nicolás serrano

[poiscns]

( benjamin wadsworth / cis male / he/him ) — NICOLÁS SERRANO has been living in Port Leiry for THEIR WHOLE LIFE. They currently work as a EMPLOYEE OF THE AVIARY GUN STORE AND RANGE, and are TWENTY-SIX years old. No one is sure if they’re actually a HUNTER or if they’re connected to BROTHERHOOD. They tend to be quite VOLATILE and RECKLESS, but can also be DAUNTLESS and RESILIENT.—

( tw: death, murder, gun mention, violence, general psychopathy )

TL;DR - chaotic evil hunter that bows to no one but the brotherhood; would rather die than monster-fuck, a walking molotov cocktail of a person, clown blood only, 3oh3!soundtrack follows them everywhere. Think of them as the team spirit for the brotherhood. can’t talk, but can sign and communicate telepathically through the witch charm he has. good luck!  

about under the cut I penned by rey

ORIGINS: 

name: nicolás serrano

age: twenty-six

alignment: chaotic evil, there is no two ways about this 

species: hunter 

hometown: port leiry

sexuality: bisexual

affiliation: the brotherhood till he dies, and fam, that might be pretty soon with the way this man lives his life 

creative touchpoints: jason todd, harley quinn, tom sawyer, peter pan, and if i said ODYSSEYUS CIRCA THE ILIAD THEN WHAT, cerberus the guardian of hell 

occupation: employee of the aviary gun store 

family members of note: if you’re brotherhood then you’re a bro. everyone else can choke! 

BACKSTORY:

PSYCHOPATHY IN SEVEN SYMPTOMS - THE SERRANO FILE

1 ▸ GRANDIOISE NARRATIVE DISORDER

(aka “Of course the thunderstorm was my birth announcement, duh.”)

Tell Nico the universe doesn’t revolve around him and he’ll grin, lean back, and start rotating the room. Since diapers he’s treated reality like a choose-your-own-demolition comic: panel one, lightning hits the crib; panel two, baby Nico coos “try harder.” So when the Brotherhood’s door-kickers found a one-year-old booby-trapping his playroom, he didn’t feel “rescued.” He felt summoned.

Snatched from the wreckage by Brotherhood hunters, his parents ghosted out by something with claws and monster eyes. The vacancy that swap carved in his chest still crackles—an ember he can’t shake loose. His creed: “Main-character energy or spontaneous combustion, whichever comes first.”

2 ▸ ZERO AFFECT MIRROR

(raised by a crowd, reflected by none)

No mom, no dad, just a rotating cast of grizzled mentors whose parenting style was 30% ballistics and 70% black coffee. Nico studied them like reruns, then bootlegged their best lines. Sympathy? Smile like Sergeant Mule-Kick. Sarcasm? Steal Captain Side-Eye’s eyebrow quirk. Tears? Never tested; the Brotherhood doesn’t do wet work that way.

Internally he’s radio silent; externally he’s a jukebox of borrowed emotions. One minute heart-wrenching sincerity, next minute dead-eyed apathy—needle scratch, new track. Brotherhood recruits say, “Wow, Nico really gets me.” Nico signs back, “Totally (who are you again?).” Emotional authenticity is for civilians and fruit salad; he prefers steel and stage lighting.

3 ▸ IMPULSE WORSHIP

(boy meets love, boy drop-kicks the brakes)

Somewhere between improvised rocket sleds and rooftop molotov cocktails, Nico tasted the high-proof cocktail called love. It wasn’t gentle or gradual; it detonated—red smoke and ringing ears—stamping a shape into his ribcage he’s never managed to sand down. He main-lined the sensation the way other people breathe. Stole city skylines for moonlit rendezvous, tagged rooftops with neon hearts, fired bottle rockets that spelled their initials because Romeo never thought big enough.

When the lover ran—grief, terror, plain survival instinct—Nico’s pulse red-lined. Rejection translated directly to MORE GAS. He doubled the stunts, tripled the risk, and torched every street that still smelled like their cologne. Lesson branded into bone: affection is a collision you schedule yourself. Ever since, raw impulse is his holy scripture; hesitation is blasphemy. If the angel on his shoulder whispers “maybe slow down,” Nico tears off its wings and repurposes them.

4 ▸ SENSORY REDLINING

(one witch, one tongue, zero speed limits)

Fifteen. He leapt a salt ring, got tongue-napped by an elegant sociopathic witch with excellent manicure game. Poof—his tongue gone. Shock lasted half a beat; then colors spiked, sounds weaponized, skin turned into an over-amped car alarm. Most folks would faint. Nico got better.

Wordless, he invented Serrano-sign—half gang tag, half interpretive stab dance—and snagged a sketchy mind-voice pendant that crackles like broken radio. When it glitches, he carves sentences into drywall, or forearms, whichever’s closer. Losing speech didn’t hush him; it uncuffed him. Now every thought arrives raw and jagged straight into your cortex: “Hi, welcome to my TED Talk on Screaming.”

5 ▸ MORAL COLORBLINDNESS

(Brotherhood = technicolor, everything else = grayscale targets)

Morality for Nico is a one-bit graphic: Brotherhood pixels glow neon; the rest could be static for all he cares. He’ll rescue a rookie he hates because family, then leave an entire apartment block to burn because not family. Ask him about collateral damage and he tilts his head like you just questioned gravity.

He does love—fiercely, protectively, violently—but only inside that ring of neon. The supernatural stole his parents; the Brotherhood filled the vacancy. Anyone threatening that math is pre-approved for liquidation. Ammo’s expensive; your life is cheaper.

6 ▸ STRATEGIC SADISM

(classes now in session—dissection tools provided)

Nico doesn’t hunt; he hosts field trips. Newly minted hunters join for “extended learning,” which translates to: busting through windows, zip-tying nightmares for close-up study, pop-quizzing rookies while the monster is still twitching.

Educational highlights include:

“Map That Artery” — label spurting veins before they stop.

“Fear Is Just Data” — Nico fires live rounds near trainees’ ears; if they flinch, next quiz is closer.

“Group Project” — everyone gets a scalpel and a stopwatch; teamwork grades curve toward brutality.

The cruelty is calibrated; the syllabus written in blood because red ink fades too quickly. Command sanctions the curriculum—casualty rates plummet among hunters, spike among monsters. Everyone passes or bleeds trying.

7 ▸ CHARM OFFENSIVE

(team mascot, chaos DJ, walking liability)

You’d think constant mayhem would sour morale. Nope. Nico is the Brotherhood’s living meme—part hype-man, part demolition derby clown. He zip-lines into meetings wielding glitter bombs. He programs the gun range coffeemaker to play “3OH!3” and dispense espresso spiked with holy water.

Even the brass chuckle (nervously) because recruitment numbers spike every time he uploads a hunt highlight reel: Nico riding a ghoul like a surfboard, flipping the devil horns, hearts doodled on screen. The Brotherhood's HR ulcer would throb, but they don't have an HR department.

EPILOGUE ▸ BANG, GIGGLE, RELOAD

Nicolás Serrano is TNT packed in a clown car: multicolored, music blaring, fuse already lit. He lives three inches ahead of the present tense, convinced God gave him nine lives and a coupon for ten more. Psychologists might slap diagnostic stickers across his file; Nico would peel them off to make confetti.

