#doing my best not to think of what the typical implication of men having large hands is

[waugh-bao]

I was watching one of those tributes to Charlie episodes that John de Christopher put out. Jim Keltner was on it and talked about how Steve was amazed at how thick Charlie's sticks were (I know that sounds like a euphemism) and that he tried to use them for a few songs but he couldn't do it and he mentioned it to Jim. Jim said that when he shook hands with Charlie, Charlie's hands were bigger than Jim's and said that Charlie had "big soft hands" and that George Harrison was the same. Two "small dudes but they had big soft hands." And it made me feel all warm inside, this small elegant gentleman with big soft hands. Awww

For comparison, you can see the size of his hands against Shirley’s shoulder:

[mysaintkitten]

hii first of all i just wanna say your writing is amazing & you are so very talented 🤍!!!! every time i see you’ve posted something i can’t wait to read it :]

anyway!! i was hoping i could request a jonathan crane x reader fic in which he gets jealous and protective over his gf <3 reader is really pretty (like one of those pinterest or ig baddies) and not the type of girl people typically picture a doctor dating lmaoaoao but he gets jealous n stuff bc people hit on her 😭 ugh i’m rambling now but ty ily 🤍

thank you so so much !! you are so kind !! i appreciate it very very much !! ilyt !!

Claimed | Jonathan Crane x fem!reader

prompt: someone tries to flirt with you at an event, and jonathan doesn’t take it lightly (NSFW!! NO MINORS!!)

WARNINGS: brief awkward interactions with pushy men, mentions of spiked drinks/possible death, implications of murders/killing, unprotected sex (p in v), jonathan and reader are both possessive, breeding/pregnancy kink, squirting, creampie

word count: 4.3k *not proofread*

“sweetheart, we’ve gotta go soon!” jonathan calls out to you from the front room. he stands in front of a large full body mirror making some final adjustments before he leaves. he takes a deep breath and slides a small syringe into his pocket. hopefully he won’t have to use it, but tonight could be hectic.

there’s a large event in gotham tonight and jonathan wants to make sure he looks his absolute best before showing up. though, he doesn’t think he’ll have to worry so much. with you on his arm, he doubts anyone will be paying much attention to his looks.

jonathan wasn’t an ugly man by any means, but you’ve lost track of how many times people told you that you’re out of his league. you didn’t see it. he’s handsome, smart, and sweet. well, sweet towards you, at least. and that’s what mattered.

“i’m coming, just hold on!” you shout back from the bedroom as you slip on your heels. you quickly walk towards the vanity before flattening our your dress and shifting it around so it hugs your body just right. once you’re happy, you head out and meet jonathan in the front room. as soon as he sees you, his anxiety begins to fade and a proud grin appears on his lips.

“darling ..” he coos as he begins to take a few steps to meet you in the middle. he runs his hands along your arms and kisses you softly, making sure he doesn’t ruin your makeup in any way.

“do i look nice?” you ask, jonathan chuckles breathily. “you look stunning, my love. now come on, we’ve gotta go.”

you sigh as he lightly grabs your wrist and starts to lead you outside, “nothing wrong with being fashionably late, jon.”

the drive to the event is rather quiet, you stare out the window, jonathan stays fixated on the road with his hand on your thigh. after a few minutes pass and you begin to arrive closer to the event jonathan decides to give you a brief rundown of what to expect.

“all right, these people will be obnoxious. and pretentious. and dull. but all you have to do is smile and nod and look pretty, okay?” jonathan asks sweetly. he’s not exactly asking you, he’s telling you. but you don’t mind, this is his event after all, you’re really just there to be eye candy. a subtle little ‘fuck you’ to the people who doubted him and his abilities to find love. jonathan was perpetually single for years until he met you, and the people around him made it their mission to never allow him to forget it. but you flipped a switch within him. his soft, gentle side began to spill out more and more. although he still definitely kept his cold and calculated side, he just tried to keep it away from you as best he could.

jonathan pulls up to the gotham museum where the event is being held. there’s a handful of people outside, standing and talking, but the real business is going down inside. you start to feel a bit nervous, you knew this event was going to be big, but this was more than you had anticipated.

you glance over to jonathan and flash him a smile, hoping to convey authentic happiness, but when you see him frown slightly in response you realize you weren’t very convincing.

“it’ll be all right, darling. i promise. you can cling to my arm the entire night, no one will bother you.” he whispers, petting the side of your face gently, “they know what i’m capable of.”

the implication of violence gave you chills. it was hot knowing how evil and dangerous he could be, while on the flip side be so affectionate and loving. he’d get down on all fours for you, kiss the ground you walk on. he had never felt that way about anyone, not in the slightest. in fact, he held partial animosity towards most people. some stronger than others. after years of being picked on and ridiculed, it’s not surprising he felt this way.

you nod at his words and form a genuine smile, making jonathan smile in return.

“let’s head inside.” he hums.

you exit the car with jonathan and begin to approach the museum, already noticing people look your way and whisper amongst themselves. you wrap your arm around jonathan’s, holding him close as you enter the event.

as you’re inside for merely a few moments, taking in the scenery and people around you, you hear someone shout from afar.

“crane!”

you and jonathan’s heads shoot over to the direction of the shout, where you’re met with a man you’ve never seen before. you feel a bit worried, but then you look over at jonathan who’s smiling. you begin to relax, if he’s not worried, you’re not worried.

the man is finally face to face with jonathan, where he grins widely and sticks out his hand. jonathan laughs and shakes the man’s hand, “been a while, hasn’t it?”

jonathan notices your confusion and breaks the handshake to speak to you, “darling, this is a friend of mine from university, his name is dr. fiske.”

you’ve heard of dr. fiske before. jonathan said he was his only friend throughout university. it’s nice to finally put a face to a name. you smile shyly at him and stick your hand out to shake his hand, “pleasure to meet you.”

he shakes your hand and nods, “same to you, miss.”

“is this your girl, crane?” dr. fiske asks, a smirk forming on his face as he drops your hand.

jonathan nods while grinning proudly, “she’s all mine.”

“look at jonny go!” he exclaims happily, smacking jonathan’s arm playfully. jonathan laughs and shrugs, “i know, i know. i got very lucky.”

you can’t help but smile at his words, he always made sure you knew how much he appreciated you and how lucky he got with you. but to hear him tell it to others really solidified his love for you, you’d never been put on such a pedestal by a partner before.

“well, i won’t hold you guys up. it was nice to see you crane, and it was nice to meet you ma’am.” dr. fiske adds before leaving to head to another area of the event.

the night goes well. jonathan talks to people, and you do as he asked. smiled, nodded, looked pretty. and he was right, these people were like parasites. energy leeches. it was becoming more and more difficult to feign this contentment when your annoyance was beginning to boil inside of you. you can only hear so many rich pricks ramble about how great they are in one night.

luckily, the conversations begin to fizzle out.

“would you like to get a drink?” jonathan questions, already knowing what your response will be.

“yes, please.” you sigh with relief. it would be much easier to pretend to be interested if you were drunk, but having to do all this sober was really putting your acting skills to the test.

jonathan chuckles and leads you to the bar, “stay here for a moment, darling. i need to use the restroom. don’t move, i’ll be right back. order yourself whatever you’d like.”

he gives you a quick peck on the cheek before heading off to the bathroom. you really didn’t want to be alone surrounded by people you didn’t know. but you’re grown, and you remember what jonathan said. they know what i’m capable of.

“gin and tonic, please.” you order politely, the bartender mumbles and begins to make your drink.

as you stand there, clicking your nails against the counter while you wait, you’re disrupted by an unfamiliar voice.

“here all by yourself, hun?”

you quickly swing around with a confused expression on your face, and you’re met with an extremely tall stranger that reeks of alcohol. you have no idea who this man is, or why he’s decided to talk to you out of all people. of course this would happen the moment jonathan leaves your side.

“uh .. no, actually. i’m here with my boyfriend.” you respond flatly as you hear the sound of the bartender placing your drink down behind you, you thank them and grab your drink, bringing it up to your lips and taking a small sip.

“well .. he doesn’t seem to be around, love.” the man noticed while slurring, “doesn’t he know better than to leave a pretty thing like you unattended?”

“he’ll be back soon. and trust me, he will not be happy to see you talking to me.” you warn, feeling irritated at this man’s inability to take no for an answer.

he clicks his tongue and tilts his head, “aw. can’t even have a conversation with you? that’s too bad .. i’ll give him something to get angry over ..” he laughs as his hand begins to meet your hip, you push his chest back firmly, spilling a bit of your drink in the process.

“don’t touch me!” you snap, hoping to god that jonathan hurries up and saves you.

“sweetheart ..” the man chuckles lowly, putting his hands up defensively, “relax, now. what your little boyfriend can’t see won’t hurt him, right?” he whispers as he reaches to touch your hips again.

you go to push him again, “i said don’t touch me!”

in the midsts of your rage, your eyes meet with jonathan. he may be far away, but you can tell he’s fuming. he nudges people out of the way and quickly strides over to you, his expression becoming angrier by the moment. suddenly, he’s behind the man’s back with a drink in his hand. his gaze burning into the back of his head.

“is there a problem here?” jonathan growled, the man turns around and scoffs. jonathan’s visibly shorter than the man, but that doesn’t faze jonathan in the slightest. the man scoffs at him, “not at all, man. just chatting with this lovely lady.”

jonathan’s gaze switches to you, and you shake your head slightly, trying to convey to jonathan that you didn’t want to talk to this man at all. he knew what you were trying to say, and he knew this wasn’t your fault.

“interesting,” jonathan responds unamused, “well hopefully you’ve said all you needed to say. come on, darling. let’s go.”

he reaches his hand out for you and you quickly latch onto him, avoiding making eye contact with the unfamiliar man.

he laughs, “wait wait, this is your boyfriend? jesus.”

jonathan wanted to leave as soon as possible to avoid causing a scene, but these little digs were making it harder for him to think rationally.

“yup. she’s all mine.” jonathan sighs, “feel free to look. but you cannot touch.”

the man laughs, not realizing how scarily serious jonathan is being. the energy is making you extremely uncomfortable. he swallows and forces a smile, “here, man. no hard feelings.”

jonathan hands his drink over to the man, to which he accepts it and nods. “yeah man, no hard feelings.” he mumbles while taking a sip. you’re confused. jonathan has never behaved like this. normally, he’d resort to getting violent, yet he gave this man a drink like it was some sort of reward.

you clench harder on jonathan’s arm and the two of you turn to leave, you hear the man make one final comment from behind you;

“keep me in mind, sweetheart. i know you’ll be thinking about me.”

you shudder from discomfort, speeding up your pace as you head towards the door.

once in the car, you sit awkwardly in the passenger seat, unable to relax.

jonathan gets into the drivers seat and slams the door, “goddamn prick ..” he groans, aggressively putting on his seatbelt.

“baby, i’m sorry, he came up to me and he wouldn’t take no for an answer ..” your voice trails off as you can’t figure out what else to say

“no, no, darling, it’s not you ..” he assures, “it’s that stupid fucking bastard in there. who does he think he is? what makes him think he’s worthy of your attention?” though jonathan knows you wouldn’t betray him like that, he’s irritated at the man’s attempt.

you rub jonathan’s arm, “he’s arrogant. and he’s probably never been told no in his life .. he couldn’t win me over if he was the last man on earth.”

jonathan huffs and begins to drive off, you remember how jonathan gave him his drink.

“baby?” you whisper, interlocking your fingers with his,

“hm?” he responds, not taking his eyes off the road,

“why’d you give him your drink?”

he grins while remembering, “well, i couldn’t drink it anyway. i had to drive us home.”

that makes sense now that you think about it, maybe he was offered a drink and accepted it to be nice.

“and i slipped something into the drink.”

your expression drops, “what?”

jonathan just shrugs and continues to grin, “he needs to learn a lesson. i guess he just didn’t know what i’m capable of, but now he’ll know.”

what you didnt know at the time was as jonathan began to approach you, he slipped the syringe out of his pocket (which you didn’t even know about to begin with) and squirted the concoction into the drink hastily. your heart starts to race a bit, a mixture of fear and admiration. he really would do whatever to protect you. you don’t know how severely he’s hurt this man, whether the drink will simply knock him out or flat out kill him. you didn’t know, and that gave you a rush. he was already tipsy anyway, whatever happens to him won’t get pinned on jonathan.

“i’d do whatever for you, darling. anything.” he hums, clenching your hand harder, “i know, i know ..” you agree, “i’d do anything for you, too. i’m yours.”

he groans and loosened his grip on your hand, shifting your hand down lower between his legs, “all mine, pretty girl. all mine.”

you gasp softly as he guides your hand to his growing bulge, “you get so many men all worked up, baby .. yet i’m the one that gets to touch you, and hear all those pretty noises you make as you come undone.”

you run your hand along his clothed cock without his guidance and you feel yourself becoming aroused as your thighs tense together, the intensity of the situation was making your heart pound and your mind foggy.

before you know it, he’s pulled up outside of the house.

“get inside, go into the bedroom. i expect to see you ready by the time i get there.” he purrs, you hum while taking your hand off of his bulge, quickly heading inside and shutting the door behind you before kicking off your shoes. before you’re even near the bedroom you begin to unzip your dress, giggling quietly as you hear jonathan enter through the front door, locking it behind him while sliding off his shoes.

as you stand in the bedroom, you fully slide the dress off, tossing it on top of the hamper before quickly unclasping your bra and sliding off your panties. you scramble, slightly breathlessly, onto the bed, and lay back as you wait patiently for him.

a few moments later, jonathan enters, sighing at what he sees.

“oh, my girl ..” he purrs, walking over to the bed before crawling onto it, planting kisses on your ankles as he works his way up your legs, “so well behaved .. all for me ..” he praises as his kisses make their way to your thighs, where you slowly spread your legs apart for him. he groans at your pussy, continuing his desperate kisses along your inner thigh.

“look at that pussy ..” he hums lowly while using his index and middle finger to spread your lips apart, “god. i’ve killed men over this cunt, you know that, darling?”

you whimper at his tone as you shake your head, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth while staring down at him.

“well ..” he coos while sliding a finger inside of you, “i have. i’ve kept track of the men that have harassed you, hurt you, annoyed you, hell, even the men that looked at you the wrong way. notice how you’ve never seen them again?”

the more you think about it, the more you realize you never had to deal with these men more than once. the incident would occur, you’d tell jonathan, and he’d take care of it. it’s sickeningly attractive to know how far jonathan will go for you, knowing how absolutely pussy whipped you’ve made him.

you gasp as he slowly fucks you with his middle finger, your mind finding it hard to focus on one specific thing.

“for .. for me?” you whimper, feeling yourself becoming slicker

“all for you, my love.” he sighed against your thigh as he continues to place small kisses along your inner thighs, his lips inching closer to your swollen clit, “all for you.” he whispers one last time before suckling gently on your clit while continuing to finger you, sneaking a second finger in while you writhe beneath him.

“o-oh ..” you moan, “jonathan, please ..”

your pussy clenches around his fingers and he hums against your clit, slipping a third finger in as you whimper loudly,

“j-jonathan, please!” you mewl, snaking your fingers down into jonathan’s head and tightly locking your fingers into his hair, he briefly pulls off and continues to finger you while groaning “let me taste your pretty pussy for a bit longer, darling ..”

your cheeks burn at his praise, your thighs beginning to twitch around his head as you become wetter, the sounds of his slick tongue and drenched fingers become even louder. lewd squelches and soft whimpers are all that can be heard, along with jonathan’s occasional hums against your clit.

he can feel you become close, he’s able to recognize your involuntary jolts and twitches all too well. he pulls his fingers out and takes his lips off you, huffing quietly as he brings his slick fingers up to his mouth and sucking the arousal off.

the dirty act makes your chest flutter, he’s so desperate to taste each and every drop of you, trying his absolute hardest to make sure none of it goes to waste. once his fingers are cleaned, he brings his hands down to his zipper and button, where he urgently unbuttons and unzips his pants.

“who do you belong to, baby?”

“‘m yours, jon ..” you moan, batting your lashes at him. he groans as his jaw hangs slightly slack while he tugs his pants down, his cock nearly bursting out of his boxers. he palms himself while staring down at you, “‘n who do i belong to?” he smirks,

it rarely crossed your mind that the possessiveness went both ways, you were normally so enamoured by jonathan and his admiration for you that you rarely considered anyone else as a threat. but occasionally, jonathan would get hit on in front of you, and it would make you immensely angry and insecure. he’d barely even look in the same direction as other women, yet they’d still somehow think that was a sign to approach him. he’d shoot them down harshly. even the women that you felt could easily take your place, jonathan’s loyalty towards you never faltered. he wanted to make sure you wouldn’t have to go to the same limits that he would to keep outsiders eyes off of you.

you shake those thoughts aside to respond to him while biting your lip, “you’re mine ..”

he hums in approval while sliding down his boxers, both the boxers and his pants now sitting at his mid thigh, “that’s right, darling.”

he inches his hips forward and runs his cock head along your folds, spreading the slick around before teasing your clit with his tip. pressing against the bud and gently moving his cock side to side, watching as you wriggled at the teasing.

he chuckles and dips his cock back to your opening, slowly sliding just his tip in before pulling it back out, fucking you agonizingly slow with the head.

“d’you know how many men are gonna be jerking off to the thought of you? ‘n how many of them wish they could just get a glimpse of your pussy .. let alone sit here and tease it ..” he breathed, beginning to slowly side more of his cock inside you. your breath hitches at the developing fullness, “more .. please ..”

“aw, poor baby,” he coos almost condescendingly, “you want me to fuck you properly?”

you nod mindlessly and huff, purposefully clenching around him in hopes of getting him to put his full length inside. it partially works, you think, as he groans and slides more inside, still not bottoming out yet.

“use your words, darling.” jonathan commands, halting his movements again and leaving just his tip inside once more.

“please, jonathan .. please fuck me properly ..” you whimper embarrassingly, as those words leave your mouth he laughs breathily before sliding his full length in, nearly knocking the wind out of you as he thrusts back out and pounds into you again. he forms a quick, rough pace that makes you nearly cry with pleasure.

“o-oh, mmh, fuck!” you whine loudly, your back arching as jonathan’s cock forcefully hits your most sensitive areas.

“this cunts all mine, you hear me?” he groans while gripping your thigh with one hand and grabbing your face with the other, “if i wanna fuck it, slap it, breed it, abuse it, whatever i want. it’s mine. right, baby?”

you nod quickly with furrowed brows, pathetic little mewls falling from your lips as you stare at him through your lashes. you loved this duality about jonathan. sometimes you’d purposefully rile him up just to get him to fuck you angrily and almost animalistic. sometimes, he’ll make love to you and praise you the entire time like you’re a goddess that’s a blessing on this earth, other times he’d fuck you like you’re a filthy whore that’s sole purpose is to be stuffed full of cock. you needed both in moderation. right now, you were long overdue for one of his dirty rough fucks, so it’s kind of nice the way things panned out tonight.

“wanna breed this pussy so goddamn bad .. you like how that sounds, sweetheart? you want me to fuck a baby into you?” he purrs, his grip on your face and hip still tight, you nod and moan loudly, “y-yes, jonathan!”

he chuckles before quickly switching to a low groan as he feels you become slicker around him, “god .. you’re gonna look so fucking good all nice ‘n full .. i’ll make you my wife .. you want that, hm?”

“yes, yes!” you ramble as your mind goes blank, it feels nearly primal. like deep down, you’re just two ravenous, hungry creatures who need each others bodies and want to reproduce. that’s all humans are really meant to do, isn’t it?

