With a sigh, Shinsou took the knife from his belt.
He instructed him to slit his own throat. Kept his hands clean so he could tuck the photograph safely back into his wallet.)
Your .44 Magnum revolver weighs heavy in his jacket pocket. (Yes, he has his own pistol, but, it's just nice to keep a piece of you close.) He didn't even need to use it.
Back home, he steps into the dark kitchen. In all honestly, this shabby apartment was too small for the two of you. It's almost funny, he thinks, that now it feels sprawling and spacious without you brushing against his side.
His cup of coffee from this morning sits on the counter, freezing and two thirds empty. He downs the rest in one gulp.
In his pocket, his phone rings just once before clipping out.
Two…four…six…
It rings again, long enough for Shinsou to take it out of his pocket and glean the caller ID. An unidentifiable and certainly untraceable number.
He picks up. "Yes?"
"You wont believe what I found, brainwasher." Dabi's voice rasps through the tinny speakers. Whatever means of encryption he uses causes a fuzzy interference. There isn't the usual din of city streets, maybe he's calling from a burner instead of an abandoned payphone?
These calls have been irregular, especially over these past long weeks. Progress has stagnated. When you left you did it well, covered your tracks. You're incredibly clever. Details are rarely missed by you, that's how the pair of you were so successful. You could anticipate obstacles several steps ahead that Shinsou overlooked, you'd think of contingencies for contingencies. Clearly, you'd planned your disappearance well in advance, but Shinsou doesn't like to think on that. It makes him ill.
"Go on." He flicks on the light and steps further into the apartment, towards his laptop and papers at the kitchen table.
At first, he'd been reluctant to recruit any help in his search. He couldn't stomach the idea of someone else finding you before him, but, Dabi has proved to be an ambivalent ally. He hasn't pressed for details or specifics. Shinsou gets the sense that he is far more concerned with tracking down his own demons. Maybe he likes the task of helping, maybe he sees it as a reprieve from his own dirty work. But, that's just conjecture.
Shinsou could trust him - just enough - and Dabi was willing to assist for the right price.
"Outside the city, East. There's an apartment complex. An old associate of mine operates out of there," blue light from his laptop illuminates the room, "he says a vacant room's been taken."
He puts the call on speaker, fingers flying across his laptop's keyboard. The letters and numbers are practically all rubbed off, the 4 and 7 keys are even missing. "Who's the proprietor?"
"Can't say." Dabi sniffs, "can't say who my colleague is either."
Shinsou rakes a hand through his hair "Someone's rented a room. Is that all?"
"I haven't gotten to the good part," maybe there's a smile in his voice, "he hasn't seen who it is, but he has a hunch it's a girl."
"Is this quirk related?"
"Nah, but don't worry about that."
"I need more than that, Dabi."
The receiver crackles, either a gust of wind or a sigh. "He says the stairwell's been smelling nicer. Maybe it's her perfume."
This makes pressure tick behind his eyes. Memories of your perfume, warm and sweet. The smell has vanished from the few clothes you left, your scent no longer hangs in the air. You took the little blue bottle with you. The spot on the dresser that it once inhabited collects dust. His voice is hoarse, "what did he say it smells like?" An inane question, he knows, but he's compulsed to ask.
"Guy's known for his hunches not his nose. But don't worry, he's a gentleman." There's some distortion over the line, other voices echos through, whatever they're saying is undistinguishable "That's the catch of the day for you," Dabi says, "take it or leave it." With that, he hangs up.
The wind howls outside, rattling the windows in their frames.
East. He could work with that.
He'd hidden your pack of cigarettes.
After the previous night, he didn't think it was good for you to spiral alone. There'd been no mention of last night's conversation. He'd been worried that you might say something again or get upset when you both went together to collect, but you'd been fine. Just fine, a little quiet which made him uneasy. Shinsou knew that if he mentioned it, him comments would only make you ruminate, and he really just wanted you to drop it. It's a harsh way to put it, he knows. But, he knows you.
Footsteps crunched in the snow and ice as you walked shoulder to shoulder down the familiar stretch of road. A stranger was sitting, reading a newspaper on a bus stop bench at a station long out of commission. He watched the pair of you approach, then he got up, spat, and disappeared down the cracked and overgrown sidewalk. Payment was waiting on the bench, tucked under the newspaper.