He’s chaos with loyalty, violence with a punch-line, a machete wrapped in gift paper. The Brotherhood keeps him around because victory tastes better dipped in wildfire—and because some monsters need to be out-crazy’d before they die.

WANTED CONNECTIONS

TBD, but I'll tell you this, no monsterfucking for this one. give me situationships of hunter or human nature. give me brotherhood. give me people who hate him and people he hates. give me chaos.

[poiscns]

who: @ireneclermont

where: the conclave gala

There—across the chandelier jungle—Nico clocks the last thing he ever expected: Shiv. Here. With… a raccoon?

The lights smear for half a heartbeat while his Hunter sigils buzz like broken phone-vibrate. He sweeps the crowd again, locks onto Irene’s silhouette—thank every pantheon—and makes his way to her. His pendant spits out its crisp syllables.

“Irene, Irene—pretty sure Shiv just respawned,” the pendant mutters under clinking glassware. “Now confirm I’m not tripping: tell me that trash-panda on her shoulder is real. If it’s a hallucination, these drugs just hit a lot faster than I thought they would."

He never loses sight of Shiv, raccoon tail flicking like a metronome from hell. If the critter’s legit, the night’s upgraded from weird to bat-guano bizarre. If not? Nico’s about two minutes from a stretcher ride to medical before anyone even serves dessert.

[poiscns]

who: @sammykeels

where: the conclave gala

Nico careens up to Sammy like a rogue shopping cart, half-empty tequila glass sloshing in one hand, wildfire grin in the other. “Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” he crows out of his necklace, dumping a shot of something neon straight into the rookie’s palm before the kid can recite another line from the Brotherhood handbook. “Rule one of fieldwork: never let your mentor drink alone—slam it.”

His Hunter sigils rattle a war-drum under his cuffs—thump-thump-thump like a rave no one else can hear—while he clocks Sammy’s plus-one, who’s conveniently slipped away to “find the restroom.” Yeah, right. Tall, chill, civilian-clean aura: haircut straight out of a daytime-TV ad for toothpaste, face-card so wholesome it probably files its own taxes. Suspiciously normal. 

Nico’s eyes narrow to slits of tequila-sharp suspicion. He hooks an arm around Sammy’s shoulders, pivots him a quick 180°, and steers him toward the shadows behind the champagne tower—far from prying vampire ears. The shot glass in Nico’s free hand taps Sammy’s knuckles like a tiny, urgent Morse code: drink, rookie, drink.

“So,” he signs. “Who’s your boy-toy? Tinder date? CIA plant? Because if Mr. Crest-Smile isn’t packing at least salt rounds and a stake, we’ve got ourselves a liability, and that doesn’t end well for anyone.”

[poiscns]

who: @aviofruin

where: the conclave gala

Nico’s had hangovers gentler than the current present tense. The moment he stumbles through the Conclave doors his Hunter tattoos flip from “vague tingle” to “full-body phone-on-vibrate”—picture a swarm of caffeinated hornets trapped under his suit. The solution? Blast them with tequila until their little metaphysical wings give out. Shot one, two, five—who’s counting? (Not Nico. Numbers are a scam invented by sober people.)

Somewhere between a half-assed waltz and a banshee shriek from the strings, inspiration drop-kicks him in the brain: This gala needs subwoofers, not sonatas. A place this ritzy definitely hides a DJ rig the way vampires hide exes—behind a velvet rope, praying no one looks too hard.

He pinballs off ancient vampires and glamour infused witches, following electrical cords like Hansel with zero bread-crumb budget. Then—plot twist—he spots Cute Guy: dark curls, mischief aura set to max, standing next to a sound system labelled DO NOT TOUCH. (Challenge accepted, universe.)

Nico skids in, grinning tequila fumes. “Hey! Are you trying to hijack the music too? What were you planning on playing? Let’s say it at the same time—one, two, three—Pitbull’s ‘Fireball.’”

[leonekennedy]

Who: Open Where: The Conclave

Port Leiry is one of those places that seems to change every time she leaves, yet remains entirely the same in many ways. On the surface, details morph and faces shift, but the horror that lies underneath is ever present. It's partially why Leone established the city as her home. When she heard about the Conclave being held here, she considered it a lucky coincidence. Her fingers drum along the marble-carved bar as she flags down one of the compelled servers. "An old-fashioned if you please, don't skimp on the bourbon." She smooths a hand down the human's face and pats it gently. "Drop a little of your own blood in there before you bring it back. From your wrist is fine." As she watches the server walk away to fetch her drink, she meets the eye of the person next to her. "Oh, don't give me that look. They regenerate the stuff."

[poiscns]

“No. No-no-no—are you kidding me!?” Nico’s protest bursts from his throat before he can cork it, echoing off the mirrored liquor wall. Heat prickles beneath the starched collar of the bow-tie Aurelia insisted he wear, now feeling like a noose. Aurelia’s wife—THE Leone—has swaggered into the Gala and is doctoring drinks with hemoglobin like it’s happy hour at a transfusion clinic. Fuck that!!

He plants both elbows on the marble bar, heartbeat thudding in his ears louder than the jazz trio sawing away behind him. “Hey, Countess Hemoglobin,” he blurts through his necklace, half-laughing, half-panicking, voice just shy of a growl. “Bourbon’s supposed to taste like oak, not O-negative.” The bartender’s pulse flutters against gauzy sleeves, and Nico’s fingers tap out a frantic rhythm, calculating the cost of blood-loss lawsuits.

“Why are you really here, Leone?” He says, accusatory. “Scouting ingredients or yanking Aurelia back to your crypt?” His stomach knots at the thought; if Aurelia leaves, the Brotherhood’s spine goes with her—and Nico knows exactly how fragile the rest of them are without that steel.

[poiscns]

THE CONCLAVE & SUPERNATURAL GALA

Nico calls this the Seventh Circle of “Behave Yourself”: a ballroom stuffed with supernaturals he’s technically not allowed to drop-kick. Hunters are on the Conclave watch-list, and Aurelia’s last text read, Play nice or play corpse, your choice. So—fine. He’s playing nice.

Damage control comes in the form of Vira, his smoking-hot friends-with-benefits who accepted his plus-one invite purely to weaponize that dress. (Ask him how good she looks; he’ll tell you before you finish the question.) Nico’s tux is rental chic—because either he forgot a bow tie or he knew Aurelia would pack a spare just to keep him presentable.

Find him at the bar pounding tequila to muffle the hunter-sigil buzz under his skin and also the fact that Aurelia's wife is back in town (?!?!) Five minutes later he’ll be behind the sound booth trying to replace the string quartet with deep-bass remixes (Pitbull Let's GO), and if a priceless art piece happens to vanish from the wall? Total coincidence. He swears.

@fina1kill

[sammykeels]

When: Saturday, May 31st, 8:30pm-12:00pm, Free Time. Minecraft?  Where: Somewhere shady.  Who: @poiscns

In Sammy’s extended little puzzle metaphor for his life, Nico was... not really a piece. Not in the usual way, at least. Most people were a single piece, part of a big patch of the same color all in the middle. Without getting closer, acquaintances got interchangeable. closer examination.