“good girl .. such a good girl .. i’ll take such good care of you and our baby, darling ..” he hums, “open your mouth for me ..”

you lazily open your mouth and stick out your tongue, small whimpers being punched out of you as you do so. after grinning at how malleable you are in his hands, he spits in your mouth. he doesn’t even need to tell you to swallow, you do it anyway.

“that’s it, god you’re fucking perfect ..” he praised, it made you feel so dirty, your mind running on overdrive at the intense amounts of pleasure. you hadn’t even realized how close you were until you felt yourself beginning to slowly tip over the edge. this didn’t feel like your normal orgasms though, you felt something different within you.

suddenly, through jonathan’s harsh thrusts, your orgasm spills out of you while you whimper loudly. the clear liquid poured out of you and dampened the blanket beneath you along with jonathan’s pants. you twitch at the after shocks of your orgasm and jonathan’s pace never slows, “look at that .. drenched my fuckin’ pants baby ..”

“i’m sorry, ‘m sorry i couldn’t control it ..” you apologize as your cheeks flush from the embarrassment, you had never squirted before, and now you feel partially guilty for ruining his pants. not too guilty, though, because your other senses are still being dulled by the feeling of his cock pounding into you.

“no, don’t apologize, sweet girl .. ‘s cute .. made you feel so good, you made such a mess ..” he soothes, loosening his grip on you face and sliding his hand down to grip the other side of your hip with his now free hand.

his thrusts begin to get shaky and his breaths get heavier, “gonna come- fuck, baby, ‘m gonna come ..” he huffs through gritted teeth, his eyes shutting tightly as his grips get harsher. after a few more pumps, he’s coming inside you. groaning lowly as he holds your hips tightly against his, making sure he shoots his load as deeply inside of you as he can.

he thrusts a few more times to really get his come in there before slowly pulling out his softening cock. he leans back on his knees, you scan him up and down from between your legs. his cheeks are pink, his hair is messy, his forehead is sweaty, his glasses have slid down the middle of his nose bridge, his chest rises and falls laboredly, and his almost fully soft cock sits between his legs, his pants still around his thighs with a large visible damp mark from when you had orgasmed.

once he’s caught his breath, jonathan speaks;

“maybe other men should flirt with you more often.” he chuckles.

—

i have to be honest, i don’t think this is good at all, but i hope you guys at least like it! i’m sorry it’s taken me a while! i’ll be back on track soon! :)

[rivetgoth]

Hey, tysm for existing!!

I always really enjoy seeing you on my dash, you're someone i look up to a lot and as a trans person the world feels less scary with you in it, if that makes sense. Idrk if I'm just a guy who's also goth or just non-binary, it's still something I'm struggling with but knowing guys like you actually exist and aren't just hopeless figments of my imagination really helps! I hope you take care of yourself, and please enjoy your life to the fullest!!!

Thank you so much dude.

I feel like the FTM community has a really big issue at large with kind of encouraging repression/discouraging self expression. Honestly I think it’s actually just a man problem in general LOL because honestly acting like masculinity and maleness itself is this fragile thing that can be denied via like, expressing any sort of non-traditional behavior is really really prevalent amongst normie guys in general and no different from cis men with fragile egos who do the exact same thing. But it is disappointing because you’d think that guys who already have to fight preconceived/mainstream notions of gender to be respected as men at all would be more nuanced about it? But no. It’s unfortunate.

I think it’s kinda compounded by the fact that a lot of conversations around transmasculinity and gender nonconformity have this approach that’s very removed from IRL experiences being perceived as a GNC man. A lot of FTM spaces view transmasculinity as this binary where the only options are “passing and gender conforming” and “non-passing and gender nonconforming” which is. Really fucking awful, infantilizing, and I’d say just straight up transphobic. The implication that trans men are never actually perceived as men if we’re gender nonconforming sucks big time. I didn’t realize for the longest time that trans men can be both not typically masculine and still pass. When I’m out in the world I’m read as a really effeminate man. The way these things get simplified and watered down suck because they deny us the reality of our experiences but it also just really sucks for questioning or pre-everything trans men who are trying to grapple with their identity and self-expression and trying to figure out if there is a future for them that isn’t just “giving up any sense of self” or “never being seen as a man.”

I dunno, I’m kinda rambling but it’s a topic I feel really strongly about. My dysphoria and being closeted in an unaccepting household in a small conservative town really made it hard for me to express myself when I was younger. It got to a point where I questioned if I was really a man (and I identified as nonbinary for awhile due to this) because I felt so torn between expressing myself and actually trying to pass as a man, and failing miserably because I was pre-everything and closeted anyway, and I just felt like I was being torn between multiple facets of myself that were at odds with each other. Coming to the realization that there are incredible amazing goth guys in the world who practice non-traditional forms of masculinity and maleness and that I didn’t have to live up to a preconceived notion or standard of masculinity to be a real man, that that was something that existed within me rather than something that I had to fight for by betraying my inner self, and most importantly realizing that transness is meant to be an extension of the self, a tool to become the best and most authentic, truest, happiest version of yourself, that it’s not supposed to change you from the person you are but make you a more realized version of that person, was what made me realize who I was and who I wanted to be and was what finally pushed me to confidently transition and begin living as a man.

Your story may not be the same as mine in the end! And that’s fine. Just be true to yourself, dude. I know it’s cheesy advice but I mean it. Just do what makes you happy. I fully believe that transness, like art, can be a grueling and painful process but it’s also a beautiful facet of the human experience and there is so much hope and joy and magic and love to be found in it. 🖤✨

[theshedding]

Lil Nas X: Country Music, Christianity & Reclaiming HELL

I don’t typically bother myself to follow what Lil Nas X is doing from day to day, or even month to month but I do know that his “Old Town Road” hit became one of the biggest selling/streamed records in Country Music Business history (by a Black Country & Queer artist). “Black” is key because for 75+ years Country music has unsuspiciously evolved into a solidly White-identified genre (despite mixed and Indian & Black roots). Regrettably, Country music is also widely known for anti-black, misogynoir, reliably homophobic (Trans isn’t really a conversation yet), Christian and Hard Right sentiments on the political spectrum. Some other day I will venture into more; there is a whole analysis dying to be done on this exclusive practice in the music industry with its implications on ‘access’ to equity and opportunity for both Black/POC’s and Whites artists/songwriters alike. More commentary on this rigid homogeneous field is needed and how it prohibits certain talent(s) for the sake of perpetuating homogeneity (e.g. “social determinants” of diversity & viable artistic careers). I’ll refrain from discussing that fully here, though suffice it to say that for those reasons X’s “Old Town Road” was monumental and vindicating. 

As for Lil Nas X, I’m not particularly a big fan of his music; but I see him, what he’s doing, his impact on music + culture and I celebrate him using these moments to affirm his Black, Queer self, and lifting up others. Believe it or not, even in the 2020′s, being “out” in the music business is still a costly choice. As an artist it remains much easier to just “play straight”. And despite appearances, the business (particularly Country) has been dragged kicking and screaming into developing, promoting and advancing openly-affirming LGBTQ 🏳️‍🌈 artists in the board room or on-stage. Though things are ‘better’ we have not yet arrived at a place of equity or opportunity for queer artists; for the road of music biz history is littered with stunted careers, bodies and limitations on artists who had no option but to follow conventional ways, fail or never be heard of in the first place. With few exceptions, record labels, radio and press/media have successfully used fear, intimidation, innuendo and coercion to dilute, downplay or erase any hint of queer identity from its performers. This was true even for obvious talents like Little Richard.

(Note: I’m particularly speaking of artists in this regard, not so much the hairstylists, make-up artists, PA’s, etc.)

_____

Which is why...in regard to Lil Nas X, whether you like, hate or love his music, the young brother is a trailblazer. His very existence protests (at least) decades of inequity, oppression and erasure. X aptly critiques a Neo-Christian Fascist Heteropatriarchy; not just in American society but throughout the Music Business and with Black people. That is no small deal. His unapologetic outness holds a mirror up to Christianity at-large, as an institution, theology and practice. The problem is they just don’t like what they see in that mirror.

In actuality, “Call Me By Your Name”, Lil Nas X’s new video, is a twist on classic mythology and religious memes that are less reprehensible or vulgar than the Biblical narratives most of us grew up on vís-a-vís indoctrinating smiles of Sunday school teachers and family prior to the “age of reason”. Think about the narratives blithely describing Satan’s friendly wager with God regarding Job (42:1-6); the horrific “prophecies” in St. John’s Book of Revelation (i.e. skies will rain fire, angels will spit swords, mankind will be forced to retreat into caves for shelter, and we will be harassed by at least three terrifying dragons and beasts. Angels will sound seven trumpets of warning, and later on, seven plagues will be dumped on the world), or Jesus’s own clarifying words of violent intent in Matthew (re: “Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.” 10:34). Whether literal or metaphor, these age old stories pale in comparison to a three minute allegorical rap video. Conservatives: say what you will, I’m pretty confident X doesn’t take himself as seriously as “The true and living God” from the book of Job.

A little known fact as it is, people have debunked the story and evolution of Satan and already offered compelling research showing [he] is more of a literary device than an actual entity or “spirit” (Spoiler: In the Bible, Satan does not take shape as an actual “bad” person until the New Testament). In fact, modern Christianity’s impression of the “Devil” is shaped by conflating Hellenized mythology with a literary tradition rooted in Dante’s Inferno and accompanying spooks and superstitions going back thousands of years. Whether Catholic, Protestant, Mormon, Scientologist, Atheist or Agnostic, we’ve spent a lifetime with these predominant icons and clichés. (Resource: Prof. Bart D. Erhman, “Heaven & Hell”).

So Here’s THE PROBLEM: The current level of fear and outrage is: 

(1) Unjust, imposing and irrational. 

(2) Disproportionate when taken into account a lifetime of harmful Christian propaganda, anti-gay preaching and political advocacy.

(3) Historically inaccurate concerning the existence of “Hell” and who should be scared of going there. 

Think I’m overreacting? 

Examples: 

Institutionalized Homophobia (rhetoric + policy)

Anti-Gay Ministers In Life And Death: Bishop Eddie Long And Rev. Bernice King

Black, gay and Christian, Marylanders struggle with Conflicts

Harlem pastor: 'Obama has released the homo demons on the black man'

Joel Olsteen: Homosexuality is “Not God’s Best”

Bishop Brandon Porter: Gays “Perverted & Lost...The Church of God in Christ Convocation appears like a ‘coming out party’ for members of the gay community.”

Kim Burrell: “That perverted homosexual spirit is a spirit of delusion & confusion and has deceived many men & women, and it has caused a strain on the body of Christ”

Falwell Suggests Gays to Blame for 9-11 Attacks

Pope Francis Blames The Devil For Sexual Abuse By Catholic Church

Pope Francis: Gay People Not Welcome in Clergy

Pope Francis Blames The Devil For Sexual Abuse By Catholic Church

The Pope and Gay People: Nothing’s Changed

The Catholic church silently lobbied against a suicide prevention hotline in the US because it included LGBT resources

Mormon church prohibits Children of LGBT parents to be baptized

Catholic Charity Ends Adoptions Rather Than Place Kid With Same-Sex Couple

I Was a Religious Zealot That Hurt People-Coming Out as Gay: A Former Conversion Therapy Leader Is Apologizing to the LGBTQ Community

The above short list chronicles a consistent, literal, demonization of LGBTQ people, contempt for their gender presentation, objectification of their bodies/sexuality and a coordinated pollution of media and culture over the last 50+ years by clergy since integration and Civil Rights legislation. Basically terrorism. Popes, Bishops, Pastors, Evangelists, Politicians, Television hosts, US Presidents, Camp Leaders, Teachers, Singers & Entertainers, Coaches, Athletes and Christians of all types all around the world have confused and confounded these issues, suppressed dissent, and confidently lied about LGBT people-including fellow Queer Christians with impunity for generations (i.e. “thou shall not bear false witness against they neighbor” Ex. 23:1-3). Christian majority viewpoints about “laws” and “nature” have run the table in discussions about LGBTQ people in society-so much that we collectively must first consider their religious views in all discussions and the specter of Christian approval -at best or Christian condescension -at worst. That is Christian (and straight) privilege. People are tired of this undue deference to religious opinions. 

That is what is so deliciously bothersome about Lil Nas X being loud, proud and “in your face” about his sexuality. If for just a moment, he not only disrupts the American hetero-patriarchy but specifically the Black hetero-patriarchy, the so-called “Black Church Industrial Complex”, Neo-Christian Fascism and a mostly uneducated (and/or miseducated) public concerning Ancient Near East and European history, superstitions-and (by extension) White Supremacy. To round up: people are losing their minds because the victim decided to speak out against his victimizer. 

Additionally, on some level I believe people are mad at him being just twenty years old, out and FREE as a self-assured, affirming & affirmed QUEER Black male entertainer with money and fame in the PRIME of his life. We’ve never, or rarely, seen that before in a Black man in the music business and popular culture. But that’s just too bad for them. With my own eyes I’ve watched straight people, friends, Christians, enjoy their sexuality from their elementary youth to adolescence, up and through college and later marriages, often times independently of their spouses (repeatedly). Meanwhile Queer/Gay/SGL/LGBTQ people are expected to put their lives on hold while the ‘blessed’ straight people run around exploring premarital/post-marital/extra-marital sex, love and affection, unbound & un-convicted by their “sin” or God...only to proudly rebrand themselves later in life as a good, moral “wholesome Christian” via the ‘sacred’ institution of marriage with no questions asked. 

Inequality defined.

For Lil Nas X, everything about the society we've created for him in the last 100+ years (re: links above) has explicitly been designed for his life not to be his own. According to these and other Christians (see above), his identity is essentially supposed to be an endless rat fuck of internal confusion, suicide-ideation, depression, long-suffering, faux masculinity, heterosexism, groveling towards heaven, respectability politics, failed prayer and supplication to a heteronormative earthly and celestial hierarchy unbothered in affording LGBT people like him a healthy, sane human development. It’s almost as if the Conservative establishment (Black included) needs Lil Nas X to be like others before him: “private”, mysteriously single, suicidal, suspiciously straight or worse, dead of HIV/AIDS ...anything but driving down the street enjoying his youth as a Black Queer artist and man. So they mad about that?

Well those days are over.  

-Rogiérs is a writer, international recording artist, performer and indie label manager with 25+ years in the music industry. He also directs Black Nonbelievers of DC, a non-profit org affiliated with the AHA supporting Black skeptics, Atheists, Agnostics & Humanists. He holds a B.A. in Music Business & Mgmt and a M.A. in Global Entertainment & Music Business from Berklee College of Music and Berklee Valencia, Spain. www.FibbyMusic.net Twitter/IG: @Rogiers1

[cosmic-goddess-leo]

The Boss

Bodyguard!Kuroo Tetsuro x Reader Mafia AU

Summary: The Violet Syndicate is plunged into chaos when the head of the family is killed in a mysterious accident. Amidst the whirlwind of suspicion and deception that follows this tragedy, Kuroo Tetsuro only knows one thing: Keep her safe.

Wordcount: 10k... my longest one ever lmaooo

Warnings: Mentions of death, violence, blood, SMUT

Author’s Note: Here it is, 1 of 6 of the oneshots I’ve written to celebrate my 1k follower milestone! Thank you all so much for all your support, and I hope you enjoy!

Kuroo Tetsuro was no fool.

He was sure the rest of the family was aware of this, after all he had been a part of it for 5 years after The Violet Syndicate acquired property, guns, money and men when they branched out to Tokyo.

But part of the syndicate having been formed in Miyagi meant the family factions based there were typically weary of those from the Tokyo based factions. It didn’t mean trouble for Kuroo and the rest of the Tokyo faction at the time of the acquisition, and things had run smoothly for the past five years.

All that of course came to an end when Akaashi, the Tokyo faction’s overseer, received a call, informing him that the head of the family had been in an accident.

Kuroo, being a bodyguard for the boss whenever he had business in Tokyo, of course insisted on accompanying Akaashi on the long trip to Miyagi to represent the Tokyo faction. But it was less out of obligation for his employer and more out of concern for his pregnant wife.

Again. Kuroo Tetsuro was no fool.

He knew if some type of power-grab was being made for the seat at the head of the family, she and her unborn child would be targets as well. Though the bodyguards from the Miyagi faction were reliable, he knew that the boss would always come before the outsider he married.

That night was by far one of the longest nights of Kuroo’s life. He listened for hours on end as Akaashi and Bokuto argued with Semi and Daichi on whether or not an investigation into the accident was necessary.

Not once did he leave his post further down the hall, guarding (Y/n)’s hospital room. It gave him some comfort knowing he wouldn’t have to rely on someone from the other faction to keep her safe.

But that comfort could only do so much as one of the doctors who was operating on the boss left his room. Kuroo didn’t have to be within earshot to know what had happened. The sullen look on the doc’s face said it all.

He wanted to push the doctor away when he approached (Y/n)’s room. Wanted to send him on his way and tell her the news himself. But the cold look Akaashi sent him, similar to the one he received earlier when he attempted to see if (Y/n) was awake, forced Kuroo to step aside and let the doctor in.

Kuroo felt his heart drop into the pit of his stomach and his hands clenched into fists as a cry of despair echoed out past the door and into the silent hallway. The violent and pained howling only grew louder as the doctor retreated from the room.

He wanted more than anything to run in and hold her close. Let her cry into his shoulder, claw at his shirt and scream until her voice gave out and her throat was raw. Anything to let her know she wasn’t alone. But a simple glance at his superior kept him cemented in place.

For now all he could do was listen as she wailed into the night.

-----------------------------------------------------------

“Is that what you’re wearing?”

The familiar voice pulled Kuroo out of his thoughts, forcing his gaze to shift from his dress shoes to Akaashi. The superior raised an eyebrow at the taller man.

“I had to get dressed too quickly... I didn’t think it looked that bad.” Kuroo murmured, the lack of sleep he was currently suffering from evident in his voice.

Akaashi’s steely gaze softened, only for a moment, as he glanced from the bodyguard to the door he was leaning beside. “You know you can take some time to get some sleep, eat a proper meal... put on something more formal. The Miyagi guards can keep watch over her just fine-”

“I’m never leaving her with those fucking bumpkins again.” Kuroo snapped, a sudden rush of anger passing through his veins at the mere suggestion. He quickly checked himself, offering Akaashi an apologetic look.

“I understand that you’re weary of their job performance... especially after the accident... But we’re all still family, even if Ushijima is dead... And I expect you to act like it.” Akaashi hissed.

Kuroo shifted his gaze back to his feet that were now shuffling in discomfort. “I can’t just leave her with them... you know they’ve never liked her, this is the perfect excuse to boot her out of the organization.”

“She’ll have nothing to do with the organization or its affairs unless Ushijima's will states otherwise.” Akaashi countered. “If she’s lucky she’ll be able to move back to Tokyo and live off a monthly stipend from the syndicate. Hell, maybe she could get remarried, have a family of her own...”

“That’d be nice... wouldn’t it?” Kuroo inquired, eyes still refusing to meet Akaashi’s.

“It would...” Akaashi slowly nodded, his voice becoming hushed as he heard the familiar click of (Y/n)’s heels approaching the bedroom door. “There’s nothing left tying her to this family now...”

Kuroo internally flinched at the implication behind Akaashi’s words, but those thoughts were cut short as the bedroom door opened, revealing the woman they had been discussing.

She was clad in all black clothing that her once swollen belly hadn’t allowed her to wear just a couple weeks prior. Nothing too revealing or tight of course, this was a funeral after all.

(Y/n) adjusted the black glasses resting on the bridge of her nose, hoping to keep her puffy and tired eyes hidden.

“M’am,” Akaashi addressed her, bowing slightly before straightening his posture. “The car’s out front waiting for you.”