On the back of the envelope was a date, printed. In four days the next assignment will be communicated.
"That's longer than usual," you said, even and indifferent.
Shinsou was thankful for this divine timing. A few days away would be good for you. Spend the next three nights in, you wont have to worry about evidence, or being followed. You wont need to scrub off the smell of gunpowder; instead you can relax, cook dinner together. Lay tangled in the sheets, skin to skin until late in the afternoon.
On the walk back, your hand grazed the back of his. He took your little hand and held it, you let him. At your touch, his shoulders loosened. Snow started to fall then. Soft, fluffy flurries that melted once they landed in the wet streets, but they were still pretty as they danced through the sky.
You were climbing the fire escape stairs, you in front and him behind. You were patting down your jacket pockets.
"Hitoshi," you started, voice upquirked adorably, "do you have a pack?"
"You finished yours?" From behind you, he slipped his hands into your pockets, feigning a search. Resorting to cheap tricks wasn't his proudest moment, but this way, you'd have to ask him if you wanted to smoke. He needed to keep a close eye on you - closer eye, really - and he deemed this the best course of action. No more solo brooding cigarette breaks for you. Doctor's orders.
"I guess I must have."
Once at the landing to your apartment, he kicked off the dusting of snow to sit on the step. He reached into his left pocket, the thick enveloped filled with your shared earnings was in his right, and sat down.Even through his long coat, the metal's cold bled through. He pulled you down into his lap, your back against the fire escape's railing, your side resting against his chest. He remembers hoping you'd lay your head sweetly against his.
He took the worn pack of Marlboro Blacks from his pocket. As a teenager, he liked menthols and wasn't picky about which. Aizawa had only smoked these. Still does, probably. "Quit smoking that crap." He'd said (specifically about a box of Camel Crushes) and offered the black and white box to him. Shinsou knew that, despite his unconventional teaching style, his mentor would never offer his official students any illicit substances. However, their relationship was more candid. Aizawa was plainspoken in his instruction. What looked cold on the outside was really a mutual fondness.
("You probably broke his heart." You'd said the night the two of you ran away. Laying together on grimy sheets in a motel as far from campus as you could get.)
During particularly sleepless nights, nights when he doesn't even bother to close his eyes, memories of his time at school come, and he does nothing to stop them. He thinks that, if in some impossible timeline he were to come face to face with his former mentor again, part of him would understand, but perhaps that's wishful thinking.
Nothing comes from these trains of thought, what use is there in thinking on people who are only ghosts to him now? The best thing to come from that period of his life, is you.
Shinsou plucked a cigarette from it's worn box, his fingers were cold but not shivering. The black polish you'd painted on weeks ago had all but chipped, a few stubborn fragments remained. He asked for your lighter and cupped the flame from the flurries that continued to fall. Shinsou took a generous drag. He held the cigarette between his middle and ring, and used his index to tilt your face towards his.
He was delighted when you parted your lips for him, opening to let him breathe the smoke from his mouth to yours. A silly ritual you both liked when sharing a cigarette in private. It'd been some time, you'd been isolating yourself, denying yourself the warmth of Shinsou's closeness.
(You still are, which pains him. Once he finds you, he won't let you turn to self sabotage again.)
You exhaled twin strings of smoke from your nose, face still close to his, and he kissed you. You kissed him back, but you did so absentmindedly. Distractedly. Broke away far too soon. Your cold fingers pawing at his hand.
"I'd like a real one, please."
"Of course, sugar," he nudged his nose against your cheek and let you steal the cigarette from his fingers. He wrapped his arms around your waist, held you close. Happiness was tentatively blooming in his chest.
Shinsou kissed up from the base of your neck to below your ear, feathersoft. He took the lobe between his teeth and bit gently, teasingly. You huffed out a chuckle; he believed then that your mood was beginning to turn.
Time passed easily, like the cigarette from your hand back to his, in pleasant quiet. He tilted his head back and exhaled a long drag, watched the flurries fall from the blanket of gray clouds above. He followed them down as they landed in your hair before disintegrating into the strands. When you didn't take the cigarette from him, he held it up to your lips.
"Finished?"
"I wonder why…" you started, fingers unmoving in your lap, that same distant, longing look returning to your eyes, "it's so long until the next one."