Nico was more like a pair of craps dice onto the table someone had slapped onto the table, insisting that they were a part of the puzzle. No matter how much he tried to nicely hand them back, he’d always find they’d been set out in a different empty space, as if they belonged there.

Sammy had only been working with the Brotherhood for 3 months, and somehow, in that time, Nico had figured out the trick to making him walk right into stupid situations: Call him in his parentally-mandated free time (living at home rent-free meant living by his step-mom’s rules, and she paid a lot closer attention to the idea of some so-called burnout he might get from working all the time), and say that he had something fun for him to do outside of his house.

It was pretty clear they had different definitions of fun, but... well, Nico had been in the Brotherhood a lot longer than him, and when it came down to it, he knew a lot more about basically everything supernatural than him. Whether or not he had a tendency to push a lit molotov into his hands was kind of overshadowed by the fact that this beat running around bored in some single-player game any day.

It was kind of fun, going out and knowing he was probably going to make a bad decision and have to think on his feet before the clock hit midnight and his watch alarm would tell him to head on home.

This night in particular, he spent about ten minutes building some ugly-looking dirt house before he got the call: Nico wanted to meet up somewhere, implied that it might be hunter business, and said to be quick. That was enough for him to pull on his jacket, give the obligatory “I’m going to my friend’s place” excuse, and grab his skateboard.

The spot was solidly in hunter territory, which was a nice change from the last two times Nico had him meeting him somewhere distinctly more wolfy, and that freaked him out. It was already dark out, but he knew the city well enough to get to the meeting spot quickly, calling Nico when he arrived.

Right to voicemail. Rude, but whatever. “Hey, man, I’m at the spot, where are you?”

[poiscns]

Real talk: the kid’s been orbiting the Brotherhood for—what, three months? four? time is fake—yet Nico still can’t lock down his name. Starts with an S, he’s pretty sure. Silas? Simon? Sammy? (Sodium? No, stop.) He sticks to “kid” and waits for someone else to spill. Nobody does. Universe cruel, film at eleven.

Kid’s growing on him, though—like ringworm, like that ivy that cracks foundations, like guilt after tequila. Still believes the Brotherhood is epic-level cool. Still quotes the training vids—“Observe, Orient, Decide, Act!” Barf. Still thinks acronyms are magic words. Bless his unbroken spirit.

Nico crouches on the roof, phone buzzing like a housefly in his pocket. He lets it rot in voicemail purgatory. Down below, the kid rolls up on a skateboard made of splinters and optimism, grinning like this is a coffee date, not a probable obituary. Right on schedule. Good kid. Terrible instincts. Better than no instincts? Jury’s out.

Pebble time. Nico flicks one; physics betrays him; it whiffs. Whatever—object lesson in situational awareness.

“Up here, baby bird,” he rasp-laughs through his necklace. “Bring your Scooby-Doo ass topside.”

While—Sammy? Szechuan?—scrambles up the fire escape like a caffeinated ferret, Nico rummages in his canvas satchel (contents: chaos). Out comes a half-folded map tattooed with coffee rings, suspicious rust-brown splotches, and a red Sharpie halo screaming Possibly haunted. Definitely illegal. He slaps it into the kid’s hands, already regretting adult supervision.

“Ground rules,” he barks. “Touch nothing unless you want to be possessed, cursed, or haunted by mild inconveniences forever—lost socks, Wi-Fi drops at 99%, that vibe. And if you die, I’m not filling out forms. The Brotherhood loves paperwork; I don’t.”

He taps the circled block. “There’s a crypt under this street—sealed since the ’80s, like New Coke but with ghosts. Something’s siphoning juice through the storm drains, and I wanna know why before it eats the power grid or, I dunno, summons Elvis.”

He lets that marinate.

“Oh—and I lost a bet with Aurelia. Owe her one (1) cursed relic. So we’re killing two birds with one stone here." He eyeballs the kid. “You bring salt? Flashlight? Spare socks? Snack?” Blank stare. Christ on rollerblades. “Cool, you’re raw-dogging the unknown. Iconic.”

Clap on the shoulder—friendly, maybe concussive. “C’mon, intern. Let’s go share a tetanus shot.” Nico vaults down the next ladder, humming off-key, brain already sprinting five steps ahead.

[gabrielismss]

         gabriel’s hands can feel nico pressed under them, but the rest of his body- his heart doesn’t receive the same message. it still pounds, coarse with adrenaline like he’s still chasing after him. regular beating, but so fast he can hardly see straight, let alone think. every time it had jumped at the flash of a phone screen, for two years, when nico would do the things they’d do together, without gabriel by his side. he’d never stopped him, he didn’t want to. but he was there just in case, to level him, to fix what he’d broken, when often that thing was himself. nothing else mattered, it was always just nico. he wasn’t going to tell him he was too reckless, gabriel wasn’t going to tell nico anything. words couldn’t do what needed to be done, what needed to be mended, justice. he’s tired of talking. now, gabriel has him. he has him, he has him, he has him. it takes a few purposeful breaths for him to calm down and realize that, accept it fully.

         when his pulse slows, steadies, gabriel listens. still caught in a hurricane, with neither of them safe, he ignores the poking and prodding of nico. he doesn’t respond to the innuendo, either of them. there’s no stiffening, no crawl of heat up his chest and neck that might usually stir. the head from the initial chase, the rush, had faded, and now that he wasn’t pressed into nico anymore, gabriel didn’t have his body heat to borrow, either. he’s cold, one strong will away from shivering. nico can do whatever he wants to, say whatever he wants to once they’re inside somewhere. it’s not for gabe’s sake that he’s worried, it’s for nico. that gabriel might get distracted, and he’ll slip away again, somewhere where he can’t follow.

         he ignores the grin. but the rest, he listens to, it carves into that stupid heart of his, that can’t understand when to turn off and on. his ribs, too, just underneath the tattoo that burns. it’s guilt, but not just that. and nothing- nothing about this is about gabriel. it can’t be, he won’t let it. he doesn’t want it to feel better, any of it. he wants it to burn, and to hurt, so it evens the score of what he’s done to nico. and it does hurt, it does burn, might’ve embedded into the furrow of his brow more if he hadn’t been trying to get them both away from here. something familiar and boyish stirs up at nico’s claim of dramatics. if gabriel’s the dramatic one, than who’s still fucking talking? he wouldn’t have had to chase him, knock him down if he'd just listened. it’s not dramatic, nicolás set the tone and gabriel followed. 

         that same panic grips him again. two years of not knowing if nico was okay, if gabriel had made the right choice, had done the right thing. (he hadn’t. now, he knows that. he knows he hadn’t.) it kicks up like a sharp dust, jagged glass shards, his chest tightens out of the fear that nico’s going to fight him again and gabriel would- when he agrees. he agrees.

         then, finally, he says something, lets nico drag him up.  “ yeah, alright. ”  it’s not that he doesn’t believe it. he does, wholeheartedly. it’s a problem for later. he has him, he has him, he has him, and now they have to go. gabriel clasps a hand around nico’s shoulder, both as a means to steer him and something solid to hold onto, something he knows. the hand, rotten, used to a dead thing, curls up the back of nico’s neck, and moving up still, checking the back of nico’s head for any damage that gabriel might’ve done in dragging him to the ground, slamming him there. he means to ask him if he’s good, if he’s okay, but gabriel knows he’s not, he knows it’s only going to flare something up inside of nico that his friend doesn’t deserve. so gabriel doesn’t ask, his hand goes back to the safe place of his shoulder.

         gabriel pushes the wet hair out of his eyes, squinting through the rain, their surroundings different than when they’d first started this. immediate safety is better than a perfect solution, for now, some place to wait out the storm. he doesn’t want to go to the wash tub, not now. sweetwater burns a sour fire in the pit of his stomach. the house is too far away but he knows where the spare key is. he’d told nico he could choose, but he hadn’t yet, and the admission could mean anything from nico didn’t want to, to that he just hadn’t decided yet. the question dies in his throat, something else crawls out in its place.  “ start heading towards the house, and if we find a better option with a basement, we stop there? ”  he doesn’t know why or when privacy, just the two of them, had become more important than the storm, but it’s insistent, and gabriel can’t let it go.