(Y/n) gave him a curt nod in response before walking past him and down the nearby staircase with the two men hot on her tail. The three were greeted at the foot of the staircase by Semi, who quickly wrapped an arm around (Y/n)’s shoulders as he gave her a comforting smile.

“Thank you so much, gentleman. I think my men and I can take it from here-”

“I see no harm in them accompanying me on the ride to the cemetery, Semi.” (Y/n) spoke up, her voice meek but still loud enough for Kuroo and Akaashi to hear despite the distance Semi had attempted to put between them.

His smile faltered, but he nodded in understanding before continuing on his way to the car with the others.

The ride to the cemetery involved more talking than Kuroo would have preferred. He could tell by the look on (Y/n)’s face that she was tired of hearing Akaashi and Semi arguing over the accident. He couldn’t say he blamed her. If he had to sit and relive the accident that took his spouse and his baby over and over again he wouldn’t be in the best headspace either.

But, much to Kuroo’s sadness, (Y/n) only stayed quiet and let them continue their argument all the way to the burial.

He allowed Semi to help her out of the car before taking her himself and helping her walk to the spot where the family had already been gathering. Kuroo ignored the looks they both received, his hold on (Y/n) tightening as they got closer to the group.

She sat in the front row of foldable chairs, Kuroo at her left and Semi at her right. (Y/n) had already burst into a fit of sobs on the walk there, now she was trying to stifle her cries as she stared at the wooden box suspended above the 6 foot deep hole in the ground.

Kuroo couldn’t help but shoot a sideways glance at Semi as he rested one hand on the grieving widow’s knee while the other plucked a tissue from a nearby tissue box and held it out to her. She quickly snatched it from him and made no move to remove his hand despite the way her body visibly tensed at his touch.

Semi was Ushijima’s consigliere, his right hand man. The person Ushijima trusted most with (Y/n)’s wellbeing before and after his death. So why did the look the silver-haired man gave (Y/n) send a chill down Kuroo’s spine?

-----------------------------------------------------------

(Y/n) sat quietly on her own in the foyer of the large mansion as the rest of the family from the syndicate chattered and socialized. She was used to the house being full like this, Ushijima usually had large group meetings like this when he had business to attend to.

She usually kept to herself, staying in their bedroom or going for a walk in the garden whenever the family was there. Now she was in the thick of all this commotion, her husband in the ground.

A glass of whiskey held in her face pulled her back into the present. She glanced up and was met with a small smile from Kuroo.

“Neat. Like you like it...” he mumbled, swirling the contents of the small glass before she took it.

She thanked him quietly, adjusting her sunglasses once more before taking a sip. The smaller woman winced at the burn, earning a soft chuckle from Kuroo as he sat beside her.

“Never something you get used to, huh?” he mumbled, smiling softly as she shook her head in response.

“Not at all...” she mused before taking another sip.

He caught a glimpse of a hint of a smile playing on her lips, and as she opened her mouth to speak she was interrupted by Semi.

“We’re ready to begin the reading of the will... M’am.” Semi announced, casting a glance towards (Y/n) that had her tensing in her seat. He then looked to Goshiki, then Tenou, then Shirabu, then Reon. Each of the men set aside their glasses and made their way up the stairs to the study where Ushijima’s and (Y/n)’s attorney had set up shop to read through the will.

Kuroo lightly nudged (Y/n)’s shoulder when she didn’t make a move to stand.

“I don’t want to go up there... I’m sure Semi will take care of everything and-”

“M’am, you need to be up there... I’m sure Semi would make sure you’re taken care of, but you need to make sure you get what Ushijima left to you.” Kuroo’s tone was firm but gentle. “This is the last bit of syndicate business you’ll ever have to deal with...”

(Y/n) nodded slightly before throwing back the last of her whiskey. She grunted, handed the empty glass to Kuroo, then reluctantly stood up and followed Semi up the stairs.

It felt like about 15 minutes had passed when the sound of the study door slamming open, silencing the mafiosos downstairs. The aura in the room drastically shifted as Goshiki stormed down the stairs and out of the front door of the mansion, Tendou hot on his heels.

All eyes turned to Reon and Shirabu, both sporting expressions of shock as they slowly left the study and joined the others downstairs.

Semi was next. He was trying and failing to mask the emotions running through his head as he approached Kuroo, Akaashi and Bokuto, who had gathered in one corner of the room away from the members of the Miyagi faction.

“The boss would like to meet us in the office in five minutes...” he said, silver-haired man’s tone hushed.

Akaashi raised an eyebrow at that. “The boss?”

As if on cue, the familiar sound of (Y/n)’s heels clicking echoed downstairs, followed by the attorney’s heavy footsteps. No one was subtle about clambering to the stairs to peek and see what was going on.

(Y/n) had slowly made her way past the stairwell, ignoring the looks she received when she stopped at the door of the study. Her grip on the sunglasses in her hands was enough to snap them in half.

She reached a hand out to the doorknob before visibly hesitating. She took a deep breath before firmly grabbing the knob, turning it, and stepping into the office.

(Y/n) approached the leather chair that sat behind the large mahogany desk towards the back of the room. She trailed her fingers over the arm of the chair, eyes glued to the space her husband once occupied. Some of his documents were scattered around the desk from the last time he had been there. The room as a whole had been untouched since the accident.

With another deep breath, she turned her back to the floor-to-ceiling length windows that spanned the entire back wall of the study and sat in the chair. She remained stiff for a moment before slowly easing into the large piece of furniture.

The meeting that followed was as standard as things could be right now. (Y/n), mainly asking Semi and Akaashi a lot of questions with Kuroo and Bokuto both wondering why they had been asked to sit in on the meeting.

Eventually, (Y/n) sent Semi away, asking him to get to work on informing their ‘business partners’ on the change in leadership the syndicate was experiencing. The second he left the room, (Y/n)’s calm, cool exterior went out the window as she deflated and held her head in her hands.

“What the fuck, man! That damn idiot! I hate this!” she exclaimed, causing the three men in the room to practically jump out of their skin. This had to be the loudest any of them had ever heard her speak.

“Um... Semi, m’am?” Bokuto asked, tilting his head in confusion.

“No! Toshi! That asshole, why did he do this to me?! He knew Goshiki wanted the position but he left it to me! This is so him! Throwing me to the fucking wolves then fucking leaving me to fucking deal with it all fucking fuck fuck!”

Kuroo’s eyes shifted uncomfortably between Akaashi and Bokuto, who looked just as shaken up by the rambling as he was.

(Y/n) ended the mini rant, exhaling deeply and slumping back into the chair. “Fuck my life!”

The three men remained quiet for a good minute until Akaashi cleared his throat and spoke up.

“Well maybe he wanted you to learn the business and take care of yourself rather than have to rely on a stipend from the syndicate-”

“I already know all there is to know, Toshi has been teaching me everything about the business since we got married. I just didn’t think he’d ever give it to me, especially when there’s Goshiki or Semi.” (Y/n) explained, eyes narrowed at a framed photo of her and Wakatoshi at the corner of his desk before flipping it face down.

“Wait what? Then what was all that crap we sat through these past 15 minutes?” Kuroo asked, raising an eyebrow at the woman fuming behind the desk.

“I don’t need Semi catching on, he’s pissed enough as it is!” she sighed exasperatedly.

Silence bloomed between the group until a deep chuckle erupted from the area Kuroo was occupying. (Y/n) cocked an eyebrow at him, jaw tightening as he erupted into a full on fit of laughter.

He soon composed himself before running a hand through his hair and holding his head. “So I suppose this means we may have a war on our hands then? You don’t even trust your own consigliere, or your husband’s most trusted men... This will be fun.”

“N-now now let’s not get too hasty,” Akaashi sputtered, “We don’t know anything about what happened that night, it would be unfair to draw baseless conclusions about who was involved-”

“Exactly,” (Y/n) interrupted, shifting her steel gaze from Kuroo to Akaashi. “Which is why you’re going to look into what happened that night.”

Akaashi seemed taken aback by this, something his new employer quickly picked up on.

“I need someone trustworthy to head this investigation, and I need them to do it quickly and quietly. Can I trust you with this?” She asked.

Akaashi quickly regained his composure and nodded, “Of course, m’am.”

“Wait a minute wait a minute, if there’s a possibility our boss is in danger shouldn’t we get her out of this house?” Bokuto spoke up, gaining the attention of the other three. “We don’t know where Daichi and his faction’s loyalties lie, but we know for a fact Ushijima’s old crew side with Goshiki’s non-existent claim over the business... And we’re in their territory. They could easily overtake us and get to (Y/n) if they wanted to.”

Akaashi seemed to ponder this for a moment before looking from Bokuto to Kuroo. “Would we be able to extract her and get her to the Tokyo residence tonight?”

“We could but it would be suspicious as hell.” Kuroo replied, scratching at the back of his head.

“We stay in Miyagi for as long as we safely can.” (Y/n) spoke up, tone firm. “There is work to be done here anyway... Once that work is finished we can leave to the Tokyo residence without drawing any attention to us.”

She cast her eyes back to Kuroo. “In the meantime, I want Kenma on surveillance for this residence. As well as all your men keeping an eye on the rest of the Miyagi faction... And you don’t leave my side until we’re back in Tokyo. Understood?”

Kuroo didn’t miss the way her voice wavered at that list bit. He gave her a curt nod, “Of course, m’am...”

(Y/n) seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at that, her eyes locked with his for a moment until he forced them away. They seemed to linger over her wedding ring as she continued speaking. “Bokuto. You’re not to leave Akaashi’s side over the course of his investigation... Nobody goes anywhere alone. I don’t want to take any risks.”

“Yes m’am. Anything else?” Bokuto asked, earning a small head-shake in response.

“No...” (Y/n) mumbled before catching herself and speaking in her firm tone once again. “No, you’re both dismissed.”

Kuroo half expected (Y/n) to deflate or collapse onto the desk once Bokuto and Akaashi left the room, closing the door to the office behind them. To his surprise, and glee, she stayed sitting straight, this new aura of authority never leaving her once the other men had left.

It was a good look on her. This power. She had always been so meek, reserved, in the background while her husband was in the spotlight. Now she took his place at center stage and he was captivated.

He hadn’t realized he had been smiling until (Y/n) pointed it out, her own half-amused expression painting her features. “What’s that smile for...?”

Kuroo shook his head slightly, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the buttons on the sleeve of his button-up shirt. “Just thinking of how much things have changed so quickly... namely you.”

(Y/n) quirked an eyebrow at this, urging him to elaborate before standing to pour herself a drink from the whiskey decanter that sat on the nearby bookshelf. His amber eyes watched her closely as she filled a second glass, presumably for him.

“I remember the day you and Ushijima were married... it was the first time we met.” He trailed off, searching (Y/n)’s eyes as she stood before him and handed him the glass. “You were so young... Sure we were the same age, but you just seemed so much younger... maybe it was your innocence.

You had these doe eyes that told everyone everything they needed to know: You had no idea what you were getting yourself into... Sometimes I wonder if Ushijima ever told you before the wedding or not, but I know he wasn’t the kind of man to keep something so important from his bride... Whatever the case was, you were trembling at that altar. And now here you are... All his power and you’re taking to it naturally... no more doe eyes.”

(Y/n) was now leaning against the desk, still looming in front of Kuroo as she sipped at the dark alcohol in her glass, ignoring the burn and focusing on the intensity of his eyes. “You know my husband really liked you...” she said, taking another sip before setting the glass on the desk beside her.

Kuroo cocked a brow at her as she pushed herself off the desk and approached him, heels clicking slowly against the hardwood floors. “He thought you were a good man... he trusted you with both our lives and saw you as one of his most capable men.”

(Y/n) stood beside the chair the larger man was currently occupying. She placed her smaller hand on his shoulder, her touch gentle until she suddenly squeezed at him roughly.

Kuroo looked at her in pure shock, wincing in pain as she kept an iron grip on him. “But if you ever talk down to me like that again, I’m going to cut your eyes out.” she threatened through her gritted teeth.

The bodyguard knew he should have felt fear. Or shame. Or perhaps even anger at the fact he had been threatened. But he would be lying if he said the deadly look in (Y/n)’s eyes, the tightness of her jaw, Hell, even her words themselves... didn’t make his blood deliciously hot and his heart pump faster.

Her touch was like electricity. (Y/n) seemed to feel the sparks as well, pulling her hand from his shoulder and returning to the desk to retrieve her glass of whiskey. “Am I clear, Tetsuro?”

Kuroo felt another jolt of electricity flow through him at the utterance of his name. He couldn’t help the way his lips twitched into a slight smirk before he spoke. “Transparently, m’am...”

-----------------------------------------------------------

“I was very saddened to hear about Ushijima’s death... he was a good man. But you can understand that I’m in a precarious situation given that I’m suddenly being asked to trust the protection of a woman that I don’t know.”

Kuroo couldn’t help but glance at (Y/n) for a reaction to those words. The newly crowned boss had been on edge for those past two weeks, he figured comments like that would have her snapping at them the way she had snapped at him weeks prior.

But she only gave the older man a reassuring smile as she crossed her legs, a very subtle way of showing more of her legs as her pencil skirt rode higher up her thighs. Kuroo felt his lips quirk into a slight smirk at the sight.

“I completely understand your concerns, Ukai.” (Y/n) cooed, smoothing out her skirt to draw attention to the garment. “But rest assured that my late husband’s advisors are monitoring the business and its affairs closely as I take on his responsibilities. Everything will remain stable through this change in leadership.”

Kuroo wasn’t wrong when he said (Y/n) was taking to this position; Her tone was cool, eyes locked on the other man’s as she spoke with authority. He was sure she could sell a glass of water to a drowning man if she needed to.

“Well... as long as the cost of protection remains the same and my day to day won’t be affected, this won’t be a problem at all.” The shop owner smiled, quite obviously drinking in the sight of the younger woman’s exposed skin until she stood from her seat.

“Wonderful. It was a pleasure meeting with you. Feel free to reach out should you need anything from the family.” (Y/n) said, a sickly sweet but somehow genuine looking smile painting her features as Ukai clambered out of his seat to bow respectfully to her.

The two said their goodbyes, Kuroo remaining silent as he followed close behind (Y/n) on her way out of the store. He took note of the way she suddenly tensed and shivered as they left the small shop, the autumn air seeping through the business formal clothing she had chosen for the day.

“M’am, we’ve visited quite a few of our partners today. I think it’s within reason to call it a day and get out of the cold, don’t you?” He asked, cocking a brow at her.

(Y/n) sighed softly, rubbing at her hands as she gave the bodyguard a small nod. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to go home and pick up where we left off tomorrow... and preferably in some climate appropriate clothing.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, m’am.” Kuroo said, receiving no response as he led (Y/n) to their car and opened the backseat door for her. He climbed in once she was settled and instructed the driver to take them home.

The ride was completely silent as the two refused to make eye contact with one another. A more adequate way of describing it would be that the two glanced at the other on more than one occasion, always looking away before they could notice.

Their eyes finally locked, only for the car to abruptly stop as the driver apologized.

Kuroo looked at the heavy traffic blocking their route home, eyebrows knitting together in confusion at the congested street. It was nowhere near rush hour and this side of town was never so busy.

Just as (Y/n) began to voice those same concerns, Kuroo caught sight of a figure moving through the traffic... no. Three. Instincts kicked in within the blink of an eye, and before he really knew what was happening he was tackling (Y/n) onto her seat.

“DOWN!”

Gunshots. Breaking glass. Screaming. A symphony that rang in Kuroo’s ears as he shielded (Y/n)’s smaller body with his. Her head was buried in his chest, muffling her cries of fear as bullet after bullet pelted the car and whizzed overhead.

Soon enough the gunfire subsided, leaving the two to catch their breath in the backseat of the luxury vehicle. Kuroo slowly lifted his head, glancing out the shattered windshield before looking down at the woman he was protecting.

She clung to his button-up shirt like if she dared let go he would fade away. Her chest heaved up and down as she looked up at him frantically, confused and scared, desperate to be back home and away from the madness.

He cupped her cheek, soothingly brushing his thumb over her flushed skin. “Wait here.”

Before (Y/n) could object, Kuroo was opening the door and crawling past her body, exiting the car with his pistol at the ready.

She wanted to yell for him, beg him not to leave her and to just hold her until it was over. That was the old (Y/n). The (Y/n) who had a husband to go into the world for her, deal with the ugly bits of humanity to take care of her and their child.

The piece of her that wanted to cling to her old life with Wakatoshi is what kept her curled up in the car, sobbing wildly as she waited for Kuroo to return. Despite knowing Toshi had always kept a sidearm hidden under the cushions of the backseat, she made no move to grab it.

(Y/n) could hear a few shots firing, the sounds of a scuffle then more shots. Then a heavy silence hung in the air, causing her to fear the worst. The quiet was followed by the sound of footsteps trudging towards the opened car door.

She covered her ears and curled up further into herself, shaking with fear as the footsteps grew closer and closer. “Oh dear god please. Please don’t. Please...” she whimpered barely loud enough for anyone but herself to hear.

Two rough hands took hold of her wrists, forcing a scream from her throat as they pulled her towards the door. (Y/n) fought against them for a moment, sobbing uncontrollably until she heard the man’s voice.

She could barely make out the words Kuroo spoke, her ears ringing as she finally allowed him to pull her from the car and to stand on her two feet. (Y/n) was sure it had something to do with having to move, but just as she was finally processing what was happening, Kuroo had lifted her off her feet and began running away from what remained of their car.

-----------------------------------------------------------

(Y/n) sat motionless in her office, deaf to the bickering currently going on around her. It was the usual suspects; Akaashi and Semi argued relentlessly over what to do about the attempt on her life, talking over one another while Kuroo stood silently by her side, nursing a headache.

“We’re taking her back to Tokyo! She’s not safe here-”

“If she leaves it will be showing weakness!” Semi barked over Akaashi. “She needs to stay here and face this head on while we look into who was behind the attack!”

Akaashi’s icy eyes narrowed at the other, “You could easily investigate what happened while we take her to Tokyo...”

“That’s so typical of you... Can’t leave that city that reeks of piss and shit for too long! You think you’re too good for Miyagi-”

“QUIET!”

The three men froze at the sound of (Y/n)’s voice and turned to find her practically shaking in her seat. “I’m not sure if this is clear... but I want whoever did this dead. And I mean seriously fucking dead!” (Y/n) jabbed her finger past the bickering men, pointing at the wall beside them. “Their heads mounted on my wall kinda fucking dead!”

Kuroo bit back a laugh, glancing between Akaashi and Semi’s shocked expressions.

“M’am, we’ll take care of it the second we learn who was behind this-”

“Then get the hell out of my office and find out who did it!” (Y/n) snapped, glaring at Semi and effectively silencing him. “Play dumb all you want but I know we have little rats all over Miyagi, one of them is bound to squeal if you ask the right questions.”

“I suggest we take you back to Tokyo while Semi conducts his investigation.” Akaashi spoke up, the glare he received from his employer doing little to rattle him.

“Figured as much but I’m not leaving. Semi’s right that it will show weakness. We have more than enough guards to watch the house while he gets to work.”

Akaashi opened his mouth to argue only for Semi to cut him off, “I’ll get to it right away m’am. In the meantime keep your head down.” He approached (Y/n), placing his hand over her clenched fist that rested atop her desk. “This will all be over soon...”

Kuroo’s expression soured as (Y/n) made no move to pull her hand from Semi’s. He watched him closely as he and Akaashi left the room, leaving Kuroo and (Y/n) in silence.

He moved around the desk, sitting in one of the armchairs and gaining the confidence to speak. “Are you actually comfortable staying in Miyagi...?” Kuroo was met with silence, prompting him to continue. “All you have to do is say the word, and I’ll drive you back home to Tokyo myself...”