(In times like these, he wished his quirk worked differently. He wished he could give you the command, "stop worrying," and it would work. Unfortunately, he has no such lasting effects. Just the though of putting you under made him sick. You have asked before, out of curiosity. Shinsou always declined.)
Communication had been steady, as had the quality of work you've completed together. Payments had been consistent in timing and amount. He told all of this to you in hopes of soothing your worry.
"We're safe." He said, as he stamped the cigarette out, ash tarnished the new snow. This is the safest place in the world for you to be. Held here, with him. The life you've built together is precious, and these new concerns of yours are putting it at risk. How could he make you understand this?
You chewed your lip, eyes shifting. Clearly, he needed to use more than words to help you comprehend this.
You fell quiet again, Shinsou could hardly feel you breathing.
"Do you think-"
Enough.
Before you could finish your thought, he kissed you on the mouth again, firmer this time. Your lips were soft and dry, a little chapped from the cold. He bumped his nose against yours, swiped the pad of his thumb across your frigid cheek. Tiny flakes of snow melted on his skin. You are his most beloved, he couldn't possibly be frustrated with you. You needed to be redirected.
"Yes," he whispered against your lips playfully, "about you." Shinsou pinched your side, which made you yelp. He stifled your protests with more kisses, sweet little ones all over your cheeks. His big hands back around your hips, he hoisted you even closer against him.
"I'm serious," you tried again, firming up your tone, "Hitoshi," You pulled back to look at him square in the eyes. Open and beseeching.
"I'm here." He stroked down the back of your head, fingers combing through the windswept locks. He kissed the corner of your mouth, "I'm here," he murmured again, face still very close to yours. He desperately needed to bring you out of your head and into the present with him.
"How long can we keep doing this? Your hands were clenched into tight fists. "When will it be us? How much longer before they decide to take us out?"
You needed to stop worrying yourself sick, so he kissed you deeper, cradled your jaw in one hand. His other arm encircled your waist, his hand on your ribcage. Even though your layers he felt your heart beating.
"We're in this together," said like a prayer into your skin.
He could feel you start to give in, to loosen. Though begrudgingly, your lips moved with his. He purred into your mouth and decided to push his luck. Shinsou tilted your face to lick into your mouth. His tongue swiped along the seam of your lips, pressed together to keep him out. You sputtered and jerked away to stutter out a few words he couldn't catch. He kissed along your jaw, stopping just below your ear.
"Right?" He goaded, rumbly and deep before kissing you open mouthed on the neck. Another cheap trick; you're sensitive here, and he was exploiting it.
Sharp points of his teeth dragged along your jugular. Your breath hitched in the adorable way he loves when he nipped at you. Unconcerned about the marks he would leave behind, he bit harder. Sucked at the skin.
You choked out his name. Hands balled into fist, you pressed against his chest half halfheartedly. His fingers encircled your wrists easily. "Yeah?" He licked a stripe up your neck, "tell me all about it." He felt your heartbeat quicken, felt it beat through your ribs and against his.
You swallowed, "you're not behind kind." You're so cute. Maybe all you needed was his undivided attention? He thought he gave you all he had, but if you're feeling extra needy then Shinsou would be happy to oblige. He could indulge you.
His chest swelled with something he could only describe as lovesickness. He wanted to sink his teeth in and never let go. Instead, he pulled away from your neck and pressed his forehead to yours, your noses bumping against each other softly.
"I'm sorry, I'll do better."
He kissed you again. Heat was growing between the two of you, warming you enough that you started to thaw. Your balled fists opened, your hands pressed flat against his chest. Slowly, you began to melt into him. Like a starved hound, he gnawed the marrow of your affections.
Shinsou then became very aware of every barrier, both physical and otherwise, currently coming between you. He fingered at your layers, leafing through your open coat, sweater, and shirt until he finally got to your bare skin. You gasped at the touch; his hands were freezing. He left trails of goosebumps on the soft skin of your stomach. You twitched and shivered, so cute. He didn't mean to be cruel, he just needed to feel you. He spread his hand wide, fingers cupping just under your bra.
"-Toshi," you pleaded into his mouth between sloppy kisses. Each time you tried to pull away to speak, he'd chase you; pull you back into him. "Toshi." You said again, squirming like a blind puppy. "Not out here," you slurred against his lips, slick with both of your saliva. He hummed and kissed across your jaw to lick at the mark he left on your neck, he could tell you were holding in a whine, "please?"