[poiscns]

Nico’s adrenaline doesn’t just hum; it shreds through him, a filament burning too hot. He wants to reach out, knock some spark back into Gabe’s gaze, but the moment feels hair-trigger delicate—one wrong word and the whole night detonates. Thunder rolls, close enough to lift the hairs on Nico’s arms. That’s when the memory hits: Gabe laughing two years ago, smoke from a rooftop barbecue curling around him like laurels. Nico stacks that image between Gabe and the storm, a thin but stubborn shield. He refuses to imagine a version of the night where that shield fails. Not tonight, not with thunder listening. Jesus tap-dancing Christ, are they doing this? Yeah—apparently the universe double-dared them and Nico’s dumb enough to salute back.

Air roars through an alley nearby like a freight train disguised as wind, rattling loose a shiver of water from the fire escape above. Droplets drum his shoulders, regimented parade taps counting down the seconds he has to keep the night from swallowing Gabe whole. A sodium lamp stutters overhead, painting them in bruised ochre; for a heartbeat they look like saints cut from rusted tin. The storm’s electric tang singes Nico’s lungs—wet asphalt, copper wiring, the faint ache of ozone—and underneath it all the familiar scent of Gabe’s soap, sharp and clean as first light after blackout.

Cool. Sure. Time to bounce.

Nico sets the pace—not a sprint now, but that ground-eating stalk he learned on rooftops: loose knees, weight forward, read the angles. Gabriel stays welded to his shoulder, palm a warm brand that says I’ve got you even when the fingers twitch like they want to shake him until teeth rattle. Rain needles their jackets, thunder crowds every alley, but Nico’s running a different storm inside his chest and he’s not about to let Gabe hear it over the weather.

The cadence is half dance, half evasion drill. He steers Gabe through puddles that mirror neon signage, lets each slash of lightning map fresh shadows to avoid. A bus roars past, sluicing filth across their boots; Nico takes the brunt, shoulder curved like a breakwater, keeps moving.

He cuts left off Main, dodges a flood-slick gutter, and thumbs the side door of the Aviary. Nico palms the keypad; the code’s still 80085 because he changed it and he thinks he’s hilarious. Beep-beep-chunk. Door yawns open, store smell rushing out: gun oil, cedar chips, metal on metal on metal.

The Aviary sleeps like an iron dragon, rows of rifle-feathers folded tight. Every shelf holds survival stashed between receipts and regrets: spare shirts in ammo crates, protein bars behind solvent tins, a tin kettle perched on the space heater for nights the city felt colder than war.

He jerks his chin. “Home sweet murder-shop. Move.”

Gabe hesitates half a breath—old habits, checking sightlines, always the soldier—but follows. Nico shoulders the door shut, dogs the bolt. Outside, sirens smear through the rain like someone dragging chalk through water. He catches Gabe’s eye, signs quick: "Storm’s just starting. Down." Then aloud, lets the necklace chew his words into tinny speech so Gabe can pretend it’s a normal conversation. “Basement’s dry, and the wifi’s better than the apartment. Don’t ask.”

A flicker of guilt worms through him—sanctuary by way of armory—but it’s the only square on the board he can guarantee.

They slip past racks of rifles and tactical plushies—Nico’s idea, they sell surprisingly well. Down the metal stairs, clanging echoes, pulse pacing them. The basement lights hum to life: concrete, weapon crates, a workbench tattooed with solder scars, and in the back corner a couch that has seen more post-mission crashes than Nico will ever admit. A single camping lantern glows there, hooked from the ceiling.

The dim ring of light feels ecclesiastical, gunpowder in place of incense. Shadows gather like parishioners; Nico counts them automatically, mapping breach angles even while his shoulders finally drop an inch.

“Welcome to the nest,” he says, sweeping an ironic bow that nearly tips him over because everything still spins. Rain drums the vent like a snare roll. He flicks water from his hair, tugging the soaked jacket off, tossing it onto a crate marked .45 ACP—empty, relax. Steam halos off his skin; somewhere above, a drainpipe coughs water like the city clearing its throat. His shirt clings, black cotton plastered to muscle and all those dumb, desperate tattoos that say don’t die, die louder, G+N 4-evR scratched under a sigil only Gabe recognizes.

“Not exactly luxury but—” He plops down, boots thunking. “Better than the gutter you tackled me into.”

[fina1kill-deactivated20251023]

   it didn't take much for vira to realize how self-centered he was; how he likes to be in control with everything & almost everyone. her quick study at least, as she listened intently on what he had to say. most of the time she didn't need to say anything, as most clients liked to spill all; in both an annoying way and a 'fun' way. noting the way his hands gripped and pulled her in, a small groan left her as she did in fact; liked to be thrown around a bit. "you promise?" she teased breathlessly, as she tilted her head to examine the ink on his body.

slowly trailing her hands along his chest, she eyed him once before her top was off; as if to match his pace. while vira never hid anything, she also had no shame either. while few tattoos were similar to her own, a lot were very....unique. she had heard about the brotherhood and how their 'training' went; the marks they got and how it benefited them. but never once has she gotten lucky to see them so intimately as of right now.

"cuffs huh? it's too bad we don't have a pair for right now~" she purred against his ear, before she's moving his hands to the tattoo between her breasts. "this one's for stamina....not that we're gonna need to use it tonight~" she continued, almost challenging him to see if he actually meant business. it also wasn't uncommon for vira to fake things just to get out of situations.....quicker. hearing him talk again, a smile was on her face as she truly found the other fascinating to say the least. part of her wanted to see how much she could suck out of him, just to know what made him....tick.

continuing with her dance, she let him study her a bit more; as if to see what conclusion he came up with. at the mention of staking and needing someone to save her, a laugh left her lips. "I can get what I want, and have fun in the process~" she continued, while grabbing hold of his hands and pinning them back; not using her tattoo for strength, but to show that she liked to be in charge too.

"besides, why would I kill them when they're funding my whole fucking life? I can squeeze every last cent out of them, and they'll do what I say in under 2 minutes sometimes~" she explained with a chuckle, as most clients were 2 pump chumps.

"are you saving me? or am i saving you?"