(Y/n) seemed to ponder his words as she looked him over, “A 3 hour drive in the middle of the night... sounds like a bit much, doesn’t it?”

Kuroo chuckled lightly at that, relaxing into the chair as he ran a hand through his hair. “Not for you, M’am... Hell I’d drive you all the way across Japan if it made you feel safer tonight...”

(Y/n)’s lips twitched into a small smile until she processed just how tired Kuroo looked. She felt a twinge of guilt, despite knowing full well it was his job to stay with her. She could have requested a different body guard to take his place so he could rest.

He caught on to her shift in demeanor, tilting his head at her. “Are you alright...?”

“About as good as someone who almost died today can be... you should get some rest.” (Y/n) said, standing from her seat and prompting Kuroo to do the same.

“I don’t want to leave your side... I’ll be alright, m’am.” He assured, only for (y/n) to turn to him and take his hands in hers.

“You’ve done so much for me today... please get some rest. I’ll call one of the other men from your team to watch my door tonight. Just please... rest.” (Y/n) pleased, tone gentle but firm as she squeezed his hands.

Kuroo felt warmth bloom in his chest at the feeling of her hands in his, but just as quickly as this feeling came it had left. (Y/n) released his hands, silently leaving him as she hastily made her way to her room.

-----------------------------------------------------------

(Y/n) didn’t know what time it was when she woke to a cool breeze slipping through her open window. She knew it was late, and judging by how low the moon was in the sky she hadn’t been sleeping long.

She sighed as she turned to lay on her side, staring at the empty spot in bed beside her. Absentmindedly reaching out, her fingers grazed over the sheets, missing the warmth of the man who once occupied that side of the king size bed.

Warmth. That was what made her realize just how cold the room was. Along with the fact that she hadn’t left her window open that night.

Just as she made a move to sit up and yell for her guard, an unseen attacker wrapped a silk tie around her throat, causing her screams to die down in her throat.

(Y/n) struggled to fight against her assailant, wheezing for air as they kneeled on the bed beside her and pulled her onto her knees. Her body was now flush against theirs, thrashing for freedom while the attacker only pulled harder on the tie, further constricting her windpipe.

For a moment, (Y/n) was ready to let this happen. She was that scared little woman all over again, waiting for Wakatoshi to run in and save her from the dark. No. It had to be Kuroo. Kuroo would have to be the one to save her now.

But as her vision began to blur, she quickly realized no one was coming for her.

In that instant, the old (Y/n) was gone. Finally.

She used the last bit of her strength to reach up behind her and claw at her attacker’s face. Her nails dug into the fabric of a ski-mask until they found purchase in the eyehole of the mask.

The man suddenly screamed and grunted in pain as (Y/n) scratched at his eye, the feeling of warm liquid running down her arm telling her she had done a number on him. She took the opportunity to elbow him in the ribs and knock him off the bed.

She coughed as she struggled to catch her breath, using what little oxygen she had to let out a blood curdling scream. (Y/n)’s chest heaved as she weakly crawled to the other side of the bed, groaning in anguish as she heard the door to the bedroom rattling against the hinges. It was painfully clear now that the assassin had blocked the door.

She could hear Yamamoto’s frantic voice on the other side of the door, soon followed by Kuroo’s then Akaashi’s. It was hard to understand what they were saying as another surge of adrenaline flowed through her veins at the feeling of the man grabbing her by her ankle and pulling her to the edge of the bed.

Another scream escaped her lips as she kicked at the assassin, trying and failing to hit his bad eye until she glanced at him over her shoulder. her heel connected with his eye, sending him backwards with another cry of pain.

(Y/n) pulled herself to the other side of the bed, digging into Wakatoshi’s nightstand. Her movements became frantic as she heard the bed springs creak under the weight of her attacker.

Just as the bed dipped beside her, she found the revolver her husband had kept in the nightstand. In a blur (Y/n) had pulled back the hammer of the gun just as the man yanked her by her shoulder to face him.

Kuroo felt his heart drop into the pit of his stomach as he heard 6 gunshots echo from the bedroom. Bokuto had just begun ramming his shoulder into the door seconds prior, hoping that his weight would be able to break it open.

“Step aside!” Akaashi called out, approaching the door with an ax he had found in the gardening shed outside. He began hacking at the door, grunting with each hit until there was a hole big enough to reach through and remove whatever was blocking the door.

Kuroo flung open the door, rushing into the bedroom with Akaashi, Bokuto and Yamamoto by his side, each with their weapons raised and at the ready. The found (Y/n) curled up on the floor beside the bed, hugging her knees as she stared at the bullet-ridden body sprawled out across the mattress.

Kuroo ran to her side, cupping her cheek as he looked her over for any injuries, relieved to find none other than her bruising throat.

“Lets find out who this fucking dirtbag is.” Bokuto growled, yanking the ski-mask off the assassin.

The sound of the ax falling out of Akaashi’s hands and clattering loudly to the floor drew (Y/n)’s attention away from Kuroo and to the corpse. Kuroo turned his head as well, eyes going wide as his hands flew to cover (Y/n)’s eyes, but it was too late.

She had already looked into Semi’s lifeless but familiar brown eyes before Kuroo had a chance to shield her from the sight.

(Y/n) began screaming wildly and thrashing against his hold, sobs scratching at her already raw throat. Kuroo stood up, holding (Y/n) tightly as she went limp against him and wailed in despair. He uncovered her eyes to adjust his hold on her and keep her from falling, guilt forcing her to stare wide eyed at Semi’s now pale body.

Her screams continued to echo through the house until Kuroo managed to get her in the backseat of one of the cars in the garage, driving off with her in the direction of Tokyo and not bothering to look back.

-----------------------------------------------------------

(Y/n) stared blankly at the red liquid collected in the palm of her hand. A drop of water fell from a strand of her soaked hair and into the small pool of bloody water now rippling in her cupped hand.

A larger hand gently took hold of her wrist, extending her limb slightly and exposing the blood soaked skin of her forearm. (Y/n) further curled in on herself, bringing her knees tighter against her chest as a loofa gently brushed over her skin, leaving light red suds in their wake.

(Y/n) chewed at her lip, the slow ministrations pulling her from her haze as she cast a glance Kuroo’s way. He was kneeled beside the tub, eyes heavy with fatigue and squinting at harsh bathroom light.

He had rolled the sleeves of his thermal up to his elbows so as to prevent them from getting wet as he gently scrubbed her arms and torso of Semi’s blood. She had hardly moved since she stopped wailing on the drive from Miyagi, something told Kuroo if he even tried leaving her in the tub unsupervised she would slip under the water without realizing it.

It wasn’t part of the plan to start washing her, but the way she had just sat frozen in the bath, staring at the crimson clouds swirling in the water tugged at his chest and brought him to his knees beside her.

(Y/n) seemed unfazed as he ran the loofa over her chest, shivering at his touch only for a moment before returning to her motionless state. She rinsed off once the remainder of the blood had been scrubbed away, stepping onto the fluffy bath mat with Kuroo’s assistance.

Once she was dried and dressed comfortably, she allowed Kuroo to lead her to the bedroom. He checked the windows and shut the curtains as (Y/n) flopped onto the large bed behind him, releasing a breath she didn’t know she had been holding the second she felt the down comforter cradling her body.

“I’ll be right outside the door.” Kuroo mumbled, stepping towards the door only for (Y/n) to lightly take hold of his wrist.

“Please don’t go...” she said, voice hoarse barely above a whisper.

Kuroo couldn’t identify the whirlwind of emotions swirling in (Y/n)’s eyes. He could see the grief and shock from what had just transpired hours before, along with fatigue from barely sleeping a wink during the drive. But there was something lingering deeper. Maybe it was... no. It couldn’t be.

Kuroo wordlessly crawled into the bed, thankful he had put on comfortable sweats just before the incident. He laid rather stiffly on his back, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears when he felt (Y/n) move an arm over his waist. Despite his best efforts to calm himself, he only felt his heart pound faster as (Y/n) rested her head on his chest.

Her warmth slowly eased him to relax into the mattress, sleep slowly consuming him as he took in the sweet scent of her shampoo. His chest slowly rose and fell with each breath, only for it to tighten at the feeling of nails gently raking under his shirt and up his stomach.

It had to be his imagination, an inkling of a dream that he was slowly slipping into. Despite how incredibly real it felt, it had to be a dream.

The plush lips slowly working against his jaw, however, were not a dream.

Kuroo couldn’t help but shoot up in bed, cheeks flushing as he looked down at (Y/n), the unknown emotion in her eyes now painfully clear to him. “M’am-”

“It’s alright, no one has to know. Please...” (Y/n) murmured, lightly gripping the hem of his shirt as she sat up beside him.

Kuroo almost choked, fingers twitching at his sides as he struggled to think up a response. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to...

“(Y/n)...” he sighed, gently taking hold of her hands and bringing them to his chest. “Sex won’t make you feel better...”

(Y/n) bit her lip as her chest ached at his words, suddenly feeling foolish as she pulled her hands from him and looked down at her lap. “I just wanted to feel something good... for the first time in weeks.”

“When you’re in the right state of mind... we can try it.” he sighed, finding it increasingly difficult to take his eyes off her. “Right now I can stay with you, comfort you, hold you as much as you need... I just wouldn’t feel right doing anything else...”

(Y/n) stayed silent for a moment, internally screaming at herself to say something, anything to ease this tension. All she could do was wordlessly move her arms back around Kuroo’s waist and rest her head on his chest as he laid back, pulling the comforter over their bodies.

She stared at Kuroo’s chest, cheeks burning from embarrassment. It wasn’t until Kuroo began gently stroking her head that she relaxed against him as she had earlier. His thick fingers slowly worked against her scalp, pulling a content sigh from her lips as she began dozing off.

A small ‘thank you’ slipped past her lips before she finally fell into a dreamless sleep. Before she was completely overcome by slumber she felt a pair of warm lips press to her head.

-----------------------------------------------------------

The fact that the Tokyo faction hadn’t completely pulled out of Miyagi had (Y/n) more on edge than usual. She understood that Akaashi would have to do damage control, and that he would need a sizable group of guards there to keep him safe as he did so, but that didn’t make (Y/n) any less nervous about the situation.

According to Akaashi’s regular updates, Ushijima’s core group were up in arms about the turn of events. Some were in shock, evidently unaware of his turn away from the organization. Others had apparently seen it coming but elected to say nothing.

Meanwhile Daichi’s men were thrown for a loop by all of this, none of them having been in close with the late consigliere. That at least meant none of them worked with him on this plot against (Y/n)’s life.

It had been a week since (Y/n) and Kuroo left Miyagi. Since then only a handful of Kuroo’s men had returned to keep watch over the Tokyo residence. Kuroo would have been upset by this if they weren’t on their home turf, somewhere they knew like the back of their hand.

Over the course of that week, Kuroo seldom let (Y/n) out of his sight. He did what he could to ease (Y/n)’s nerves, well what he could do while basically keeping her under house arrest.

Whenever she wasn’t mulling over her work, he was dragging her out of her office to keep her occupied in other areas of the house. They quickly learned the kitchen was no place for them when they almost set it on fire their first night after they arrived.

They ordered a lot of takeout, eating in the house’s small theater room rather than the dining room and watching whatever movies they could find online or in Wakatoshi’s old dvd collection.

The two were settled in their usual chairs, a box of pizza set on the armrests between them as their movie selection for the night filled the silence between the two.

“You think that actually works?” Kuroo asked mid-bite, eyes never leaving the projector screen as he spoke.

“What works?” (Y/n) quirked a brow at him.

“The crying technique.” he responded, motioning to the screen with his free hand as the two teens practiced making themselves fake cry.

(Y/n) snorted as she bit into her pizza, whining softly as it lightly burned the roof of her mouth. “I ‘unno, never had to fake cry before...”

Kuroo snorted back, handing her an unopened can of soda to cool her mouth. “I’m not saying you have, I’m just asking if you think it works.”

She thanked him before quickly gulping down the soda and setting the can aside. “We can always try it if you’re that curious.” He couldn’t help but roll his eyes, but before he knew it (Y/n) was pausing the movie and turning to face him. “Cmon, since you’re so interested let’s try!”

“Noooo nononono, we don’t have to do that-”

“As your boss I am now ordering you to find out if the crying technique works with me!” (Y/n) giggled, tugging on his wrist to face her.

He could tell by the look in her eyes she wasn’t going to let up. Rather than argue he faced (Y/n) and huffed dramatically as he looked her over. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

(Y/n) smiled excitedly, bouncing lightly before composing herself. “Okay... tiny gulps of air. Ready?” The small nod she received from Kuroo signaled her to begin.

Her chest began to heave up and down rapidly as she started taking shallow breaths, eyes closing until she heard Kuroo snickering behind the palm of his hand. (Y/n)’s cheeks grew hot as she lightly smacked his arm, causing his laughter to grow in volume. “I’m not gonna do it if you’re gonna laugh at me!” she whined.

“Sorry sorry!” he smiled, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Taking it seriously now! This is very serious!” He chuckled, quickly composing himself.

“Good! Because this is serious! Now breathe!” (Y/n) playfully scolded, cracking a small smile before she started taking her shallow breaths. Kuroo followed her lead, fighting back a smile as they continued their antics.

(Y/n) let out a small whimper, the lack of air now pulling small noises from her parted lips that now actually made it harder for Kuroo to breathe. “I-Is it working?” she breathed.

Kuroo quickly shook his head, watching her closely as she stared at the ceiling, refusing to meet his eyes. “I can’t tell with you looking to the heavens like that, you cheater.” he said, moving closer to her as he continued taking his small gulps of air.

His close proximity forced (Y/n) to finally look at him, lips quivering at the intensity of his eyes. Their breaths mingling as their chests heaved in unison.

Kuroo couldn’t stop himself from glancing at (Y/n)’s lips, something that didn’t go unnoticed by her. He couldn’t deny he was satisfied she had seen it. Especially now that he saw her looking down at his.

His fingers twitched, longing to cup the back of her neck and hold her against him. Longing to taste her lips, but unwilling to cross that line unless she was ready.

Before he could further question himself, (Y/n) slowly took his cheeks between her hands, pulling him close enough to where their lips were barely touching. Kuroo exhaled shakily, the realization that she was waiting on him to close the gap sparking a burn deep in his chest.

He took a deep breath before finally smashing his lips against hers, drawing a moan from her as she returned the kiss with the same amount of passion. (Y/n)’s hands trailed down to his chest, gripping at his shirt as Kuroo cupped the back of her neck and deepened the kiss.

Kuroo was about to maneuver (Y/n) past the armrest to sit in his lap, the need to feel her body against his overwhelming his senses until the sound of the theater room doors opening forced them apart.

They were both very grateful at the height of the chairs, had they been shorter they would have definitely been caught. God, it was enough to make Kuroo feel like he was back in high school, having to sneak around with his crush or else he’d get grounded.

(Y/n) stood up from her chair, quickly composing herself when she recognized Akaashi standing at the door, clutching a file folder to his chest. The look in his eyes had (Y/n) completely forgetting her small tryst with Kuroo and rushing to get to her office with Akaashi.

“An autopsy showed that your driver that night had ingested a large amount of diazepam earlier that night... something none of his medical records show he had never been prescribed.” Akaashi explained, watching intently as (Y/n) paged through the numerous reports and documents he had collected over the course of his investigation.

Kuroo read what he could over (Y/n)’s shoulder, occasionally glancing between the papers and Akaashi as the man spoke.

“Meanwhile... Semi had been prescribed diazepam about three months prior to the accident. One thorough search of his residence later and...” Akaashi trailed off before pulling a sealed bag from his large briefcase and setting it onto the desk. Inside the bag was a half-full bottle of pills, labeled with Semi’s information as well as the name of the medication.

(Y/n) breathed shakily as she set the files down, forcing herself to look at Akaashi through the tears in her eyes.

“It’s evident that he drugged your driver earlier that night, knowing the heavy dosage would cause him to pass out at the wheel. Resulting in the accident... And since you didn’t die in the crash, he took action to remedy that when he knew for certain you’d be home.”

“So the ambush, he orchestrated that to make sure she’d be at the residence where he could try and...” Kuroo trailed off, earning a nod in response from Akaashi.

“Some quick hacking from Kenma showed a banking transaction between Semi and the three hitmen took place a few days before the attack... I’m sure he hoped they would get the job done before he ever had to intervene.” Akaashi explained, taking the file from (Y/n) as she handed it off to him.

She held her head in her hand for a moment, sighing deeply as she processed the information that Akaashi had gathered for her. She wound a hand through her hair, brushing it out of her face before she sat up to meet his eyes once more. “And the others...? Did they have a hand in any of this?”

Akaashi slowly shook his head as he placed the evidence back in his briefcase. “It doesn’t appear so... however I think it would behoove us to bring them here and interrogate them with you present.”

“Good. Send for them tomorrow. I want this over and done with.” (Y/n) declared, earning a bow from Akaashi. “I’ll leave you and Kuroo to discuss the security protocols for tomorrow. For now I need to rest. Thank you for your hard work.”

Kuroo silently watched her leave the room and was immediately met with a glare from Akaashi. “Did you fuck her?”

The bodyguard practically choked at the question, “What?! No! What the Hell is wrong with you?!”

“I’m not fucking stupid, I saw the way you two freaked out when I walked into that room. You’ve been alone with her a week and you’re telling me nothing’s happened?” the smaller man snapped.

“Nothing. Happened. And even if it did we have more important things to worry about than who she’s sleeping with right now.” Kuroo sneered, narrowing his eyes at Akaashi.

“That may be true, but we can’t risk giving anyone in the organization any reason to try and undermine her right now. You can both do what you like, but wait until this matter is settled... understood?”

Kuroo rolled his eyes at that, crossing his arms as he leaned against the desk. “Whatever you say...”

-----------------------------------------------------------

Kuroo had gotten a surprising amount of sleep that night considering the last minute preparations he had to take care of for the meeting set to take place that day. He was grateful for the small break he had gotten from his suits that week he was alone with (Y/n), but that only meant having to wear them once again felt constricting as fuck.

He adjusted his tie for the umpteenth time that afternoon, waiting patiently with Bokuto and Akaashi for (Y/n) and their ‘guests’ to arrive. Just as he began to wonder if (Y/n) had slept in, the door to the office creaked open, revealing a very professional, very sexy looking (Y/n) at the door.

She wore a form fitting blouse black blouse and a tight, black pencil skirt with tiny white polka dots and a small slit at the back. Her red-bottom Prada heels clicked against the hardwood as she approached her desk, seemingly unaware of the way the three men were staring at her.

“Is everything ready for our visitors?” She asked, smoothly sitting in her chair as she glanced between the three.

Akaashi quickly cleared his throat, causing Kuroo to realize she was primarily addressing him. “Yes, m’am. My men are all in place and Kenma is closely monitoring the residence’s cameras in case of any attack.”

(Y/n) gave him a small nod, glancing Akaashi’s way. “Do we have an ETA?”

“Approximately 30 minutes...” He replied, glancing at his watch.

“Good. You and Bokuto wait downstairs to receive them. Kuroo and I have some matters to discuss.”

Kuroo felt his heart jump into his throat, the sideways glance Akaashi sent him going completely unnoticed before he and Bokuto left.

(Y/n) beckoned him to approach the desk and he wordlessly obeyed, standing from his chair and moving around the desk to stand before her. “Is everything alright...?” he asked, the air around them thick with tension.

He watched intently as she licked her lips, her head slowly shaking in response. “No... I need you...”