In one swift movement, Shinsou lifted you to your feet. He followed closely behind you through the window. In the dark, he fumbled to shut and lock the window. His hands were back on you, squeezing at the curve of your hips. He was not going to let you get away. Boots still on, he stepped towards you, crowded you into the wall. His footsteps were heavy in the dark and quiet of your apartment.
Your arms came up to wrap around his neck. The ends of his hair between your fingers. Pale moonlight reflected in the whites of your eyes; they were hazy, but, unreadable. (Shinsou has known you, all of the truest parts of you, for years now. To him, you were a well loved book he could recite forwards and backwards, with dog eared pages and rambling love letters in the margins. To look at you and not know what's happening behind your watery eyes, it was frightening.)
Helplessness tightened his chest, it became very hard to breath. You were pressed into the wall, caged in his arms. Nowhere for you to hide. He was getting lightheaded and desperate; he needed to get you somewhere familiar.
He closed the space between you to get his mouth on yours again. This time, you kissed him back fervently, your nails dug into the back of his neck. Rough and biting.
More. He needed more of you.
He tore through your layers; your jacket came off first. (A hand-me-down from your father, it draped over your frame, shielded you like armor.) It fell to the floor, metal snaps clicking on the kitchen tile. He pulled each layer underneath off to get closer to you.
Your hands scrambled to your back to unhook your bra. More. Now. Before you could get it off, he pulled your bra down so your tits spilled out. Hardened nipples met the cold air, your back arched. Shinsou dragged his thumb over one.
"Toshi," you squeaked. Poor thing, it must be so cold that it hurts.
"Let me." Shinsou dipped his head to lick your chest. He sucked one of your nipples into his mouth, to warm you up. His tongue flicked over the sensitive little bud. Above him, you sighed and gasped; precious little sounds that made him groan and bite down - just a bit.
His was already straining in his pants. The lightest brush of your hip against his bulge sent sparks down it spine. He kissed his away across to your other nipple, then traveled down, dragged his lips and tongue down your stomach. When you were just in your jeans he lifted you again. You yelped and clung to him; using his strength with you like this was always so fun.
In a few quick strides, he passed through the kitchen, through the doorway to your bedroom and deposited you on the bed. With your legs in the air, he hastily untied your boots and pulled them off. Then, he peeled your jeans down your legs, your skin cold to the touch. He tore away your panties and inhaled the heady, intoxicating scent of you.
Most nights, he indulged in the theatrics of kissing you through the thin fabric. Getting it all wet with his spit, sometimes making you cum with them still on. But that night, he was antsy. Eager for your body to be bare, touching as much of you as he could. Hastily, be pulled his own shirt off.
He crawled over you, casting you in his shadow. Gratification flickered in his chest, seeing you beneath him. Your frame completely eclipsed by his. Your cheeks were still pinched pink from the cold, eyes blown wide, mouth fallen open. You looked perfect.
With his middle and ring fingers, he slipped past your lips and teeth. He opened your jaw to see the pink wetness of your mouth. Your teeth, dwarfed by his knuckles. He was panting above you, and you squirming underneath.
If words were not enough, then he would kneel at the altar of you and show his devotion. He shouldered your legs apart, wide enough to fit his broad frame.
You were wet for him. For him.
Shinsou let drool pool in his mouth and spill out onto your cunt. The thin string connecting you to him.
You moaned at that, broken and high pitched.
"Hitoshi-" you said breathlessly. You tried to sit up for some inane reason. He braced a forearm over your hips and pushed you back down with enough force to make you bounce a little. His eyes must have been dark, scary, because yours widened. Your hand came up to cover your mouth - a habit of yours he often admonished you fore - and layed still for him.
Finally, finally, his mouth met your pussy. Wet with your arousal and his drool. He savored the feel of you, hot and sticky.
You were and continue to be the best thing he has ever tasted.
(During those same sleepless nights, when he'd roll over to look at you, serene and breathing evenly, his chest would ache. And the only thought that seemed to quell it would be eating you whole. Swallowing you down, making you a part of him. In those moments, though, he'd settle for burying his face into your neck and inhaling as much of you as he could. Waiting until a reasonable hour to slip under the covers and eat you out until you woke, fussy and needy for him.)