[poiscns]

Nico settles deeper into the chair like it’s a throne he built for exactly this moment, knees spread, boots braced against the sticky club floor. Vira swings a leg across him, settling into his lap with a lazy roll of her hips that makes his pulse spike. He answers with both hands—one anchoring at the small of her back, the other skating up her spine under the fall of her hair, calloused thumb mapping vertebrae like counting coup.

Yo, if she keeps riding him like that he’s going to forget he’s still vertical. His grin splits wide enough to show teeth. He’s flushed, exhilarated, every heartbeat heading straight to his cock against her thighs. The bass line punches through them both; he times each squeeze of her waist to the downbeat, and yes. He could get used to this. 

She answers by grinding just a shade harder, the rough denim seam of his jeans a friction line she paints herself against. Nico’s breath hitches—honest, unfiltered. He lets it ride. No shame in being wrecked by a good thing. “Stamina tattoo, huh?” He taps the ink between her breasts with two fingers, light as a promise, then flattens his palm, holding it there to feel her heartbeat rabbit under his touch. “I plan on field-testing that claim, sweetheart. Science demands repeat trials.”

She laughs into his neck; the sound vibrates through his skin like electricity. He tilts his head, giving her throat room to explore, and rakes his teeth along the shell of her ear in return. “Tell you what—let’s upgrade. After-hours tour.” He nods toward a shadowed hallway that clearly leads backstage. “One locked supply closet, two improvisational spirits. I’ll conjure cuffs if you keep squirming like that.”

Without breaking rhythm she captures his wrists again, pinning them to the chair back, proving she can still turn the tables at will. Nico’s eyes flare with delighted surprise; his grin only sharpens. “Hot.” Because he doesn't need to be more poetic than that when it's just the cold hard truth.

He slides his knee upward between her legs, a slow lever that forces her balance forward, chest brushing his. Nico watches every micro-expression, cataloging each flicker of want. “See, now we’re negotiating,” he says, voice dropping into that midnight register where every word feels like a rough fingertip dragging down silk. “You squeeze your benefactors for cash; I squeeze you for that sound you just made. Fair trade?”

Nico finally lifts his pinned hands—wriggles free, as if she could truly pin him —and threads them into her hair, guiding her face to his. They hover, lips a coin’s width apart, heat spiraling tighter. “So,” he says, grinning against her mouth without committing to the kiss, “we saving each other, or just burning together till someone pulls the plug?”

[ireneclermont]

Irene didn’t answer right away. Didn’t rise to it, didn’t blink. Just stood there in the hum of old fluorescents and bad intent, jaw set, fingers curling loose around the first cartridge like it wasn’t worth the weight of blood it could carry. Her eyes followed the second round as he slid it across, watched his hand, not the grin. And still —still—she didn’t flinch. But her stillness had changed. Not frozen. Tense. Measured. Like someone tiptoeing the brittle edge of a glass floor and trying not to listen for the cracks.

She was walking on eggshells, and they both knew it.

Not because she was afraid of him. Not exactly. Irene had faced worse —things that didn’t smile when they snapped their teeth, things that didn’t bleed red. But Nicolás got under her skin in ways she didn’t like admitting. He talked like he was made of razors and walked like he was waiting to be put down. And worse, he noticed things. Watched her too closely. Talked too loud, too fast, like maybe he was trying to shake something loose from her, just to see what would fall. She hated that she let it get to her. Hated more that she couldn't stay gone —had to come here, because he had the inventory she needed and she couldn't risk eyes on her anywhere else. Wouldn't be just nice if he left her the fuck alone?

Still. If he wanted to poke the bear, she could bare teeth, too.

“Haunted?” she echoed at last, voice low, even. “You think this is haunted?”

She stepped closer. Not enough to crowd him, just enough to shift the air —just enough to let him feel the chill running beneath her coat like a wire left live. Her hand didn’t twitch toward a weapon. Didn’t need to. She’d already sized the room, marked every surface, mapped every sharp edge she could use to cut him down. Her stillness was the weapon.

“If I’m haunted, it’s by the thought that the Brotherhood thought you were worth putting on payroll. That someone somewhere signed said, Yes, this one. The human shrapnel with a death wish. Let’s give him keys and teeth and let him loose.”

Her lips barely moved, but her tone sharpened.

“You think I look hunted? You should see what’s on my list.”

She picked up the second cartridge then —slow, steady. Let him feel the disconnect between her tone and the casual, practiced way she handled it. She could read a death in the weight of a bullet. And this one told her enough.

“I came here for supplies, not psychoanalysis. If you want someone to pick through your damage, try a mirror.”

A pause. Then —because he always wanted one last word, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of silence. “And for the record?” Her head tilted slightly, mouth twitching just enough to suggest it could almost be a smile. “You don't fail with flying colors. You fail exactly how we expect you to.”

[poiscns]

Nico rolls the lollipop stem against his molars, splits it down the grain with a wet crack, then flicks the splinter into the trashcan like a gauntlet. Irene’s voice is still humming in the air—clean, judicial, taste-tested—so he folds his arms behind his head, tips back on the stool, and yawns. Wide. The kind of yawn that shows spite and maybe the ghost of last night’s whiskey. Lets it hang there, jaw unhinged, until the lights buzz louder than she does.

“God,” he sighs from his necklace into the ceiling, “Irene, they should bottle you and sell you to insomniacs.”

The stool claps down on all four legs. He leans over the counter, elbows wide, grin gone lazy. “Look, I get it. You’re the sharp scalpel, I’m the rusty hacksaw. You do neat incisions, I swing ’til bone dust fogs the room. It’s cute you think the surgeons always walk out cleaner.” He drums a fingertip on the cartridge she’s taken. “Metal’s metal either way. Same death inside.”

His gaze skates to the inventory sheet lying untouched between them, a neat grid of typewritten calibers and order codes. He drags a dirty thumbnail across the column of quantities, leaving a smear that obliterates three numbers. “Oops,” he signs. “There goes the paperwork. Guess legal’s gonna have to clear that, too.”

She’s still statuesque, frost-marble perfect. He studies her stillness—how it strains at the edges like a violin string tuned a half-step too high. “You do haunt, sweetheart,” he says. “Not with ghosts, but with everything you’re holding back. Makes a man wonder what color the spill would be if someone poked the dam.”

His hand snakes under the counter, comes up with another cartridge—this one dull brass, dented near the rim. He balances it on its base, spins it, lets it wobble to a stop pointing at her heart. “Tell you what.” The cartridge disappears again, swallowed by a fist. “You keep pretending my fail-state is predictable, and I’ll keep pretending you’re not one spark away from shattering. Symbiosis, right? Brotherhood loves that word.” He winks, mock conspiratorial. Then the grin sharpens, shark-fin breaking water. “You asked what I’m hunting? Today—splitting headaches shaped like your voice. Tomorrow? Whatever bleeds the loudest. Maybe we tag-team it. First time for everything, yeah?”

Nico tips his head, regarding the lollipop cut blooming red on his cheek. A slow swipe of his tongue—copper, sugar, grin.

"What say you? Want to hunt together?"

[witchkore]

They look about their store, eyes moving casually to each protective measure they've installed since someone had tried to intrude here. They hate that it shook them so much, made them feel small and useless after they had been the one to change the world. Hunters have walked through their doors before, seeking out the same glamour charms and protective jewelry that the humans and witches do. They make a point not to ask them what they intend to do with her work. A little plausible deniability worked wonders.