Kuroo almost pounced on her in that moment, aching to touch her but showing restraint. “Is this what you want...? It isn’t the grief or the shock or anything else?”

(Y/n) quickly shook her head once more as she stood and gripped the lapels on his suit. “It’s none of that. I want you. I need you. I need you to fuck me and fill me before I deal with this bullshit. If you want the same thing, take me.”

He eagerly leaned in and kissed her hard, with just as much passion as he had the night before. Now there was no pesky armrest separating the two as they ground against one another.

A squeal of surprise escaped her lips as (Y/n) was lifted off her feet and rested on the edge of the desk. Kuroo gripped the hem of her skirt and bunched it up around her hips, revealing her lace underwear to him and pulling a deep moan from his throat.

He settled between her legs, hips grinding against hers as he greedily tasted her lips. (Y/n) hastily unbuttoned his shirt, exposing his toned chest and allowing her nails to drag down his bare skin.

Kuroo moaned against her lips, the pain mixing with pleasure as he ground his erection against her heat. He carefully started unbuttoning her shirt and littered her cleavage with hot kisses once he caught sight of her lace bra.

(Y/n) wound her hands into his hair, whining desperately as she struggled to get off her panties. Kuroo couldn’t help but chuckle as he assisted her, tugging off the soaked material and shoving them in his pocket. As much as he wanted to tease her and take his time with her, he knew they didn’t have very long.

He hastily undid his belt and his slacks, letting the material pool at his feet as he fisted his cock, lips quirking into a cocky smirk at the way (Y/n) stared at his length.

Kuroo gripped (Y/n)’s hip with one hand, using the other to guide the tip of his cock into (Y/n)’s entrance. He searched her eyes for any hint of hesitation or reluctance, but only melted when he saw the lust burning in her half-lidded eyes.

He fully entered her with a slow and deep thrust, unable to keep himself from moaning at the feeling of her tight pussy gripping his cock. (Y/n) whined and bucked her hips weakly in hopes of gaining some form of friction, earning a breathy chuckle from her lover before he answered her prayers.

Kuroo’s thrusts were quick and deliberate, the head of his cock pounding into her sweet spot once he found it. (Y/n) roughly took her lip between her teeth, trying to keep her moans quiet as ecstasy and pleasure rippled through her veins.

It worked to keep her quiet until Kuroo pulled her legs to wrap around his hips, somehow fucking her even deeper and harder. A small shriek almost escaped (Y/n)’s parted lips, but Kuroo quickly captured it in a heated kiss. Their lips and teeth and tongues clashed as their pleasure overtook them, orgasms approaching fast as he bucked wildly into her.

With one last snap of his hips, (Y/n) was pushed over the edge and moaning wantonly into the kiss as her orgasm washed over her. Kuroo reluctantly parted from the kiss, hissing as her pussy clamped down on him and soaked him with her juices.

“Tell me where, baby...” he groaned, thrusts getting sloppier by the second as he felt himself reaching his peak.

(Y/n) breathed hard and tugged roughly at Kuroo’s messy hair, back arching at the overstimulation. “I-inside. Please, inside...”

Kuroo felt his cock twitch at her words, unable to stop himself from finally cumming and painting her walls white. He hid his face in the crook of her neck to stifle his moans and groans. (Y/n) sighed happily at the feeling of his warmth inside of her.

A knock at the door cut their post-coital bliss short and sent them scrambling to tidy up and re-dress. Kuroo quickly helped clean up her smeared lipstick and dabbed the sweat from her forehead before drying his own.

Once they were both sure they were freshened up, Kuroo went to open the office door. He was quickly stopped as (Y/n) took his hand and turned him to face her, pressing one last kiss to his lips before she sat back in her chair.

Kuroo couldn’t help but chuckle before he opened the door, noting the knowing expressions on Akaashi’s and Bokuto’s faces. Akaashi was red with anger, whereas Bokuto was grinning smugly at the taller man.

“If you’re both finished...” Akaashi sighed, repressing his anger. “They’re here...”

Kuroo glanced behind them at the nervous looking group of men before he smirked and moved aside for them to enter.

The men shuffled into the room, each taking a seat in the office and flinching slightly as Kuroo shut the door behind them. He moved to (Y/n)’s side, looking over the group with (Y/n), unable to keep himself from smiling as she spoke.

“So... shall we?”

-----------------------------------------------------------

Tag List: @iwaxme​ @vventure​ @ochacostrange​ @yams046​ @the-broken-halo-writer​ @tokyoghoose​ @madireyn​ @global---weaboo​ @achoohq​ @daiseukis​ @bb-noya​ @lydzisanerd​ @gemini-writes​

[yoondoze]

coin toss | jjk

you and jeongguk go way back, even before you were the menacing duo many knew you to be, even before he brought you into the mafia and left you there to join the city’s detective agency. a call for cooperation comes out of a common enemy, requiring the two of you to reconcile for one last mission.

pairing: jeon jeongguk x reader

word count: 25.4k

genre: soft and hard angst, mafia/detective agency au, complicated exes (?)

warnings: language, violence, blood, character death, sexual implications, little bit of gore, jimin has a weird hatred of yoongi idk don’t take it seriously, mentions of torture, grief, too many italics

a/n: long time no see everyone, hope you’re doing well! this story was inspired by my favorite anime, bungou stray dogs (it’s got a soukoku type beat & you’ll recognize some structures). it’s my first back in a while, and it’s also the longest piece i’ve written, so i hope you all enjoy it! <3

To be called to the Boss’s office for a quick word is almost always a sealed exit ticket from this world. One, because regular meetings of necessity are always held in the boardroom and discussed amongst the executives. Two, one on one meetings mean no witnesses. You’ve been there once before and barely made it out alive. To make it out a second time? The chances are practically nonexistent. 

The room feels less like an office and more like an 18th-century study, a dark academia dream with the coffee-toned furniture and ceiling-high shelves stacked with books. The only sign of modernity is the pristine silver laptop sitting perfectly on his desk. The guards to the side of the room look straight ahead, no indication of how this will end for you.

“My dear, good to see you,” The Boss purrs, eyelids falling into tender crescents as you place yourself gently on the cushion of his ornate bergère. Typically there are two of a kind that sit across from his dark oak bureau, but at this moment one has been removed from the space so yours could be positioned parallel to his own chair. 

The Boss has an intimidating air about him. From the gentle yet feline-like movements that look like they mask something sinister, to his signature verbosity that’s almost professorial, he’s the perfect paradigm of a godfather.

“And you, Boss. It’s been a while.” You maintain a cool tone, not breaking his eye contact. He was a dog that could smell fear and would drag it out of you if he thought it could sate his twisted desire for control.

He sighs as his cheshire smile fades. “I don’t like beating around the bush, as I’m sure you know. You... must have heard the rumors of a third party organization stepping foot in this city, yes?”

The whispers started only days ago, and the most you heard was only an assumption from another underling at the bar. Considering how much people loved to gossip and how boring it got around here, you were just going to brush it off. However, if it was enough to bring you here, it had to be something worth your attention.

“Yes, it’s been floating around.” You clear your throat. “Is it something to be worried about?”

He puts his elbows on the table and clasps his hands together, sucking a breath through his teeth. “This has happened before, when a new group tries to disrupt our hold on the functioning of our territory, and we have always squashed them from the picture quietly. But unfortunately, those who call themselves the Syndicate play dirty.”

It seems as if things were not heading in the track you imagined when being escorted on the long walk here. But then he orders the guards at the sides of the room out, and your heart jumps to your throat.

As the large doors close behind them, he resumes talking.

“Last week, twenty-two of our men were killed and one taken during a weapons exchange with a western group...who we thought were a western group. All they left behind was a handful of playing cards.” His wrist flicks up suddenly, a black card tucked between his two fingers. The shine on the back glints under the dim lamplight. He stares in disdain.

The nervous habit of jumbling your fingers started up in your lap, asking, “Who was it?”

“Underlings of the Syndicate,” he brushes past, holding up a single finger before continuing, “The key is that the missing one was a trusted man in our central intelligence unit. He was carrying knowledge of our expansion plans within the next year. When backup came, he was gone. Intelligence then reported that the Syndicate was also responsible for the crisis of our allies in the Midwest, Fox Lodge, two years ago. And a year before, the Federacy in Europe. They crumbled in a matter of weeks.”

The man sweeps his dark hair from his forehead, an undetectable motive flaring in his eyes, the one person you could never read. 

“Simply,” he shrugs, “this fish is too big to fry on our own.”

You couldn’t help but swallow. “And that means…?”

“I’ve spoken to the director of the Detective Agency. A temporary ceasefire has been agreed upon... Similar interests, a common enemy, you see.”

Existed an extensive list of things that did not have the capacity to surprise you anymore in this life. But a ceasefire? That was impossible; The Detective Agency and the Mafia had always been at odds like a fated grudge of the gods above. The fighting had been continuous for all your time spent in the organization.

“I know,” he nods, “It is a miraculous thought. But they have the resources and we have the manpower. While it would be great to let Syndicate take them out for us, we would ultimately be next on their list. Cooperation is our best bet.”

And the thought of what this conversation may be coming to strikes you like lightning on waiting sand. “I thought you didn’t approve of betting, Boss.”

“Hmm… I see you’ve caught on,” he says pensively, a smile rising on his face as fast as it disappears. “This gamble is one I have much faith in. It used to be our ace in the hole, you remember?”

Weakly, you mumble, “I do.”

“You must realize that our situation is grave. I would not suggest it if there was another way. In the kindest manner I can put it, dear, your willing partnership is required.”

And there’s the kicker, the whole reason why. A sick feeling seethes in the pit of your stomach, makes you want to gag or throw up or pass out. You have a choice, of course, but not a real choice. To clarify, it was agree, or be squashed out quietly, as Boss liked to say. On the off chance you would choose death over discomfort, he had to call you to his office for safe measure. 

“I understand, Boss,” is all you could manage. 

“I’m glad,” he smiles. “Though we have all turned a bit sour since Jeon’s departure, I’m sure you are capable of uniting for the sake of our city. I wouldn’t mind if you killed him after the mission is complete, either, but I will leave that up to your judgment.”

The name is awkward coming off his tongue, even with the chuckle he throws in to lighten the mood, implying an air of distance and estrangement. 

Jeon. That bastard. The thought of working with him… incredible. It was silly of you to think that you’d never see him again while fighting for control of the same city, but there you were, awestruck and in embarrassing shock. “Thank you, Boss. I’ll do what is needed.”

“Get some rest. I’ll be calling a meeting tomorrow with the other executives and we will talk about the plan. You are excused.”

With an obedient nod, you are lifting yourself from the chair and heading toward the door, the sound of your heels muted on his burgundy carpet.

“Oh, and dear?”

You pause, turning your head over your shoulder and clearing your throat. “Yes?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he traces his thumb along the blade of his knife, glinting in the dim glow of the moonlit window. “You know I trust you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Without a falter in his expression, he makes a swift movement with his wrist. Before you can blink, the blade flies past your ear and lodges itself in the door in front of you. “Don’t make me regret it.”

A threat not to be taken lightly.

“Of course.”

As you tread down the hallway on your way out, you can't help but chastise yourself. How dumb could you be? Of course he would try to intimidate you like that. Any other day, you could have sensed it and caught it before it even parted with his palm. That was how it was supposed to be, as the renowned Scorpion, right? Was the thought of Jeon and having to see him again so debilitating that you let your guard flounder like that? Pathetic.

Hopefully he’d only take it as a slip-up. Take it as a respectful allowance and understanding as opposed to weakness. If you were losing your skills, your value was lost, as was your privilege to live.

The ride back to your apartment is the worst you had in years. Even the radio station you listen to regularly for mind-numbing background noise has you wanting to burst. The traffic lights make you want to scream, the sound of the air pushing past the open window has you bubbling with fury, the blinking advertisements circulating building perimeters driving your mind blank. Somewhere in a moment of clarity, you know it all starts with fear. 

Truth was, you and Jeon were partners once. In crime, the trump card the Mafia put down to play dirty, no way to get around you. In tandem, a menacing duo, the bold and the lethal, the Lion and the Scorpion. In the sheets, from time to time, after a few too many drinks or a few too many flirty looks on a sober night. Two sides of the same coin. But that was then, in a different time and a different world, and in a way that you hated how your mind had retained him so perfectly in his bitter absence.

☆☆☆

To be honest, the atmosphere of the first meeting really couldn’t have been any better than expected. It’s the furthest thing from civil, of course, but it can be considered a blessing that everyone participating was still breathing.

For protective purposes, office space had been rented out for a few hours for the intents of the meeting. There were only eight of you gathered in the small space; From the Mafia, the four top executives and from the Agency, the VP and three head advisors. One of them, none other than Jeon himself. The president and the boss stayed out for this meeting in an attempt to lower the tension, which was certainly an effort taken. Personal affairs mixing in would have resulted in at least one dead body within the first thirty seconds.

While there is some sort of discussion occurring around you, you are only focusing on how pathetic you feel in that you’re actively avoiding Jeon, as well as the discomfort in the pit of your stomach that appeared as soon as he did. You always thought that you’d be strong and bold the next time you met, but now that the time has come, you’ve let yourself down. Seeing him face to face after all this time is a reminder of everything you’ve been pushing to the back of your mind for years.

Meanwhile, Jeongguk isn’t sure what the playing field looks like just yet. He’s resting his head on his fist, sneaking a glance at you when he can and wishing you’d speak up so he’d have a good reason to look at you for longer than a blink, but you’re awfully quiet. He hates to think it might be because of him.

“We received an anonymous tip this morning about an underground base in the Coral District. Supposedly, there are multiple entrances from bars in the surrounding area, creating a tunnel system.” Namjoon, the VP, pushes his glasses up and closes the manila folder in his hands he had been referencing. “As our only lead, I think it is in our best interest to take a look.”

Namjoon is by far the most uptight man you had ever met. A little pretentious, of course, but in a way that almost made him cute. His calculative nature made him a good asset, but you couldn’t imagine how much of a bore he must have been in his daily life. You could bet without a doubt that he had been the most opposed to collaboration - if not by the countless moments he had spent sighing in your past encounters, then surely by how his condescending tone went into overdrive the second he sat down.

Yoongi, one of your fellow executives, states plainly, “That means nothing.” He seems more focused in the dirt tucked beneath his fingernails than the meeting at hand.

“It’s anonymous. For all we know they’re trying to trick us,” adds Yeji, personality plagued with suspicion. She doesn’t want to be here as much as you do, but she’s trying. Yeji is scrutinizing and not impressed by the image of naivety that stems from such a simple deduction, and that’s on top of her personal problem with the righteous narrative of the detective agency. You don’t blame her.

“And for all we know, it could be useful. The people of this city are our eyes and ears.” Jimin shoots back, stare unwavering. “It’s not like we should just ignore it. Do you have anything better?”

The strain in the air is almost unbearable, pulling up the hairs on your arms with all the tense energy circulating. It’s as if lightning was about to strike any second. No one says another word, only dirty looks being exchanged between headstrong personalities until a defiant knock comes to the door, startling the aggression into temporary submission. Taehyung raises an eyebrow at you, the only movement he had made this entire time. You only shrug at him.

“Who is it?” Namjoon asks, standing from the table.

“Just clean up. I’m here to take out the trash.” Silence engulfs the space like a dense fog hanging in the air, until the man behind the door calls again, “It’ll only be a second.”

Hesitantly, Namjoon makes the call for him to come in. All eyes flick over to the man, who cautiously enters the room with a nervous laugh. He is clueless to what he’s walking into. He waves a hand of greeting before fetching the bin from the corner of the room, taking it to the main dump on wheels in the hallway. After a few shuffles and plunks, he comes back in to put it in its place.

Namjoon adjusts his tie and clears his throat as he sits down again, resuming the meeting.

“I don’t care what we do as long as we can be done with this,” Taehyung mumbles, resting his head on his palm with half-mast eyes. He’s practically falling asleep, like a cat resting in the sunbeams pouring through a window.

Wendy, another advisor, rolls her eyes at him, responding with a scoff, “Of course you don’t care…”

“Oh, like you’re such a saint.”

The boardroom erupts into yet another argument, different groups spitting words at their own personal targets. All you can do is sit and listen, your hope for this mission decreasing exponentially as the seconds tick by. At least if it didn’t work out, you won’t have to see Jeon again after this.

“Creep,” mutters Yeji under her breath from the chair next to you. She had been removing herself from the argument like you save for a few special dramatic sighs and trivial insults that you didn’t condone, but didn’t exactly scold her for either. After all, she is the closest thing you have to a best friend.

“Huh?” you inquire wisely. “Who?”

She tilts her head to the hallway. Your head whips around to see the janitor through the walls of windows walking away with a peculiar bounce in his step, one he most certainly did not arrive with.

“What’s his problem?” you whisper, leaning in.

“I don’t know, but he was laughing to himself while they were arguing. He’s probably just another weirdo,” she snubs with a sigh. “You know how people are in this city.”

Though you had a slight feeling of discomfort from the commencement of the meeting, since stepping foot in the lobby of the building even, you simply brushed it off as paranoia, or nervousness from who you were about to see. But it just seems too strange to ignore anymore. Wasn’t the building supposed to be completely empty today, aside from those in the conference taking place right now? Your instincts scream at you through a closed mouth, wariness freezing your limbs, but why?

You hold your hand up discreetly as you stare at the simply dark grey bin across the room. It’s the only thing that seemed out of place - besides the meeting table and chairs, the room is completely empty. The pristine board room, black and grey and sparkling clean. And then, the cheap plastic bin.

The argument settles when Yeji whistles, getting their attention. 

“What’s wrong?” Wendy asks obliviously before you shush her with a raise of your pointer. All focus zeroes in on the bin… and that barely noticeable line trailing from it to the door handle.

One tick is all you need to hear.

“We gotta go, now,” you state, standing up hurriedly from your chair. Chatter and confusion ensue again as you drag it behind you over to the floor-length window. You pause, narrowing your eyes at the distance down from the second story. Considering there were no other exits from the room and you suspected that no one here was a part of the bomb squad, it was the only way to go. You drawback, hands gripping tightly around the armrests and hoist it up, swinging it around your side. it effectively shatters the glass, the piercing noise as shards clatter to the floor making you squint. 

“Woah, woah, what are you doing? Do you know how much that’s gonna coast?” Namjoon shouts, becoming frantic as you further knock the glass out from the surrounding area.

“They knew where we were. Look at the bin,” you explain quickly. Their surveillance of you averts to where you had been looking moments before, realization dawning as their sight finds the transparent cord set tight.

“Taehyung, you first.” The boy trails to the make-shift exit without question, blond locks bouncing in front of his face as he hurries over. Carefully, with a hand on the frame, he peers out to see what he’s working with. He’s made do with worse before. He lowers himself out onto the ledge one foot at a time, cautious not to cut himself on the jagged glass poking out. With a deep breath, he commits to the jump and launches off, landing cleanly on the flower beds below.

He cranes his neck up to you with disgust written all over his features.

“It’s new still,” he complains with a frown, toeing the dark mulch which must be fresh and with a rotten stench. You don’t have the time to admonish his behavior as you usher the others out, keeping an eye on the bin and the hallway. Yeji is out next, hitting the ground lightly with Taehyung’s guiding arms.

You fish a compact walkie from your pocket, tossing it down to her. “Find the janitor. Evacuate anyone else you see. Channel Six.” She catches it with ease, only providing a nod before sprinting off around the corner, ponytail whooshing behind her. Namjoon, now on the ground with Jimin, spares a word with him before Jimin takes off after Yeji to catch up. 

“You run a well-oiled machine, Y/N. I’m impressed.” Jeon’s voice from beside you grabs your attention, to which you can only hold his eyes for a moment before breaking it off. He stands smugly with his arms crossed in front of him.