Your thighs trembled in his hold. Already so sensitive. Shinsou knows how to get you where he wants, how to stroke and kiss to coax you into familiar bliss. He sucked on your clit until your fingers were tearing at his hair; purple strands clutched in your tiny fists.
He practiced restraint and waited until you babbled, "-m more. More." Before he slid his middle finger inside of you. You were wound tight. You were dripping and squirming, but you had very little give. Slowly, he worked you open, careful not to hurt you.
When he'd normally give you two, you were full with just one. Your thighs clamped around his head and he moaned unhindered into you, muffled by you. With his free hand, he dug his fingers into the plushness of your thighs, squeezed you, nearly lifted your lower back off the bed.
Cries of his name spilled out of you, unbidden. In his grip, he could feel your muscles tightening. He looked up at you, watched the muscles of your torso convulse. Spasm and contract. "Go on," he slurred against you, he couldn't take his mouth off of you. "Let go for me, sugar. You can do it." You threw an arm over your face. Squeals and cries muffled into the crook of your elbow.
When you cum, you hide. When it feels too good, you run.
Above him, you squealed and whined. Bucked your hips and pulled at his hair from the over stimulation. Though your chest was heaving, he kept going. Tightened his grip on your thighs, digging his fingers in hard enough to bruise. He lapped at you, messy.
You put up a fuss, but he knew you could take it. It would be good for you, it would clear your head. You keened under him, your gasps turning into whimpers and half formed protests. You pushed at his shoulders, tried to pry his face away from you.
With one hand, he grabbed your wrists and pinned them to your abdomen. His other hand didn't let up. You were opening up for him, he slid his ring finger in with his middle. You gasped (so cute) and wriggled. Your walls, velvety and warm, clenched down on him. His fingers were coated in your slick, it ran down his chin.
He groaned into your cunt, breathless praises repeating until the words turn to mush in his brain. He could feel his own peak approaching fast. So was yours. Breaths were puffing out of you at an erratic rate, and your cunt squeezed his fingers in that familiar, lovely way.
You were sputtering out a string of, "I can't I can't I can't I can't." You were developing a habit of refusing him and denying yourself. Shinsou sucked on your clit until your dissents melted into wordless moans. Your back arched and your fingers clawed at the sheets. He wanted you to dig them into him, press little indents into his shoulders and scratch red streaks across his back. Let it all out on me, he thought.
You cried out his name so sweetly, and he came. How could he not? The coil deep in his belly snapped, and he spilled himself in his pants just as you came undone a second time. He fucked you through both of your orgasms, your hips bucking up into his mouth and fingers, and his humping the mattress.
You were limp as he made out with your cunt. You twitched feebly around him once more, mewling and panting.
—
The weight of your warm body on top of him was comforting and familiar, (ah, how he longs for it now,) your head tucked against his chest. Your breathing had evened out, you'd been still for a long time. But, he knew you were not asleep.
Shinsou knew that if he whispered your name into the night, you would feign unconsciousness. Despite your bare skin was against his, you were somewhere else. He tightened his arms around you, you did not stir.
Dawn's light was breaking through the city's fog and leaking in through the window. In that room, on that fragile morning, he believed he could fix this.
He wouldn't let you run.
The four days were as blissful as he hoped they'd be. If you'd noticed that Shinsou had been more coddling than usual, you didn't comment on it.
The first morning, he rose early. He'd slept soundly, the weight of your bare body on him comforting. He brought you coffee in bed, then got back under the sheets with you. Rain drops tapped against the windows, the bedroom had a soft gray, ethereal glow.
Later in the afternoon, familiar guitar riffs played from your cd player as chopped vegetables and prepped dinner. He cooked for you while you read on the couch. It was a worn paperback you've never been able to finish.
Shinsou didn't realize how much he needed this, too. And, your mood was definitely taking a turn for the better. Since that night out on the fire escape, (the night of your outburst, he'd dubbed it internally,) you'd been tense and restless. After a few nights off, your muscles were finally starting to give. You were laughing again. Smiling, looking him in the eyes, seeking his touch. Shinsou was proud to have massaged it out of you; literally and figuratively.
On the fourth night, he took you out to the movies. Some late night showing of an action flick; it was part of a franchise neither of you had seen. The dialogue was unrealistically gritty, the violence gratuitous, and the characters boring. It was just the pair of you sat in the middle of the theater. He bought you a soda and a popcorn. With his arm around you, he couldn't believe how lucky he was.