They take an extra second to lock away anything corrosive or reactive before their next client turns up. Just in case. Much of their merchandise is fragile and between the attack and the hurricane, they don't have much tolerance for yet another shake-up.

When Nico enters, they have their materials prepared, presuming he wants the same spell as always. They raise a hand in greeting before getting straight to the point, signing slowly as they speak. "Let me see what damage you've done to it this time." Their work is sturdy, but everything about Nico screams that he's never met an impulse he's tried to stop.

There's a mutually beneficial angle to this relationship, a modicum of safety in exchange for a mostly harmless spell, but Kore's back is stiffer than usual as they regard him, like they're waiting for the other shoe to drop. Nothing. "The usual then?" // @poiscns

[poiscns]

This is one of those errands Nico dreads, even if he’s the one who broke the damn thing. Again. A necessary evil, like dental work or truce talks. He drags himself here like he’s being hauled to an execution, all bristling attitude and sour expression, because the charm is useful—sure—but that doesn’t mean he has to like needing it. It lets him be heard, sharpens the way he moves through the world. He’d call it accessibility, if he were the poetic type. Which he’s not.

But it’s delicate, and he is decidedly not. It snapped off mid-hunt (again), and he spent forty-five minutes crawling through broken drywall, rat piss, and what might’ve been summoning chalk just to recover it. And now here he is. With Kore.

The Brotherhood’s officially decided to play nice with witches, but Nico never got the memo. Or maybe he just lit it on fire. Doesn’t matter. He still flinches at the idea of trusting anyone who works barefoot and sells amulets next to sea glass and lavender bundles. Or whatever it is that witches do. But Kore’s magic works, and that’s more than he can say for most. So. Needs must.

He kicks open the door like he owns the place (he doesn’t), tosses a crumpled post-it note at the counter (it says “Don’t judge me, it was a werewolf rave”), and follows it with another: “Two pieces this time. I brought both. Mostly.” Then fishes the shattered pieces of the charm out of his coat pocket like they’re loose change and/or evidence. There’s blood on them. Not his. Probably. He signs: “But the werewolf was DJing. I got shoved into a speaker stack. The bass ruptured the seal.” He shrugs. “Also I might’ve been on some great molly. Not related, just felt like sharing.” He leans against the counter: “So… how soon can you fix it?”

[poiscns]

⚡️ - if you had to be a supernatural creature , which would you choose?

“If I had to? Bullet to the brain sounds easier. Stop trying to turn me into a monster-fucker! It's not happening!” Nico would rather choke on silver, bleed out in the gutter, and rot six feet under than let something crawl into his skin and call it an upgrade. He’d rather die screaming than live as a thing that feeds off the living. The idea of fangs in his mouth, claws in his hands, magic in his veins—it makes his skin itch, like his body already knows to reject it.

[poiscns]

nicolás serrano as memes I part one

[ireneclermont]

Irene didn’t flinch. Not when he grinned like that, not when the lollipop cracked against his teeth, not when the salt round spun across the counter like bait with a pulse. Her baby blues dropped to the cartridge just once, brief as a blink, then returned to his face —steady, unimpressed. The look she gave him wasn’t cold, exactly. Just level. Like she was reading off a list in her head and debating whether or not to cross something off.

“Three strides is generous,” she said. Voice low, clipped at the edges like it’d been trimmed down to only what was necessary. “I just make a habit of not breathing deep where the air smells like gunpowder and ego.”

She didn’t move forward. Not yet. Her weight shifted slightly, like a stormcloud might before it made up its mind.

“And no,” she added, tone still flat, “—not shell shock. If I were shaken up, you'd already be bleeding. You just talk too much, Nicolás.” For someone who can't speak, that is, but of course, Irene didn't say that.

Her hands stayed in her pockets, but one shoulder dipped —barely. A faint gesture that might’ve been half a shrug. Or a reset. It was hard to tell with Irene. She wasn’t the sort of person who gave much away on purpose.

“But you’re right. You’re not the story I’m worried about.”

Now, she stepped forward. Just one pace. Close enough to take the round, which she did without ceremony, without thanks. Her fingers brushed the cartridge, weighed it briefly like she was measuring intention.

“I don’t have the luxury of fairytales. Just the truth.” A pause. “And some of us know better than to put both feet on the wire and hope it isn’t live.”

She slid a small envelope across the counter —payment exact, crisp, folded. Not quite delicate, but handled with the kind of precision that suggested she liked things done clean. Then she looked at him again, gaze unreadable. “You finished monologuing? Or is there another round of metaphors coming before I get what I came for?”

[poiscns]

See? Exotic like “professionalism.” That’s her edge. Beige. Nico barks a laugh through the necklace — sharp, fast, unamused. “God, you’re boring,” he says, chewing the lollipop stick until it splinters. Doesn’t even notice the cut in his cheek from the shard.

Irene’s out here talking like she’s filling out a fucking tax form. Like each word got cleared by legal before leaving her mouth. And for what? To make him feel small? He likes being big. Loud. Messy. The festering wound no one wants to look at. That’s the brand he’s carried for the Brotherhood for years. He’s going to keep carrying it. Inked under the skin, wrapped around bone. They don’t get to have him clean.

“Three strides, no breathing, no bleeding,” he parrots in a singsong voice, off-key on purpose. “You make it sound like a purity test.”

Then, quicksilver, the grin snaps into place—unnatural and all teeth. “But don’t worry, Irene. I fail with flying colors.”

His energy stutters, then spikes—sudden, twitchy. He rocks forward like he might vault the counter just to see if she’d flinch. Doesn’t. God, boring.

What’s the last thing she killed? He wonders. Was it clean? Was it quiet? Did she cry after? He thinks she did. There’s a few sheep in wolves’ clothing around here, and Nico wants to know who’s who. He can smell it on them—fear dressed up as bravado, stitched into leather jackets. The ones who posture too loud, who keep their knives polished but their hands clean. He’s seen it before. Seen what happens when the bluff gets called and their teeth don’t show up. Nico minds monsters—and he minds liars. And if someone’s wearing a predator’s skin without earning it, he’ll be the one to peel it back and see what’s really twitching underneath.

He pushes another cartridge forward and holds it there—fingertips pressing down, not releasing. A tension in his posture like a lit match held near gasoline.

“What are you hunting, Irene?” Eyes wide now. Hungry. Off-balance. “’Cause if it’s not me, why do you look so fucking haunted?"