He immediately cringes internally at the way it comes out. It was just supposed to be a compliment, genuinely, but the tinge of complacency in his voice took it all away. The way you don’t respond clamps his heart, but only pushes out more awful dialogue with an inappropriately playful tone.

“What, you’re just gonna ignore me?

Swallowing your nerves, you insist, “Get down.” Now, of all times, he chooses to chat you up? The chipper attitude had your nails imprinting half-moons to the base of your palm.

But he can’t stop himself. Even as he reads your growing impatience, he acts like a whiny toddler, emphasizing, “No, no, ladies first of course.”

“Get down.”

He’s trying not to let your firm edge get to him, playing it off with, “God, so cold. You’re hurting my feelings-” “Get down, Jeongguk!”

The once fluid movement of the world slows as you shout at him, your own voice becoming muted as you listen for it. A blinding light bursts from across the room, ripping through the walls and bursting the glass like balloons, growing brighter and brighter as you watch. In a split second you’re falling, tearing through open air while barely sensing your entanglement in something soft before hitting the ground with a blunt stop.

He had pulled you into him instinctively as the blow forced him off his feet, but the regret is instant in Jeon’s mind as he struggles to move. Not for grabbing you, but for the stupid words he couldn’t close the dam on as they poured out. The threat completely left his mind in the effort to get you to respond to him. He wants to smack himself, but his body hasn’t had the chance to recoup yet. 

You groan, body practically frozen in ache. Rolling off of him, you rub your lids and scratch the hair out of your face, looking up to see smoke pouring out of where you just stood moments before. Jumping to your feet, you brush the small shards of glass from your clothes and ignore the dizziness, aiming to put as much distance between the building and you as you could, but not before pulling a disoriented Jeon to his feet to take him with you. He’s coughing and clutching at his rib, your weight hitting him as an extra beating once he had landed.

Collapsing on the curb out front, you try to catch your breath. That bastard. If it weren’t for his necessity to uphold such a jackass mentality, you wouldn’t have needed the extra painful push out of the building. Without even needing to look, the sound echoing alone let you know that the building was collapsing in on itself. While you can’t feel it now because of the adrenaline, you know you’ll be hurting later.

A muffled noise comes from the walkie in your back pocket. It’s Yeji, who is suspiciously breathing fine as her heavy footfalls transmit as loud as her voice, reporting, “Finally caught up to him. It looks like he’s heading to Coral District, we’re on his tail but we don’t know what we’re going into!”

The device jumbles in your shaky hand as you scramble to get back to her. “We’re on our way, don’t worry. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.” 

You bring yourself to your feet, your fleeting moment of recovery already gone.

“Namjoon, can you stay behind for cleanup? Rest of us will catch up to Yeji. You heard her, right?”

He nods solemnly, and you suppose the blast to the building also was one to his ego. His notorious calculative nature had failed him this time around with that poisonous hatred in the way. Maybe he’ll reference it next time.

You think that Jeon is going to come up with another snarky comment to make, but all he does is pinch his nose bridge and massage his temples. He chooses to stay behind also as you, Wendy, Taehyung, and Yoongi follow in quick pursuit. It’s no surprise that Yoongi, one of the most sloth-like yet efficient strong suits of the Mafia, is already pulling over a civilian vehicle to take. 

“Yeji, current location?” You ask into the radio, trying to keep up an acceptable trot behind the group.

It only takes a second for her voice to crackle back through. “Corner of Park Ave and Third. It’s weird though - he’s not just running away from us, he’s running to somewhere.”

Up ahead, Wendy is pushing Yoongi aside as she shows her ID to the astonished woman floundering for words, admirably commandeering the car rather than stealing. No surprise, but smart nonetheless. One less lawsuit to worry about.

It only takes a second to envision a mental map of the city. The Corner of Park and Third is heading toward an unfamiliar side of town. What was even over there? The subway station, a shopping center? No place plausible for a bar, and definitely not near the Coral district. There was no place you could think of he might be leading them to - unless, of course, he was leading them away from something.

In fact, his direction is almost exactly opposite from…

“Tae!” you shout, just as he’s getting into the car. “Corner of Park Ave and Third. Get on your walkie, I’m taking a detour!”

He tips his head back in understanding as he jogs backwards to the car, soon ducking in slamming the door shut behind him, the car speeding off with a squeal. The thought of being in that car with them makes you shudder, but it’s not like where you’re off to is any better.

The location is printed on the backs of your lids in vermilion red ink. You had to know it regardless of whether you were a frequent visitor or not, because being aware of your surroundings when doing the kind of work required for your job was just as necessary as the job itself. You couldn’t be making arms deals in the alleys behind the Detective Agency unless you were aiming to spend some time behind bars.

Your heart drops as you round the corner to see the building absolutely sacked, your sprinting pace coming to a standstill with disappointment. A small crowd of people have surrounded the area, phones out to snap pictures and take videos. The windows lining the building are smashed in violently, and small plumes of smoke wisp their way out of what remains, the alarms that alerted no one still ringing. 

Light footsteps approach from behind you as your own step carefully over the glass to get a closer look. He’d been in his head for only a few minutes after you left, but when he saw you crossing back over to the other side of town, while he was stuck pathetically on the curb, it sparked his brain back up into working condition.

“Huh. Smart cookie,” states Jeon, seeming to finally be back to reality. Enough to make it here, anyway. In less than a second your blade is against his neck as a firm warning. All he does is smile cheekily, raising his palms up so you could see them.

“No need to be hostile,” he tries, hiding the way he gulps when you look away. “Just a compliment.”

“We are nothing more than work partners. I advise you to drop the act now,” you spit, sure you’d break your jaw with how hard your teeth were pressed against each other, hearing the sandpaper sound grinding in your ears. You lower the blade and tuck it away, exchanging it for your gun in hand as you approach the entrance.

It’s a mess inside. The walls are dented, desks broken, drawers and filing cabinets sprawled all over the floor. Random papers make a muddle of everything visible. The computer screens are cracked and wires mangled as if someone with a bad temper had taken a baseball bat to them. Even the potted plants had been bashed in, fragments of terracotta and clumps of dirt spread out everywhere. 

“Was anyone working?” you ask, fingers tracing over the splintered edges of the welcome desk.

“No,” replies Jeon, in awe of the state of the office. “The President doesn’t come in, and two of our teams are off carrying out other tasks. We sent our office staff home to keep them out of danger.”

Not one thing untouched. Such great care was taken to ruin every piece of the space - but when no one was home. If the office staff were here, would they have hurt them? Or was it a purposeful decision in favor of the empty building?

Jeon’s shoulders slump, bottom lip jutting from his pout. Upon your questioning brow, he says, “They took my octopus pen.” He stares longingly down at what you assume is his desk, or what was his desk.

You squint in confusion, about to prompt further explanation, but Taehyung comes in through the radio. “We caught the janitor. Don’t know anything yet, but he’s being taken into police custody. We looked for the tunnels, but there’s nothing so far. I think it was a misdirect.”

“I think it was too,” you sigh. “The DA was ransacked.”

The waves flatten into grey static. You can picture the confusion that was rising among the group with Tae’s relay of information. When it comes back on, it is a different voice.

“Ransacked, you said? How bad?” It’s Wendy, the panic blatant on her tongue.

“Everything in it was destroyed…” you say, knowing this was just as much a loss for you as it was them. “They knew where we were and bombed us, and then led us on a chase so they could eliminate one of our bases. Let the others know and we’ll regroup later.”

“Copy that,” says Yoongi shortly, and that ends the exchange.

One of your strongest pieces was impressively knocked off the board. There was no way to get the building back in operating shape in the time span you had to eliminate the threat. While you still had their people and outside resources, the building was essential to the functioning of the agency, and the city along with it. If they had already taken down the home base of the detectives, wouldn’t the Mafia be next? Granted, there was no one set base, but things would surely get fishy if you didn’t act fast. Like Boss said, Fox Lodge crumbled in mere weeks. Whatever your opinion was, you couldn’t deny the Mafia was integral in monitoring the underground of the city, and letting control fall into the hands of such self-serving villains would be far worse than anything already occurring. 

Jeon sighs loudly from across the room, spinning on his heels to catch your gaze. He tsks and sweeps a stray strand of hair behind his ear with a delicate hand. “What are you thinking?”

You hum in thought. “It’s a warning,” you conclude, observing the rows of overthrown furniture. “They wanted to show what they’re capable of. Intimidation.”

He purses his lips innocently. “...What next?”

“I don’t know everything, Gguk,” you snap, sending him a fierce glare. “The Agency has to figure out what’s missing, if anything, and then we’ll go from there. Try to figure out a motive or something.”

You’ve been asking for a challenge for years, always unsatisfied with the ease it took to get your way. Laying in bed wide awake all night wanting things to be different, wanting things to have meaning. But with the high stakes, with so much at risk, this was certainly not what you intended.

You have to reassure yourself that you’re capable regardless. Once you get in the rhythm, surely things will be fine. Surely you’d get yourself together and pull through for the sake of the town. When you’ve been biting your nails and staring blankly at a ripped magazine for who knows how long, Jeon interrupts you again.

“Y/N?” The way he speaks your name is gentle and soft, a fondness to it that never failed to pluck at your heartstrings. It’s that special quiet tone of his that you haven’t heard in so long yet could always recall so clearly. It’s a sign of candor coming your way. “It’s good to see you.”

And it boils your blood.

“The park by the marina. Tomorrow at five. Don’t be late.”

☆☆☆

Penny has already started making dinner when you step through the door, just about to slump against the hardwood floor and resign yourself to the eternal slumber. Though she’s only ten, her palate is more tasteful that yours was last year. In times like these, you are grateful for the way she takes care of you sometimes. 

“You look tired,” she observes, sparing you a welcome look over her shoulder as she stirs the contents of her pot.

“That would be because I am,” you breathe a huff of laughter, slowly and carefully sliding off your jacket as to not irritate your sore muscles more than necessary. Taking a peek into the pot, your brain allows you a taste of serotonin that you welcome with open, starved arms. “Fettuccine alfredo? Pen, that’s my favorite.”

A small smirk appears on her face at your amazement. “I know.”

You plant a chaste kiss at the top of her head. “You need a trim soon, kiddo. Can barely see your eyes anymore.”

“That makes me look more mysterious though, doesn’t it?” She allows herself a giggle before turning off the heat, giving the pasta one last mix before transferring it to the two identical bowls on the counter. Her technique is a little awkward as her arms reach up to maneuver the tongs, but that’s to be expected of a kid who hasn’t fine tuned her motor skills just yet. Your mouth is absolutely watering as you fumble through the draws for two forks and some sort of napkin.

She hops up on the stool next to you and digs in, splattering sauce all over her chin nonetheless, but as long as she was fed and having fun.

Taking Penny in was by far the best decision you had made with what your life had come to. It was about two years ago when you stumbled upon her crying in a back alleyway during a job, her parents' lives the casualties suffered in a drug trade gone wrong. Further than that, you didn’t pry. You had those moments, too, the ones that felt better tucked inside a secret place in your heart.

Your only option was to take her with you. While he was incredibly beneficial to the Mafia, Yoongi was also hopelessly cold-blooded. He wanted to kill her to end the trail, to avoid suspicion directed at the organization. You ultimately made the call, because while what you did for a living was in no way guided by a moral compass, you still had your boundaries. Fortunately, it was just when you had gotten your current executive position and started making your fair share for the work you did - and while the both of you knew what went on outside of the apartment, inside was a safer space with more love than you could ever afford to show anywhere else. 

Housing people was one of the organization’s biggest costs. Most who joined did so out of necessity, whether they were out of work or a place to feel welcome. As long as you took care of her, it was an unspoken rule that they’d go easy on her. Occasionally they made her run errands and do deliveries, as children were an easy way to escape qualms from authorities. More often they used her for bait and leverage over those they needed the upper hand on; There’s no better way to manipulate someone than pretending a little girl’s life depends on their next decision. Usually it worked out the way they wanted and she was sent home, but there were times when you noticed bruises or scrapes adorning her thin arms, or hidden beneath her bangs. At least you could provide her with hope.

“So what went wrong today?”

Were you too obvious, or could she just read you inside and out?

You twirl the pasta on your fork before downing a big bite. 

“Got stuck in a pickle for the first time in a while. There’s a lot more on the table than I expected there to be.”

“Obviously,” she says, still shoveling her food down her throat. “I mean what happened?”

You sigh, letting yourself sink into your chair as you recount the order of events that unfolded today. Trying to simplify it as best as you can, you settle on, “I can’t say too much because I don’t want to get you in trouble, but it’s not just the Mafia and the Agency running things around here anymore, so there’s some collaboration going on right now that is getting tough to manage. And these new people moving in on the city… they’re smart. They led us on a goose chase today while they took out the DA.”

“Well, you’re smart too. You can manage it. You always do.”

“I know I’ll have to. It’s more the teamwork thing.” Mindless fingers tap at the countertop. “It was a little bit of a curveball they threw at me.”

“Is the curveball what caused all the bruises?” She looks at you slyly, a teasing simper just begging to make an appearance.

Your eyes roll breezily. “Yeah, it is.”

And all of a sudden the air turns quiet, her demeanor more timid. She looks to you for encouragement before she can even get the words out. With a small prompting nod, she asks, “Is… is it your old partner?”

An awkward chuckle bubbles its way out of your throat in surprise. “Um, yeah. How- how do you know about that?”

It’s a little bit of a shock. You don’t want to make her feel bad, but having this conversation is not one you are completely prepared for. Jeongguk, though his existence in your mind is stormy, is one of those things you always wish you could just keep to yourself, like a small love letter sealed in an envelope and tucked away under a mattress for you to pull out when you want to reminisce, but unfortunately everyone has read that letter and its contents seems to perpetuate underground gossip wherever you walk.

The atmosphere returns to normal when she shoots you a playful look, correcting it to the way it should have been. “I don’t just go to work and come back, you know, people talk to me. Especially some of the other kids my age. They sometimes mention how it’s so cool that I’m living with this legendary assassin, and they tell me supposed stories of… what was it, the Lion and the Scorpion? Yeah, and that he left.”

You bob your head along as she explains, somewhat in awe of her level of awareness of who you were outside of your relationship with her. The observant and lethal disposition you take on at work is a rude juxtaposition to the looser, lively personality you allow out at home. Above all, you wonder if she still thinks you’re cool.

“And what do you say?”

That she laughs at. “Well, it depends on the person who’s talking to me about it. Sometimes I say that you’re really scary and strict and sometimes if I like them I say that you’re really nice… I’m careful about it though, don’t worry. As long as you’re cool, I’m cool.”

Bingo!

“Hey, I trust your judgment,” you state through a mouthful of food, “I condone messing with people sometimes, and if it can harden my reputation around the place, I’ll take it.”

Lighthearted laughter ensues as you eat. The topic fades away and relief starts to take its place, but nothing good can ever last, can it?

“But Y/N…” she trails back, “Why is the Lion a curveball if you worked with him in the past?”

You click your tongue, tapping your fork at the bottom of your dish trying to stitch together the splinters of words floating around your mind into a cohesive answer.

“I’m sure some kids told you about the rumors,” you say, propping your elbow on the table to support your head as you looked at her. “But he and I… weren’t really just work partners.”

“You were dating?” She exclaims loudly, eyes widening. 

“Shh! No, no… well, kind of. But not really. Things were just a little bit more than work-related, that’s all. Listen, it’s not all black and white, and you’ll understand what I mean by when you start to care for people like that.”

“Well did you love him?”

She says it casually and straightforward, as if it didn’t weigh the emotional turmoil of years spent heartbroken and yearning. As if it’s that easy.

Penny’s expression floods full of curiosity. She is so investigative and eager, you wish she could be going to school and learning from real teachers that could give her a real education, not just snippets from your memories that you pulled up for her from time to time. If this wasn’t her life, you can’t imagine what she’d be doing because there’d simply be too many possibilities.

“Yeah, I did.”

And yet, as the words spill, you can’t not remember the pain of his desertion. You can’t not remember the one morning you woke up and he was gone, panic floating through the hallways about him, confusion and worry swirling in your head. Just to find out he had defected without giving you a clue. Not considering what it could mean for you. Not even a goodbye. 

“Do you still love him?”

You purse your lips, meeting her eyes softly. “That’s why I called him a curveball.”

Penny grasps on to the fact that that was the most she’d be getting from you today. It was a lot more than most days - you blame it on your tattered spirit from today’s tiring occurrences. She leads in the kitchen clean up, scooping the leftovers into tupperware for tomorrow’s meal and tossing her dishes in the outdated washer.

You pass behind her in the tight space, carrying your own empty dish with you. “You don’t repeat a word, got it?” you whisper.

She visibly sinks in vexation, head coming to a tilt as she stares at you. “C’mon, you just said you trusted my judgment! I’m almost insulted you feel the need to say that.”

You let yourself indulge in another laugh. The credit of her sharp vocabulary character no doubt belongs to your influence. “You know I have to.” Nuzzling the top of her hair, you add, “Don’t stay up too late. I love you.”

And for leading a life that was so cruel and devoid of light, crowded with guilt and regret, lacking most that makes you human, nothing ever felt more like home than when she says, “I love you too.”

☆☆☆

The next meeting is only better because of the fresh air separating both sides and the imminent fact that last time’s events have everyone so weary they can no longer think about arguing. It has started to sink in that this is no longer a piece of cake, or maybe that it never was to begin with. As well, a park full of citizens going on walks and taking their day slow is no place to expose yourself. It’s warm for spring, one of the nicest days you’ve had in a while, and you’d hate to ruin it.

There is a large circular expanse of white concrete with different pathways branching off into the park, green shrubbery lining each walkway. Pillars on both sides of each one hold up an awning providing much-appreciated shade. You no longer have to squint and can see everyone clearly.

Namjoon, sulking on a decorative cement bench, kicks off the meeting with a depressing statement on the Agency. “They didn’t take anything physical, but we traced their footsteps back through our computers. It looks like they downloaded a lot of our reports from the past few years and files on both our members and yours.”

“What do you mean?” Yeji’s eyebrows furrow deeply in confusion. “What kind of information was in the reports?”

“A lot of profiles. Skills, incidents you’ve been involved with, current standing position… things like that. On nearly every important person in the Agency and in the Mafia.”

“Why though?” asks Jimin, leaning back against one of the pillars beside Namjoon. “Can’t they find that information anywhere? A lot of it isn’t a secret. Ask anyone around here and they’ll tell you Min Yoongi is a lazy bastard that-” Jeon gives him a light punch on the shoulder, his disappointed grimace almost saying, “c’mon, man.” Yoongi looks like he couldn’t care less.

Taehyung, who has been pacing the narrow concrete walkways, speaks up. “Get to know your enemy better, I guess? Can’t hurt.”

“To be honest, I don’t think they really needed it either. It looked more like it was meant to be taken as a threat. They probably just did that because they could and they had the time,” You say, recalling the attentive wreckage of the Agency.

“Well, I don’t know about that. We know that they’re tricky, obviously, but they can’t know everything. I think they were also trying to get a better idea of what they were up against. Plus, it’s always intimidating when you come into contact with someone and it seems they know every detail about you when you don’t even know your name.”

Namjoon’s take makes sense. His frustrating attitude is an easier pill to swallow if he’s able to make conclusions like that. Not much could scare you off, but if a random person approached you in a fight and began talking about your past, or your personal life, or mistake you’d made, you’d definitely be unsettled, maybe just enough to slip up. With this group, you’re sure that a slip up is all it takes.