—
On the bus ride home, you rested your head on his shoulder as the bus bumped and swayed with the road.
His plans for this evening were to run a bath. The tub in your shared bathroom is small - only half of his body ends up under the water - and the porcelain is chipped, but Shinsou cannot think of a more relaxing way to end the night. Hot water, lavender soap, you against his chest.
He helped you inside, was about to help you out of your jacket too, when his cell phone rang. He didn't even get the chance to turn on the light.
You stood in front of him, he saw your enter spine straighten, the muscles in your neck tighten. Without a word, you both knew what it was. The new assignment, right on schedule.
Quick as an ermine, you turned and slipped your hand into his jacket pocket and took his phone. He said your name, grabbed for your waist but you slipped away, around the kitchen table. His arms fell limp at his sides. The shape of you catching the low light that shafted through the window.
You answered the call. Hand unshaking as you held the phone to your ear.
"Giran." Your voice was grave.
You've spoken to him before, but, he admits he'd grown over protective over the last week. More so than before. He wanted to handle everything, keep you sheltered from it until this mood had completely passed. You're still in a very delicate headspace.
Shinsou could hear Giran's voice from where he stood. He could not make out exact words, but he didn't need to. He could tell by the crooning, low tones that he was sweet talking you. Flirting.
"Why has it been so long?" You did not entertain him.
Shinsou knew you would not say anything directly to your employer about leaving; it would be far too dangerous. Your gaze burned holes into the dented wood of the table. Your brow was furrowed, mouth set in a tight, pessimistic line. The hopefulness he carefully built over the last four days, his tentative relief, shattered. This had been simmering underneath the surface all this time.
The red numbers above the stove ticked on. Giran talked and Shinsou stared at you, despair growing heavier and heavier.
You made a short noise of agreement, then snapped his phone shut. It clattered on the table; a terrible sharp noise.
"This next one is big, he said. A deal's gone bad." You said flatly. Both of you stood motionless, unblinking. "Damage control." You added distantly.
The surface made sense. This job is bigger than usual, meaning a bigger payout, meaning more trust was being given to the pair of you. This is a good thing, why couldn't you see that?
"When?" His voice was threatening to give out on him.
"Tomorrow." You took in a breath, lifted your eyes to look at him, "where did you put my cigarettes?"
"Sugar…" He said, heavy and thick. He took a step towards you, around the table. You scurried around the other side, away from him. He said your name, firmer. He pushed one chair against the wall, cutting off an exit and blocking you into a corner. He's much taller than you, he crossed to you quickly before you could slip away from his reach.
"Hitoshi, I just want my cigarettes-" you hissed, "I just want to be alone."
Though you wriggled and elbowed at him, it was easy to pull you to his chest. You swiped at him, tried to bite with your kitten teeth. If he could hold you tight enough, maybe that would fix everything.
He scooped you up, you writhed and hissed like the street cats when you got too close, and walked further into the living room. The half moon shafted through the blinds and lighted the way to the couch. As gently as he could, he wrestled you down. He sat propped against the arm with you laid between his legs. You cursed and spat, demands for your pack of cigarettes devolved into whines and grunts, which then became soft weeping. He held you tight, an arm around your middle, your arms pinned there, his other across your chest.
Sooner than he expected, you surrendered against him and fell into an unmoving sleep. You wore yourself out, poor thing. Lines of your tears trailed down your cheeks, down to his arm where they dried in salty patches. He licked them off your skin, your dreaming eyelashes brushed against his cheeks.
While you slept, Shinsou was adrift. How could he fix this? Leaving town and abandoning your shared duties was not an option. Sooner than later, Giran would send his other associates on your trail. He could continue the work on his own and shield you with ignorance? No, you're far too smart, you would sniff him out. You wanted to be rid of this, that's what you had said. How can he secure your safety and your happiness?
For hours, he paddled aimlessly through these thoughts.
Dawn broke on the other side of the window, the street cats would be making the rounds soon. In his hold, you twitched awake.
You tilted your face up to his. He stroked your cheek tenderly. Your face was cold as a corpse's, your lips pale and chapped. Though you had slept deeply, your eyes were clear and unclouded - it was a little unnerving.
You spoke softly; the two of you should get to the site - the warehouse - before the targets. Scope out the location. He should go ahead you, you explained, and get inside the warehouse and high above. He needed to leave a vent askew so you could get in after him. You would keep watch outside, and sneak in once their vans pulled up. He'd make his next move on your signal.