[gabrielismss]

         nico doesn’t listen. gabriel shouldn’t have expected him to. he knows him, some part of him had expected some kickback. a fight, a scream, protests and then when that doesn’t work, violence that gabriel can’t recover from. he’s devastating, his friend, a destruction that gabriel knows, he remembers. even after he’d walked away, hiding his shaking hands, he’d never tried to forget. it was impossible to forget any part of nico, he knows that without trying. even now, he’s thrashing against gabriel’s hold, his fury an all-consuming fire that gabriel can’t see past. he knows he’s earned it, that anger, that betrayal. he knows. still, he wishes he’d stop, just let gabe look at him and have him for just a moment-

         but then there’s the storm. while gabriel’s let the nostalgia swallow him, while his eyes trace the scar curled over his nose, while he’s searching him for that momentary glance of i know you- he misses nico’s defiance. gabriel’s words don’t mean anything, cheap in the face of the emotions he’d dragged up from their only-just settled graves. he’s watching nico’s hands, already having seen the emotion on his face to know what he’s saying, broadly. but the specifics drag up the heaviest kind of pain, the guilt of knowing he’s earned this. why now? why is this storm the thing that terrifies him enough, the thing that finally brings gabriel to confront a thing he’d long left behind, traded it for … nothing. he’d traded nico, for nothing. it makes him feel helpless. i’m so sorry, i know. i know. let me fix this. let me fix it. let me close my eyes and repent and know you’re still going to be there when i open them. nico doesn’t give him what he wants. in fact, he runs. i know i wasn’t there, i know i couldn’t look you in the eyes, but i’m doing it now. can’t you just stop? can’t you just listen? but some people can’t stop, they can’t ever just listen and they can’t ever just calm down. gabriel knows this, and nico’s pain is his burden to bear, so he follows.

         like gabriel had never left at all, he follows. the intimacy gabriel had let bleed into the moment, into the forefront of his mind where he should’ve been keeping an eye on his slippery, stubborn friend, gives nico a head start. but in the rain, it doesn’t last long. in the rain, gabriel’s ambition to catch nicolas outweighs nico’s to stay out of his hands. his boots pound against the pavement and he snatches the back of nico’s jacket- the irony of the one on gabriel’s back strikes him again, flashing in front of his eyes -dragging him backwards and sending the both of them toppling to the ground. his friend’s unique talent for inspiring a dark kind of violence from him stirs as gabriel slams nico to the ground, face down with the pressure keeping on his shoulders, the rest of gabriel’s body weight on his back. he grabs, then winds nico’s hands behind him, holding him there.  “ enough. ”  is growled in his ear, before gabriel realizes what he’s doing. this isn’t who he is. breaking nico’s legs to keep him from running, hurting him so he’ll listen isn’t who he is. this isn’t the right thing to do. control filters back in his system against the pounding of his heart, the fear of losing nico in the storm, and gabriel rolls, pushes him to his back, where their eyes meet again. his grip does not lament, but this time, nico can at least sign. gabriel wants to apologize, but he doesn’t. he doesn’t know what to say at all.  “ you can choose where we go, ”  he’s desperately trying to keep his voice firm and steady against his lungs that finally have the chance to recover.  “ but we’re going inside. ”

[poiscns]

Nico's boots slam against the rain-slick pavement, breath tearing out of him in ragged gasps, laughter catching somewhere between his ribs and throat like a weapon turned inward. He doesn’t know where he’s going—he never does—but he knows he can’t let Gabriel catch him, not yet, not when everything feels so close to shattering. Nico vaults over a fallen trash bin, shoving past a rusted gate, a wild, feral part of him snarling keep running, keep running, right before Gabriel barrels into him like a goddamn freight train.

“Are you—” Nico wheezes as they go tumbling roughly; he practically crows through his necklace, “trying to top me?”

It comes out like a laugh, like a goddamn cackle, even though his spine’s in the dirt and there’s mud slicking up his back, even though Gabriel’s knee is digging into the small of it like he’s trying to crack Nico open. It should hurt. It does hurt. But he’s grinning—blood in his teeth and storm in his chest—because this is the closest he’s been to him in years. Because Gabriel’s weight is on him and he can feel every inch of it. And Gabriel’s flipping him over, still on top of him. 

This is all he’s wanted. Just this. Gabriel above him. Close enough to touch. Close enough to hurt. It could’ve been this easy. Could be whatever they wanted it to be really! THAT! FUCKING! EASY! Could have been messy! Could have been stupid! Could have been real! But no! Gabe had to ruin it! Had to dig a grave where a bed could’ve been! Had to run! Had to leave! Always so noble! So careful! So afraid of wanting something for himself! Something like him!

Why couldn’t he just listen? To the screaming? To Nico? Nico yanks Gabriel’s wrist to his chest. Here. Feel this. This is what you left behind. It’s going so fast it hurts. It’s going to rip me in half. It’s always been like this—for you. Only you. God, Nico hates him for it. Hates him for making Nico feel like he’s starving. Like drowning with his mouth open. If he could pull that feeling out of his chest and throw it at him, he would. Make him hold it. Make him carry the weight for once.

He wants to ask, Did you miss me? Did it eat you alive, too? Do you still see me when you try to sleep?

But he doesn’t. Because Gabriel left. And Nico begged once. He’s not doing it again.

Gabriel’s still pinning him, and Nico’s still pretending like this is funny, like this is nothing, like his world didn’t end twice and start again when he saw that stupid familiar face in the storm.

“I ran because I didn’t feel like getting lectured, thanks,” he both signs and says through his necklace, just in case the signal crackles. He tries to wriggle free—fails. Baby boy is strong. Man, does he love arm. “Didn’t really feel like listening to some holy proclamation about how I’m too reckless. Heard it already. Read the memo. Tattooed it across my ass.”

He’s spiraling, but he’s smiling, goddammit. That counts for something.

“And now you show up all drenched and heroic, throwing out lines like ‘you can choose where we go,'—fuck off, Gabe.”

Still, he doesn’t push him off. Doesn’t really want to.

“Was it guilt?” Nico signs, the grin is still plastered on like stage makeup. Clown make-up, full swag. “Did you think, oh no, poor Nico’s gonna drown in the gutter, better go sweep him into the kitchen and pretend it never happened? Or is this about you? About feeling better? About getting to say you came back?”

He laughs again, broken and bright, and looks up at the sky like maybe lightning will strike and shut him up.

“God, you’re so fucking dramatic, you know that? And I’m the one with the flair for theatrics.”

His chest is heaving. He’s not pretending to be okay. But he’s pretending it doesn’t matter.

“You wanna take me inside?” he says finally, voice flat. God, the innuendo. Don’t say it. Don’t say it. It’s right there— He smirks, teeth sharp. He signs: “Didn’t know you still cared about getting me wet first.” And then, finally, finally, finally then: “Fine. Let’s go.”

He grabs Gabriel by the lapels and hauls him up, none too gently. “But don’t think for a second this is forgiveness,” he spits, eyes flashing. “And don’t think I’m not gonna make this absolute hell for you.”

[fina1kill-deactivated20251023]

   the sound of his voice in her head takes her by surprise, but she was effortless in schooling her expression. she had remembered it from before, and remembered how well he had tipped her. still smiling, she took him up on his offer and soon took a shot when the waitress walked by with more drinks. " so do you want just the dance? or are you here for something a little more....intimate?" she teased lightly, knowing if anyone was to eavesdrop they'd just hear business as usual.

leaning in closely, she gently nipped at his ear before "i'll show you mine if you show me yours~" she whispered, with a hint of a smirk on her face as she pulled back to eye him once over. she could tell he wasn't like the others; most clients were never this bold, and would often ask if it was okay to touch her or if she 'did this for a living'. most clients were only there for a quick fuck, if they had the money for it.

soon straddling his waist, her smile never once faded as this was (in her eyes) just 'business' as usual. only this time it was more interesting, that vira wanted to know who he was. moving his hands to rest on her waist, she did just as he told her too. grinding to the music, she'd often play with her hair a bit as if to tease what was fully behind her neck. "you don't come here often, do you?" she asked nonchalantly, as the song continued & her movements never stopped.