Wendy looks like she has something to add, but there’s a frog stuck in her voice box. She gives a shy look to Namjoon and then continues, something perhaps he was planning on leaving out. “To be specific, there were multiple traces of the words “Lion” and “Scorpion” in the information they stole... It makes me think they’ve heard of your, um, past reputation and wanted to see what they could dig up.”

“Oh, great.” You’re unable to help yourself from rolling your eyes. 

“Wow,” Jeon muses, “Didn’t know we were so famous.” His playful regard meets your own, but you’re too down to react with anything else but a blank stare before flicking your eyes away as soon as they meet.

He looks good today. You hate how much your brain keeps begging you to take another experimental glance as if one wasn’t enough. His button-up drapes gently over his shoulders and is tucked loosely into his trousers, sleeves folded all the way up to his elbows. Not that you’re paying such close attention.

Namjoon clears his throat. “I wasn’t going to say anything because I didn’t want to alarm you without any pretense, but…”

You raise an eyebrow at him, crossing your arms over your front. “Well, I’m glad she spoke up. What if they target us because they think we’re a threat? They already know we’ve been working together.”

Wendy offers a small smile of appreciation, but it is not to ignore how the agents all share looks of hesitation toward each other, visibly uncomfortable with Namjoon’s secrecy.

“Yeah… that seemed kind of important,” Yoongi says, squinting into the sunlight as he tilts his head up. “You can’t keep things from us if we’re working together. I hate this just as much as you do, but we aren’t gonna win if we aren’t honest.”

Jimin sighs. “He’s right. If one side tries to get an upper hand it’ll just cause a rift that makes us easier to pull apart.”

“Okay. That’s fair. I... apologize.” Namjoon is stiff, refusing to look anyone in the eye. He wants to avoid further questioning, but for the time being, you won’t press it. There’s enough on your plate right now.

“Anyway… what’s our next move?”

Yeji’s question goes unanswered. It sits under the afternoon light, the peaceful chirps of birds and casual chatter and boat horns filling in the blank space that no one knows what to do with.

“We don’t have a lot to go off of. The investigation is still looking for identification factors, but it could take time, which, as I’m sure you know, we don’t have a lot of. The most we can do is conduct some interviews with witnesses and passersby, but…” the Vice President looks up at you, “we are counting on them slipping up somehow.”

The dejection in the air is hard to ignore. Everyone feels it. Regardless of how impossible it might be for the two sides to see eye to eye, they can see how hopeless the fight has gotten in a span of mere days.

With the DA out of the picture, all of their employees are either working from home or in last-minute rented offices with limited resources. Never in a million years did any of the executives think they’d see the building that represented their struggle go up in flames. Yet the day it did, they couldn’t be happy about it. It only struck fear.

“So there’s really nothing we can do?”

No one needs to answer for you to know.

“Okay. Let’s wrap this up then. Just be careful from here on out. You know, be cautious of what you say, where you say it. They might be monitoring radio waves, might have bugged places you think are safe.”

 In times like these, you have good reason to be a little paranoid. They already knew where your office space was and the time it had been rented. The Syndicate was skilled and definitely had their reach online, and you didn’t doubt it extended to the personal world. There’s nothing money can’t bribe.

It’s disheartening to see how downcast the group is on a day so bright. Everyone begins to mobilize, though slowly, but they get a move on, going back to wherever they need to be or where they want to be. For now, you decide you want to be here.

Waving goodbye to Yeji and the others, you find a nice spot under some shade on a well maintained wooden bench. It faces the water, today clear and calm, and out in the distance is the gleaming modern drawbridge that closes off the port. To the right, the port terminal stretches out long into the river for the large ships that come in, the marina docked with boats of all shapes and sizes tucked in closer to the city behind it. The boats flood in and out, passing you by, the sails floating in the breeze so temptingly you can just see yourself hopping on one so easily and going along to wherever it may take you.

The dream is short-lived, because Jeon’s presence beside you tugs you from your imagination.

“What do you want?” You can feel him looking at you, but you can’t pull your eyes away from the ships drifting by.

It’s a hit to the confidence he strode over here with, but he continues. “What, we can’t make small talk? We’re partners for this, Y/N.”

Any opportunity he sees to make contact with you, he’ll take. He knows why you’re the opposite, but he’s dying to see you, and not just from across a meeting table or a park.

“Partners don’t need to make small talk, they just have to do the job they’ve been assigned and be done with it.”

He exhales tiredly, disappointed in your lack of engagement, like he expected at least a small something more. “Listen, I just wanted to talk to you. I know how things are, and-”

“No, Gguk, you don’t know how things are,” you snap, finally facing him. “You had the past three years to talk to me, but you didn’t. You don’t get to come and take care of things now while it’s convenient for you.”

“It’s not like that.”

“It sure looks like that.”

“Well it’s not.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s me wanting to talk to you. Because it’s been a long time and I miss you.”

You make a sound caught somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, feeling even more let down than you thought you could be. “Yeah, okay.”

It sounds like bull to you. Does he really think you’re that gullible? Does he really think you were going to see him again and run into his arms like a bride who's been tying yellow ribbons around an old oak tree? The anger you felt at the agency yesterday returns, for what happened in the past, for what’s happening now, for all of it. How he can say he missed you when he had all the time in the world, when he was clearly happy after running away from what he had with you, you can’t understand.

Meanwhile, Jeon feels his heart palpitating as he waits for a reply. The explanations want to roll right off his tongue, but he knows this is not the time and place to bring up the subject matter he’s really urging to talk to you about. That conversation will be held soon as he finds it possible. He thought it might be worth it to just start the build-up with trivial chatter, but it’s not working, and probably never will with you.

He picks at his nails, scraping the minimal dirt out. Should he say it? A part of him wants to go for it, and another wants to wait in fear of scaring you. Unfortunately, he thinks it will either way.

“I heard you’ve been taking care of a girl.”

Unbeknownst to you, he’s right.

It steals the breath from your lungs, that residing anger booking it to make room for fear. Though you try to conceal it, you’re sure he’s seen through it, already felt how the atmosphere has shifted. He shouldn’t know about Penny. In fact, no one outside the Mafia should. You can’t meet his eyes, taking more interest in trying to count every strand of fine hair on the space between your knuckles.

It feels just like what Namjoon had talked about, and though you’re sure deep down he wouldn’t try to hurt you like that, it plants a seed of dread in you. In any other world, it might be similar to someone asking, “How are the kids?” and there would be nothing out of the ordinary about it, just a friendly gesture. This instance, however, is layered with a cocktail of warning and concern.

 Penny can fend for herself, she’s responsible, of course, but no one is invincible. It’s only up to a certain point, especially knowing that she’s only a child. 

“How do you know about her?” 

“I still get around,” he says, letting the pause marinate before adding faintly, “Don’t worry. No one that’s gonna try anything knows. I made sure of it.”

The way he still knows what you’re thinking makes you shiver. Or want to throw up. You pass over the slight relief of his last statement in favor of the bliss that comes with ignoring it.

When you don’t reply because you simply don’t know what to make of it, he continues. “It’s honorable. But that’s dangerous for you. To have someone important to you.”

“I know that,” you admit.

It wasn’t like you were stupid. Sure, you were an executive, but what did that mean when Penny made you so vulnerable? The same way they used her against their enemies could be used against you in a heartbeat for tenfold the amount they wanted. She was your weak spot.

“You have to be careful.”

“I know that.”

Jeon winces at your icy inflection. He’s like a child being scolded by his mother. His eyes squeeze shut, thoughts circling back to all the words that were just aching to pour out of him.

“Listen, Y/N, maybe we can go get some coffee? Or-”

You have to cut him off before he gets too out of hand, palms hitting your thighs. “I think that’s enough for today, Gguk.”

He wants to object to your leaving, but he doesn’t want to push you. Your deep sigh is proof of the distress he caused in the past and still continues to leave behind.

So much for some nice quiet time on your own, huh? You stand up and turn from him, heading down the exit path. Realistically, you’re glad he doesn’t call out after you, because you know it would just get you worked up and that was the last thing you needed. When you were around him, you felt the piercing image your reputation had created crumbling to ruins. It pains you to think of the consequences of an emotional err during times like these.

Yet still, it breaks your heart to leave.

☆☆☆

“He’s been really getting to you, huh?”

Yeji’s voice is quiet above the cacophony of clinking silverware and incoherent conversation, but intelligible enough for the both of you to hear in your own space. 

You smear some whipped cream on your forkful of waffle, placing it in your mouth and letting both the fluffy texture and immaculate taste sweep you off your feet for a moment, as brunch is everything good and great in the world. Or at least in your world, at this very moment.

You swallow before answering, your usual temper tamed by the sedative of a certain portmanteau of breakfast and lunch. “Of course he has. He won’t leave me the fuck alone.”

“Well, he does have to work with you.”

As you chew, you shake your head in wide, dramatic arcs. “No, I mean he keeps acting like we’re old friends. After the meeting he asked me If I wanted to get coffee with him!” you exclaimed, “Like no, I’m not getting fucking coffee with you, who do you think you are?”

Yeji flashes her pearly whites at your short fuse, the one she’s versed in remedying. Deft hands lift up her mug for a thoughtful sip.

“Maybe his intentions aren’t that bad. He’s always been happy-go-lucky like that and he’s probably just too oblivious to think about the consequences of what he did. Yeah, pretending like it didn’t happen hurts, but because of what’s going on right now... it might be a blessing in disguise.”

Despite her intimidating appearance, Yeji was an exceptional conversationalist and particularly thoughtful in her advice. It feels more like a talk between two childhood friends catching up over some food, gossiping about people from high school and boy drama. Though it’s not quite that simple, it lets you take a back seat for a little while. Yeji is one of the only people you’d consider a friend.

“What, like making it easier for the mission?”

“Yeah, 'cause if you can push that issue out of the picture temporarily, you can get the job done and either deal with it after or forget about it entirely. And hey, you’re the Scorpion!” Yeji leans across the table in an enthusiastic whisper. “Scorpions are badass and vicious and don’t spend their time getting worked up over men. In fact, Scorpions reel men in and then kill them, especially you.”

You know she’s trying to encourage you, but the thought is spectacularly unappealing. While she was right in what you did, it’s not like you enjoyed it or were proud of it. You hate to be described that way. Perhaps that is your character among the mafia and the image you spread to protect yourself, and perhaps it’s even true when you get in the work mindset, but is that really you? Talk about an identity crisis.

You reach for your water, the condensation slippery on the glass. “That’s just my reputation.”

She sighs, slumping back into her side of the booth. “Okay, scratch that then. What I mean is that, besides the people you’re close to like Penny and I, you’re this astute, intelligent, skilled executive. You’ve accomplished a lot to get where you are. Why are you letting him get under your skin and uproot that?”

Yeji wouldn’t let someone make her feel like that, and she wishes you wouldn’t either. As much as she secretly admires you - for both that reputation and the real you - she cares about you all the same. Maybe one of the only people that does.

“I guess you have a point.”

“You know I have a point.”

“It’s not that easy though, Yeji,” you say weakly, staring down into your glass. “Every time I see him, I don’t know whether I want to kiss him or beat his ass.”

She laughs at your comment, making you crack a smile too. “It happens, Y/N. Love and hurt go hand in hand.” When you look up at her, she reaches a slender hand over the table and interlocks her fingers with your own with a squeeze. “Just tolerate it for now.”

A troubled exhale leaves you at the prospect, but you squeeze back nonetheless. 

“I can do that.” 

☆☆☆

It's two days later when you get a call from none other than the Lion himself. The time has been passing unbearably, slower than a soul train passing an ambulance. You and Penny relaxed by bingeing an ungodly amount of shows and movies, even delving into your weekly budget for a stockpile of snacks and drinks. But with every laugh that tumbled out of you and blended into the live audiences’, the nervous thoughts of the situation lingered in the back of your mind.

But hopefully, this call will have some good news.

“What’s up?”

“Good news.”

Eureka! For once, you’re happy to be speaking to Jeon.

“Like Namjoon said, they slipped up. Someone wasn’t wearing gloves and left a fingerprint in the DA. Intelligence was able to track it down to a random guy living in the Gambling District. I’ll tell you more about him, but I’m coming to pick you up now.”

You to your feet from your seat on the couch, wedging the phone between your shoulder and ear so you could throw your stuff together. Penny pauses the show for you, sending a raised brow. In silent conversation, you shrug.

God, it’s too early. You’re rummaging around the room for your wallet and trying to process cohesive thoughts simultaneously, and it’s not working out.

You stop to let your hands rub at your eyes. “Okay, but how do we know this was an actual slip up? We don’t have footage to check… it might have been on purpose to lead us somewhere.”

The one thing you had learned in all your time was to play like your opponent. Never underestimate them - especially the Syndicate, who clearly wanted that message to reach you. But if you were trying to get the upper hand on the people you were trying to eliminate, it wouldn’t be far fetched to give them a false lead the same way you had before.

“It’s all we got. And if we are led somewhere, we’ll figure it out.”

“Okay. Talk to you in a bit. I’ll meet you in the parking garage?”

“No need. Already walking up.” In the background, you hear Jeon’s keys jingling as he strides. “Also, we’re stopping for food first. Bye.” A blunt click signals the end of the call.

Shit. He’s coming to your apartment? The current state is an indescribable mess - hopefully he wouldn’t call CPS on you. More importantly, you are still in your pajamas, and there is no way he can see you like this.

“Was that the curveball?” Penny asks with an impish interest.

Your eyes squint. “Take a guess.”

Hurrying down the cramped hallway to your shared bedroom with Penny, you trade your sweats for some comfortable jeans and, with the time ticking down, throw a moto jacket over your hoodie. As the knock on the door sounds, you’re gathering your hair into a ponytail.

When you reach the living room, Penny is already pulling the door open. You hear a greeting, and then Jeon’s head appears around it comically, peeking into the apartment.

“There you are,” he says, looking at your current state with confusion. Not exactly what you might wear to base, but it got the job done. He snickers. “What, did I catch you off guard?”

Trying to hold back your minor pants from running around so much, all you can muster is, “Yeah, a little bit.” You turn to the mirror and pluck a bobby pin from your lips, tucking it into your hair to keep the flyaways down.

“Okay, let’s hit it. Penny, super sorry about this, I’ll finish watching with you later when I get home. There’s food in the fridge, you know where the money is, and I’ll call Yeji to check in on you if it gets late, okay?”

She pouts. “Okay.”

“Hey, you remember the safe word?”

Penny nods dramatically, her dark bangs bouncing, standing on her tippy toes to whisper in your ear, “Cherry-cola… also, he’s really cute.”

You pull away laughing, giving her a light noogie with your fist as her nose scrunches up. She wasn’t wrong, of course. Your time apart did him well, and you assume he must have gotten tips on how to dress because of how effortlessly put together he looked these days. But that's beside the point.

“Love you, Pen. Bye. And make sure your ringer is on.” With a small peck on the top of her head and bidding goodbye with a promise to return, you’re pulling away and leading Jeon out the door, being careful in locking it behind you.

“What’s with the safeword?” He asks, starting down the hall to the elevator. An uncomfortable tilt to his lips fixes on his face. “Isn’t that… kinda inappropriate?”

You roll your eyes, swatting at his shoulder. “Ew. Not that kind of safeword, dumbass. It’s so she knows who she can trust and let inside. There’s a lot of people that I trust that she doesn’t know, so if I have someone swinging by I tell them so she knows she can trust them too.”

He makes a sound of understanding, slipping his hands into his pockets. The way he ambles is spirited yet composed, shoulders relaxed with purposeful steps. Jeon always came and went like low tide in the morning, a calmer view of his personality considering his notorious “devil may care” attitude.

“Can you tell me?” Once he sees the disapproving expression on your face, he continues, “Listen, I already know about her. What if something happens and you need me to get her and you’re too busy dying to tell me?”

Crossing your arms in front of you, you shake your head. “Hopefully that will never happen in the first place, but god forbid…” you cautiously lower your voice, “Cherry-cola.”

“Cherry-cola?” he repeats casually.

You shush him loudly, glaring and speaking through gritted teeth. “The point of a safeword is that not everyone knows it!” 

“Sorry,” his lips purse as you press the button and begin waiting for the elevator. “Why that one?”

“It’s our favorite drink. Goes with anything.”

“Well...”

You cut him off with a hand as the thick metal doors slide open and the two of you step inside. “Not a matter of opinion. I don’t want to hear it.”

He raises his hands up in defense. “Okay, okay. I will respect that, but you know...”

It’s then that you see him giving you a look, an impish smile adorning his cheeks. The dimples that gently poke his skin are the kind that make you feel lucky.

“What?”

His eyes avert, head shaking as he turns away and exchanges his view for his sly reflection in the metal. “Oh, nothing.”

“Gguk.”

A teasing tone coats his tongue as he speaks. “Well, I don’t know, it just reminded me, you know, just pulled the thought from the deep recess of my brain, that.... we used to have one too.”

You almost couldn’t believe your ears, even considering asking him to repeat himself.  The arch look in his eyes told you everything you needed to know. “Yeah, we did,” you agree. “Not like I ever had to use it...”

He faces you with a disbelieving breath of laughter leaving his open mouth, astonished. “What, did you want to have to say it?”

You shrug nonchalantly, raising your voice to say, “No, no… you were always just a little soft about it, that’s all.”

You can’t help the grin growing on your face as his lips part in offense, one corner slowly turning up in a knowing open-mouthed smile. His lids drop in the slightest manner, barely noticeable if you didn’t pay such close attention, and you have to turn away before your face starts to blaze too unbearably. “Oh, you know I was not soft.”

Both of you are thinking the same thing, no doubt about it. Memories roll back like pristine tapes on a projector, ones that most definitely prove his point.

You clear your throat, unsure of where the conversation is going and not bold enough to let it brew. “Anyway, about the guy…?”

He’s disappointed in your choice to change the subject, the tell in the way his head drops and chews at his lower lip for a split second, but abides nonetheless. “Twenty-six years old, been working at lots of casinos around as a dealer but his most recent job was three months ago at King’s Crown. After that, no record. Unfortunately, we have to take him alive since the investigation has the police involved.”

“Unfortunately?”

“Well, kind of. It’s just limiting when there’s a stipulation.”

“Okay. I will respect that.”

Your callback is the cause of a smile taking over his face. You’re glad he doesn’t mention your attitude - if he did, your dignity wouldn’t let you continue. Maybe it’s your good mood paired with his unexpectedness, maybe it’s Yeji’s advice telling you to tolerate him, but regardless, you won’t deny that it feels better than the anger. With hope of a lead comes hope that this could work out.

“By the way, what’re you in the mood for?” Jeon asks casually, turning to you. “We can do fast food, we can do Firehouse...”

As soon as he says the word, memories from long ago that almost don’t even feel like yours resurface. Firehouse was always your and Jeon’s go-to pizza place on lunch break or for celebration after a job well done. Though you haven’t been there in years, the delectable taste of their pies is still fresh in your mind. It’s tempting, but you don’t want to make the decision. You weren’t that hungry, anyway. Jeon stares, awaiting an answer.

At your shrug, his patience runs out and he fishes his hand into his pocket. “Okay, I’m flipping a coin. Firehouse is heads, tails is the nearest drive-thru.”

He says it naturally, but you know he’s testing the water by the way his gaze lingers, measuring your reaction to see if you’ll be angry with him. Not one, but two fond tokens from the past, all in the span of thirty seconds? At one point, flipping a coin was an everyday occurrence to settle disagreements, whether it be where to eat, what time to close up shop, or whose plan to follow. You know he’s trying to jog your good memories, but maybe it’s not such a bad thing.

The metal flings from his thumb and lands with a muted tap in his opposite palm. He slaps it over to the backside of his hand.