You layed out the entire plan. "Okay?" You whispered against his lips. You brought your own hand to his face, stroked his cheek softly with your thumb. He leaned into your touch, kissed your pulse point.
Shinsou has turned these memories over and over again in his hands, like seaglass they are smooth around the edges. Some are in vivid, opaque color. Others are in soft greens and grays, almost see through. He cannot remember if you said, "we're in this together," or if this is a piece he crafted himself to fit into the cracks of his stained glass vignette.
But, he does remember that he nodded and whispered his agreement against your lips. You kissed him then - how could he forget? - he was tethered to you, and you pulled him ashore.
—
The next night came. Of course it would, Shinsou could not force time to hold still, to keep the air of your apartment stagnant and unmoving so he could hold you forever. The job had to be done, you had to stand up, he had to let go of you. (One of his many mistakes)
Over the phone last night, Giran had given you the details. Five targets. Four of them were essentially quirkless. The leader - who was sitting on a truck bed, sipping a beer - could produce vibrations from his hands. You both agreed to take him out first.
Shinsou crouched in the shadows, high above on the beams. The tall one was talking, "-that's what we don't want, right? We don't want them catching wind, so don't take too much. Got it?"
Gravelly, mid pitched. Persona Chord clicked as the dial turned. Calibrating to match his voice. From above, he watched you skirt around the crates. You looked up, searching for him. He saw your eyes dart from corner to corner before landing on him.
If he wished, Shinsou could recall the entire altercation in brutal detail. But, what good would that do him? The only thing that really matters to him in the end, is how it ended. That is the story laid out by his stained glass, each fragment fitting together to create this last scene between you and him.
This is the moment that haunts him, the moment you left. His raison d'etre.
Though months have passed, Shinsou only has to turn his head and and he is back, in that warehouse, is if he never left.
Your gaze was hardened like hammered steel. Moonlight shafted in through the broken windows, casting your face in an eerie glow. The grip of your revolver held tight in both hands, the barrel pointed right at him.
At him.
Quickly, he counted. All five bodies were limp and lifeless on the concrete. He snapped his neck to look behind him, saw nothing of note and no one else.
His gaze returned to yours. Even from that distance, he saw that same unclouded look from not even ten hours ago in your eyes.
Persona Chord still affixed, he called out to you. His voice rang out in the silence. Shinsou's hands raised, as if to soothe a startled animal. If he had glanced down at them, he would have seen that they were shaking.
Yours were not.
Without blinking, you cocked the hammer. The click echoed in the wide, empty room. For an excruciatingly long, horribly tense moment, you stared at each other.
From across the cavernous room, you looked so small. Deep in his chest, the irrepressible impulse to protect you curled and spasmed. His blood rushed, the chain of fate pulled taught between you.
Again, he called your name. He tried to stay collected, to be your pillar, but his voice was fraying. Sudden movements would startle you, he couldn't remove Persona Chord.
Your eyes flitted away, just above him for a breath of a second. The barrel of your revolver raised, and in the same moment, you shot.
By instinct, he ducked. His arms came up and covered his head. The sound rattled in his skull. It was followed by an indistinct series of clatters and bangs. Then came the smell, nostalgic and unmistakable. Gasoline.
The smell was so strong it overpowered the overwhelming iron of the blood.
His ears rang - it felt like his jaw was vibrating. His vision was mottled, he blinked frantically. He pulled himself up to his full height just in time to watch your lighter fall from your fingers and onto the floor. The chasm of concrete between you ignited, as did the bodies that lay lifeless, draining blood and covered in gasoline. The smell was nauseatingly strong. Iron, gun powder, gasoline, and then burning flesh.
Flames arose quickly between you.
He hollered for you, strained his throat over the growing crackling of the fire that was threatening to consume the entirety of the warehouse. His throat burned as if flames burned inside himself as well. The smoke was rising fast, clogging his throat and burning his eyes.
You stood, painted with red flames that licked higher and higher. You were panting, your shoulders heaved and your cheeks were dewy and glowing. You looked more alive than you had in months. To Shinsou's horror, you were smiling.
It was small, radiant thing. Wild and heartbreaking. Shinsou nearly fell to his knees.
He blinked, and you were gone.