[poiscns]

Nico doesn’t flinch when her teeth catch his ear—he laughs, low and wild, like someone just rang the bell at the start of a fight he’s been dying to throw hands in. She’s playing, and he’s already all in. No hesitation, no hover. The second she gives him that nod, he’s on her—hands rough and greedy, sliding down her hips like he’s carving a claim, thumbs digging in like mine. No slow drag. No soft tease. Just bold, fast, filthy, like her waist should already have his name stamped in bruises.

“Intimate?” he echoes, laughing like the word tastes good in his mouth. “Sweetheart, I wanna know if you squeak when you’re lifted. Like—fireman carried out of here squeak. We could find out. Real fast.”

She doesn’t have to beg for the tattoos either. Nico's a bro. Hot girl asks him to show her his tats? He's showing, obviously. He’s already lifting his shirt with a smirk, revealing a canvas of ink and old, half-healed scars. Brotherhood sigils sit between regular. Nico taps a crooked dagger inked near his ribs, near his heart. “This? Yeah. This one’s for my idiot best friend. He dared me to steal a cop’s cuffs and we both ended up bloody and laughing. Miss that bastard sometimes.”

The music's fast—pulse-racing, heart-in-throat kind of beat—and Nico rides it like a high he doesn’t wanna come down from. His other hand rises to the back of her neck, hands all over the tattoos he wants to see with that barely-contained tension. He doesn’t pull. Doesn’t push. Just thinks. Thinks about how good she’d look with that same hand fisted in her hair. How easy it’d be to drop the act and drop her to her knees. She’d look so damn good there, wouldn’t she? Yeah. She would.

“I try not to hang out in dens of leeches,” he says, watching her dance like he’s imagining the music off her skin. “But I make exceptions.”

Then his head tilts, voice curling dark at the edges. “Who's asking who the questions now, baby? That your move? Get ’em hot, get ’em in bed, then stake ’em through the chest?” He laughs. “Kinda hot. But hate to think you're clocking hours for those undead bastards—”

He leans in, barely a breath between them. He’s baiting her. God, he knows he is. “Or are you just waiting for someone to come save you?”

[gabrielismss]

who:  @poiscns . ♡ where:  Outside . /  when: Day ???, Hurricane Jac .

        i can phone a friend- when gabriel had told shiv he doesn’t have any friends, he wasn’t lying. he doesn’t have any friends, but he did, once. he’s never had another friend like nico, and he never will. he was also never going to call nico, or talk to him, or even look at whatever notification is being pushed from his contact to a group chat that gabriel doesn’t participate in. avoiding someone for two years means you can’t just text them, or call them, or block their number because what if he needs- 

        now that the cell service is gone, and he’s stopped feeling those rapid, unpredictable vibrations coming from his phone, that’s when the what-if’s increase their volume. a loud, striking panic that becomes like a bell. repeated, panging, anxiety that worms its way out of skin, out of body. the worry turns into motion. it’s not just for nico, but that’s what gabriel finds it most easy to focus on. his whirlwind of chaos, chasing a storm he has no business running head first into. it’s not fair, and gabriel knows better, to leave well enough alone. but this isn’t about it being fair, or about feelings, it’s about safety. it’s about safety, just not gabriel’s. 

        he leaves shiv and the laundromat behind in favor of tracking down the boy made of gunpowder, returning to the wreckage. in a way, gabriel owes it to him. in the hurricane, nico leaves him an easy trail to follow. not because of the water, but because of the noise. gabriel catches a glimpse of dark curls darting from beneath an awning, and he tails him.

        “ nico! nico- “  he just needs him to stop, just needs him to listen to what he’s sure a hundred other brotherhood hunters have already told him. to get inside, somewhere. to stop, for just a moment, to think, god forbid. gabriel moves to seize his hands, first, but leaves them, holding onto his shoulders instead. gabriel’s hands are familiar, but firm, willing him to stop, to slow down.  “ enough, what the hell are you- ? ”  he’s searching through the dark of his eyes, but the rain keeps pouring into them, the hood he’s pulled over his head does little to keep him dry. and now that he’s so close to nico- oh. it’s not gabriel’s raincoat that he’s wearing, at all. he decides very quickly that he doesn’t want to know what he’s doing, not until the both of them are inside. he can’t afford to linger, here, like this, they both can’t. how far away is the house? it’s the last place he wants to be, but at least it’s empty, at least it’s familiar in this storm.  “ come on, we’re going. ”

[poiscns]

Some Brotherhood at the Sweetwater had cracked, “Hey, maybe you can shoot the hurricane,” and Nico—already vibrating at Category Five—snorted, “No, but actually,” emptied his shot glass, and launched himself straight into the wind. Pure chaos? Sure, but inside the pinball machine of his brain it was tactical math: West Coast doesn’t get hurricanes the size of small countries unless some mother-of-all-supernaturals is flapping its wings offshore. You don’t wait for the thing to make landfall; you sprint out and punch it in the gills first.

He’s reckless these days, braided from equal parts gunpowder and wounded pride. Got a death wish like whoa. Rejection will do that to a body—especially when the rejecting party walks away with monk-calm composure while Nico’s still busy screaming inside. Nicolas Serrano does not handle rejection well; Gabriel handles it with mind-numbing ease. One looks like a firework factory on fire, the other like a library on a Sunday. It rankles.

So when Gabriel finally materializes out of the rain—blond curls plastered, boots skidding in the mud—it feels to Nico like the storm just spat up its own conscience. First real conversation in months, and Gabe’s hands are suddenly there: one gripping Nico’s wrist, the other sliding to his shoulder, steering him like a glitching compass back toward sanity. For a half-second Nico thinks about tackling him into the muck, kissing him hard enough to taste ozone on his tongue, licking raindrops from those impossible cheekbones—big mistake, because how are you supposed to let the guy go after that?

“Is that my fucking jacket?” he signs furiously instead, because the lizard part of his brain chirps haha nice when he notices, while the caveman part snarls mine-mine-mine. And then the bigger wave crashes: No, screw you, you’re the one who couldn’t handle any of this. You call me “friend” but you won’t look me in the eye, won’t answer a single text. Nico’s put three fists through three separate motel walls over it. He’s done unspeakable things to supernaturals over it. He’s in the process of processing, and my dude, he is not processing well.

Gabriel says, Come on, we’re going, like it might still work the way it used to—Nico pivoting automatically, falling into step, letting Gabe be the brakes while he was the engine. There was a time Nico would’ve followed him into a black hole just to see what color the event horizon tasted like. He wants—God, he wants—for it to be that easy again. But the hurricane howls and the old wounds do too, so Nico spits as he signs: “What, I gotta be dying before you want to talk to me? Newsflash: I ride the brink of dying all the time, Gabe—nothing about this storm is special.” And then Nico pivots on slick asphalt and sprints straight for the storm’s throat, a lit Roman candle hell-bent on head-butting God.