“Heads. Firehouse it is.” His eyes flick up to yours, an eyebrow raised in curiosity.

You grin. “Sure. Wanted that anyway.”

He rolls his eyes. A shy smile crawls up his face, the faint hallmark scar at the edge of his cheekbone shifting. “Yeah, alright. Tell me next time before it lands on something you don’t want.”

The elevator doors open with a ding, freeing you into the open world. If you let the resentment subside for a few minutes, it feels just like it used to when things were okay - you and Jeon against the world.

☆☆☆

“So this is it?”

You’re staring up a beat down brick building four stories high. It’s dilapidated and nearly falling apart, in contrast to the virgin casinos, modern and flawless with intricate architecture and an ambiance of expense just half a mile away. Supposedly, your guy was somewhere in there, and it was your best bet that he had something of value to give you.

Jeon slams his side of the car door, still licking at pizza grease on his forearm, and comes around to stand next to you. “Yeah. Floor two, apartment two.” You laugh to yourself incredulously at his casual antics, but he doesn’t seem to care as he walks right up to the door.

He finds that no buzzer is needed for entry, so with your guns at the ready, you take slow steps inside. Jeon leads, you trailing to the side of him. It’s eerily quiet, not a single person out to encounter, none of the hustle and bustle a usual apartment would contain, not even the sounds of footsteps or moving furniture. Did anyone actually live here?

The floors of the hallways are decorated with faded forest green carpet, stains and dust covering the washed-out fabric. There is an ugly floral strip of wallpaper at the top of the beige walls that are dented and scraped in random places.

You’re careful to keep down the volume of the creaking stairs as you shift your weight over them, but it’s nearly impossible. Upon further inspection, the door frame of apartment two was covered in scratches and markings, thin cobwebs joined in the corners. The door itself looks cheap and it has what seems to be a few drops of blood splattered near the knob. You and Jeon share a look of uncertainty, those gut instincts kicking in to let you know that something was off.

He begins to count down, and on three, you’re pushing in the door. He rushes in first with you on his tail to scope out the sides. The apartment is empty, except…

“Well, that’s fucking fantastic.”

There’s a dead body occupying the chair in front of the television. It’s the man, alright, but his throat has been slit, red coating his neck and clothes, head hanging back over the seat. There’s no smell, though - it couldn’t have been that long since others were here, especially due to the slight glisten of blood not yet dry on his skin.

They didn’t bury him, either. Just left the body out in the open for you to find. One alarming step ahead, just like last time.

“Covering their tracks. They knew he fucked up and took care of him before we could,” says Jeon, scouring the rest of the beaten-down unit. No signs of a struggle, no mess, no nothing. A dead end.

When you pat the body down, reach into his pockets, there’s nothing. When you move to his bedroom and start to search through his nightstand, it strikes you that there might be something invasive about rustling through a dead man’s belongings, but you’ve done it too many times to still be sensitive to it. You peer around his closet, look under the mattress, filter through his drawers, until a certain glint of light catches your eye.

On the side of his bed closest to the window, a small card lies on the carpet beneath, hidden by the frame if it weren’t for the shiny sticker on the back. You bring it up for a closer look in the light.

It’s got his name, picture, and contact information as well as a barcode at the bottom. Not a driver’s license, but an ID card for the Belvedere Casino. The sticker in the top corner makes out a small icon of a spread of playing cards.

You’re about to shout out to Jeon, but stop yourself as soon as you open your mouth.  You take a slow once over around the room. Namjoon’s words echo in between your thoughts - Could the place be bugged? They were here not so long ago, and considering how they kept seeming to be a step in front of you at all times, it wasn’t a far stretch. There was no way to be sure, but you had a hunch.

Walking back to the main room, you catch his attention from where he is snooping around the shelves. 

“Didn’t find anything. I think we’re out of luck.” When he turns to look at you, you widen your eyes and make an intense gesture with your finger to your lips before pointing a finger from your ear to the ceiling and directing your eyes around the room. You’re grateful when he understands immediately.

“Seriously? Nothing?” he asks timidly.

“Yeah. They got us. We should head back and call for cleanup, see if they can find anything.” You start for the door, pulling it open.

He hums, eyeing the item in your hand as he walks out behind you. “Good idea… I don’t really want to be here anymore anyway. Feels too weird.”

It’s silent all the way down. Was it too obvious? Was the dialogue too strange, too choppy? The two of you reach the street, careful of your surroundings, before getting back in his car. 

“What was that about?” he asks, shutting the door as he slides into the driver’s seat.

You hold out the card for him to take. “Look. You know how you said there was no recent record of employment besides at King’s Crown? He’s been working at the Belvedere the past three months.”

He looks at you incredulously. “And?”

For whatever reason, he makes you doubt yourself. Suddenly, that solid idea you had in mind that made you split from the apartment is no longer so solid.

“The Belvedere has to have something. That’s our new lead!” Pulling your seatbelt over your body, you reach for your phone to give the Boss an update.

“He could have just been working off-record and gotten involved with the Syndicate some other way.”

You turn to him seriously. “Jeon. If it’s separate, why bother? Why would he be working for the Syndicate when he has a stable source of income as a dealer unless the two come hand in hand? They have to be hiding in plain sight.”

“And you’re willing to bet all your cards on that?” You almost find the doubt in his voice offensive.

You exhale deeply, trying to push down your temper. “The people in the Syndicate who killed him made sure there was nothing left on him to tell us who he was. No wallet, no keys, no license, no nothing, because they wanted his identity hidden. If he was working for them separately, why would they bother to do that? They would have just killed him and left. But it was about who he was and what he did. Which was dealing at The Belvedere.”

The car goes silent, and Jeon doesn’t reply. He only looks at you blankly, his poker face hard to break through, but not impossible. You know when he lets a hand slip up to tug at the strands at the nape of his neck.

“Good job,” he grins, hooking the key in the ignition and rumbling the car to life. He pulls out of the parking spot and onto the road casually. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You cross your arms in front of you protectively, glaring at him from the side.

“Oh, come on. I never actually doubted you, I was just messing around.”

You scoff loudly, turning to the window. “You’re such a fucking liar, Gguk. You didn’t get the connection until I explained it and the fact that you can’t even admit that you’re wrong, the fact that you have to act like you always knew, blows my fucking mind!”

He makes a left turn, looking out at the road, clearly avoiding you even though you’re stuck in the same damn car a foot away. “Calm down, Y/N. It’s not that serious.”

“But it is that serious! It was going so well, Gguk. We were finally acting like regular partners on a job. You always have to ruin everything, don’t you? It always has to be about you, and how much of a hero you are-”

“I never said I was a hero.”

“But you sure act like it.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Oh, I’m being ridiculous? Comes from the guy who claims he was ‘just joking around’ during a serious case like this when you know it’s not like what it used to be.”

“Okay, fine!” He shouts, hands slamming down on the steering wheel. “I did doubt you. I thought it was far fetched.” Jeon's voice booms as he rambles quickly in aggravation. “And then you explained it and I remembered that you’re really fucking smart and I wouldn’t have made that connection myself. And I lied because I didn’t know what else to say. I’m sorry, okay? Are you happy?”

Jeon’s free hand, which had been jerking around as he yelled, finds itself gripping the wheel again regretfully. Silence fills the car, hanging in the air as heavy and solid as concrete. You’re almost scared to breathe in face of all the tension. He looks like he’s about to say something else but stops himself before the words fall out. 

The way you were fuming brings tears to your eyes. When your parents died, all you had was Jeongguk. But Jeongguk’s heart had been rooted in the mafia since he was young. The two were mutually exclusive, and your best option was following after him. It was hard to believe the boy you put your trust in so blindly all those years ago had grown into the man sitting next to you now, bringing you to tears with the way he infuriated you. Where did it all go wrong?

“No. I’m not.”

☆☆☆

You’re tired when you go to bed that night, and you’re tired when you wake up. Though you’re barely awake, you can feel Penny nestled into your side, body rising and falling as she breathes. It’s a small comfort, especially after the rough day you had. Last night had been a mess as you tried to hold it together for her, but simply couldn’t. 

Today, you’ll be heading over to a motel in the Gambling District to stay at indefinitely with Jeon while you work on the case. You have no clue how long it will take - you’ll be taking a look at the Belvedere, but what comes after that, you don’t know.

It was important to note that somehow, the two of you had moved up to the faces of the mission, even though both sides were working tirelessly in the search. 

The last thing you want to do right now is see him, but you have no choice. The sooner you start working and get it done, the sooner you can get home. But for now, you have to start packing. You take another moment to lay with Penny, because when you’ll next feel this safety and comfort again, you can’t be sure of. Then, you carefully unlink her from you and begin laying things out.

Something nice to wear for the casino, clothes to sleep in, essentials for hygiene, an extra pair of socks… 

Eventually, Penny stretches out and groans to inform you of her awakening while you roam around the room. Her feet shifting under the comforter push a t-shirt off the bed.

“Sleep okay?” She rubs her eyes. “Yeah, you?”

“Eh. Could have been better.”

While you are away, Penny will be home by herself. The Boss said that she wouldn’t be required for work while you were gone - she could stay home and safe, for your reassurance. It still makes you nervous, of course, but bringing her with you isn’t an option. Yeji promised she would stop in from time to time, and you would be leaving her with a sum of money in case she needs it to order food or something of the sort.

“When are you leaving?”

“I have to be there by one, so probably in an hour or so.”

“Can we make waffles then?”

You sigh, letting your arms go limp at your side. Waffles were a hassle, and the cleanup could be a nightmare, but… something told you it was worth it over the potential mess.

“Sure, go get the machine set up and I’ll come out in a sec.”

It takes a few more minutes to get everything packed, take a few extra bottles of soaps and gels just in case, quickly zipping up your duffle bag and tossing it down onto the bed for when you return later.

Out in the kitchen, Penny has gotten more of a move on. She has already retrieved the ingredients from the pantry, even started measuring amounts out accordingly with the instructions on the back of the box.

You let her have a little fun and crack the eggs this time - though some shell gets in there, it’s nothing you can’t pick out. She makes jokes and you can’t help but laugh, and something about it has its way of calming you down. It reminds you of how precious moments spent together are. Something about the girl just makes you let go of the burdens you carry.

But it’s much too soon that you’re cleaning up. A small ending for a small fragment of your day bound to be filled with things much larger than you’re ready to handle. 

The rain falls like feathers when you pull into the lot, plunking consistently on your windshield. You turn the key and take it out, shutting down the vehicle’s rumbling engine, the lights dimming out all around you. You should get inside sooner than later, before the weather worsens, but you can’t seem to bring yourself out of the car. Jeon’s is already parked, meaning he’s inside waiting. But there’s no other choice you have. You’ll have to see him at some point, anyway. Postponing will only anger you further.

You push open the car door quickly, grabbing your bag and darting up the stairs as they clang under your shoes. The droplets smack against your skin and drip down relentlessly. It could be worse, but it is certainly not pleasant. Once you find shelter under the awning, you raise your hand in preparation to knock, but Jeon is already yanking open the door and stepping aside to make way for your entrance.

Inside, you dab at your hair with your sleeve carefully, fixing it in the mirror opposite to you. As clued in by the backpack and laptop already set up on the right side of the singular bed in the room, you deduced he had already claimed it. Therefore, you take the initiative to place your own bag on the left side, closest to the wall.

“So… how are you?”

“I’m fine.” You reach into your bag to begin unpacking a few of your essentials, feeling his eyes glued to you as you move around the room. Even as you plug in your charger, toss your computer on the bed, you could sense his firm yet uneasy presence behind you.

“Have you started yet?” you ask, brushing back the hair that had fallen forward onto your face. You’d prefer to start your work instead of floating around the elephant in the room awkwardly. 

He tucks his hands into his pockets. “No, I was waiting for you.” Jeon has been stuck to the same spot near the dim lamp beside the door since you stepped through the threshold. It inclined you to think that maybe he’s as nervous as you are, but you’re sure it’ll pass over in a matter of minutes once he gathers himself. 

“Okay.” You exhale in thought, sweeping yourself into a comfortable position on the bed. “I’ll start doing background on the casino and it’s ownership records. You can look into workers or people associated with the man who was killed. Or call the agency, I don’t know. You do you.”

He makes a small noise of agreement, flipping open his laptop. However, with the slow movement of his fingers across the keyboard, the air void of purposeful clicking, you can tell he’s not getting much done. In fact, you can see in your peripheral his stillness, as if he’s waiting to make a move.

When you spare a glimpse over to him, he offers an expression of deep thought, only to say, “There are snacks, too. In case you get hungry.”

Your scampering flow of typing pauses. “Okay.” All you can offer is a brief, tight pull of your lips, what you could barely define as a smile.

Luckily, he seems to receive your message loud and clear, turning back around in his chair to start up whatever he was planning on. You know what you want to get - the information most valuable to doing what you needed to do and confirming what you already suspected, which was in the past records of the proprietorship. It would also be helpful if you could find current workers and see what they were doing; Maybe even more helpful if you could find nothing at all.

The records you stumble upon are nothing short of interesting once you finally break down that barrier. Ownership of the casino had been consistent up until three months ago, when the deed holder - a healthy man of only fifty-six years old - made a business deal and swiftly moved out of the country, only to be found dead in his home a month later. The new owner’s background appeared without even the slightest scratch. The lack of suspicion is suspicious in itself - you don’t think the Falcon would have the place under his own name, but having it under someone who is pristine as a newly minted coin is dubious all the same.

It’s the shut of Jeon’s laptop that sucks you back into the reality of the motel room from your online sanctuary. He stands up to stretch and makes a move for the bathroom. The room is shrouded in the darkness of nighttime, save for the moonlight streaming in through the windows and the sorry excuse for a lamp on your night table. It wouldn’t kill you to call it a night either.

When he emerges, you take your turn, bringing a change of clothes with you so you won’t have to face the tension that might arise if you came back out in just a towel. The shower is pleasant; For a second, if you close your eyes, you’re no longer in the same space with him and can enjoy the time for yourself. 

Your heavy heart can’t be kept at bay for too long. Outside the bathroom is a surprisingly accurate reminder of old times, when scenes just like this were the regular, and the feeling was the same. But at this moment, the way you’re avoiding his eyes while you braid your hair in the mirror is a show of just how much things have changed.

“Why are you looking at me?” you pipe quietly over the steady padding of your feet on the carpet, his watch following you hesitantly.

Jeon sits back at the head of the bed, not sure where to direct his gaze anymore now that you’ve verbally interrupted it. His constant attention, and especially the way he doesn’t deny it even in the face of your attitude towards him, leaves you with a weary ache that you’re quickly getting tired of feeling all the time.

A charming, shy smile fixes on his face as his head tilts endearingly, testing the waters. “What, I can’t look at you?”

“Not like that,” you mumble, barely above a whisper, lifting up the sheets to crawl in, leaving as much space as possible between the two of you. When you turn your back to him to look at the wall, you think he might make another teasing comment, but he doesn’t.

“It’s the braid,” he elaborates, as if it’s some sort of excuse sufficient enough to play flirty and cool with you when the situation is anything but. “It reminds me of when we were kids… you used to wear it like that every day.” 

It’s almost as if to say, do you remember? But of course you remember. Afternoons spent at the playground, your hair in a loose braid thrown over the front of your shoulder. Mornings spent in the courtyard, scribbling down answers to work that was due in ten minutes. Evenings spent wandering around town, laughing and joking together as kids should. But nothing offered by the times of the past could dismiss the times of the present.

You lean over and tug the chain on the lamp, darkness enclosing your small room.

“Go to bed, Gguk.”

He doesn’t make another sound that night.

☆☆☆

The storm has proven its resilience yet continues to torrent, horribly testing the aging logs of trees and endlessly splattering your windows. Even still, it has something to say, residing anger it wants to make you feel, trapping you inside your room and limiting your options. It’s a deep pain, but perhaps if you were a storm, you’d let yourself drain out every ounce of deplorable wrath until there was nothing leftover, too.

Jeon sits at the small table near the door. He’s been there for who knows how long, flipping through pages, making phone calls that connect no dots, wasting his time. There is nothing that can be done at the moment, not with the state of the weather at least. Weather, a trivial matter, the most popular topic choice for insignificant conversation, heeds your course of action without a known resumption.

In the meantime, you enjoy yourself as much as you can. You make popcorn in the less than appealing microwave and settle in to watch whatever piques your interest in the slightest, meaning there is not a wide selection. Right now, you’ve got on a show about the aliens who have supposedly visited ancient Egypt and other societies bygone, and have been consistently present throughout the timeline of human history.

“Y/N. Let me ask you a question.” Jeon rubs his forehead, slumping over in his chair. “Did you come here with the intention of helping this case, or just to vacation?”

You nod in thought, humming. “Good question. I’d say the former, but I don’t think your question was intended to have an answer. Let me ask you a question then.”

His tired face turns to you expectantly. 

You take a pensive breath before raising your hand and asking slowly, “Do you think that aliens provided advanced technologies to the Germans to build new weapons for the Third Reich?”

He stares at you blankly, meeting your still and inquisitive expression for just a moment until he cracks, shaking his head and looking away toward the window, as if he’ll find something better to say out there.

“No, I’m serious,” you insist as you toss another kernel into your mouth, hoping he takes your biting satire to heart. “Because, this guy is saying that the Germans built a flying saucer. A whole fucking flying saucer, called the Haunebu, and no, wait, listen, it was said to use mythical technology from old Indian texts.”

You stare, intent on waiting for a response. Jeon pinches the bridge of his nose, the way his fuse was quickly shortening keeping you bitterly entertained. “You have to work with me, Y/N. Can you please just work with me?”

The joke dissolves and you blankly turn to flip through the channels. “I am working with you. There’s just nothing to work on.”

He puts his head in his hands. “For God’s sake, can you stop? I know you don’t care for me, but if you could just cooperate-”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “Care for you?” you repeat, your smile fueled with gallons of flammable offense, sitting upright on the bed. He spins in his chair to face you again, eyebrows knitting together before confirming, “Yeah, care for me!”

A sour laugh escapes you, arms folding over your front. “I don’t care for you? That’s rich, Gguk.” 

“No, you don’t! And I don’t think you ever have, quite frankly, because you’re acting like such a bitch to me and can’t even give me a chance!” Jeon stands now, leaning into his words as his hands stretch out in dramatic gestures.

You jump to your feet. ”Why should I give you a chance? What good has that ever done me?”

Jeon’s jaw visibly clenches, his hand shooting up to meet his chin as he eschews your scrutinizing eye. You feel your nails digging into your palms as your fists clench, but you’re sure you’ll swing at something if you stop.

Your throat begins to sting, masking your cracking voice with a low tone. “I almost died for you, Gguk. And a week later, you left me.”

The room collapses under the weight of the elephant. It’s everything you’ve wanted to say for years bubbling to the top.

As soon as the venom leaves your mouth, you know he remembers. The guilt washing over his features says it all, awful clips of the last mission you ever went on together passing through his vision.

It was supposed to be an easy interception of a deal, but Jeon’s inability to differentiate between necessary risk and recklessness cost you your covers. He got away. You were captured.

It was torture at the expense of his safety. Excruciating pain in order to protect him from his own mistake. Your blood spilled, your tears cried, your body hurt. Yet at the end of every video, every call, every threat, your only message to him was that it was okay.

They were the worst you had ever encountered. They wanted leverage over the Boss; They wanted Jeon. And the only way to him was to you. At the time, it was worth it. You wouldn’t give him up, you wouldn’t let yourself become a part of an exchange for his life. You put his over your own in a heartbeat.

And where had that gotten you?

Your depth of a breaking point had provided that desperately needed time to organize a plan of attack, and even though you hadn’t been there quite yet, even though you had been trained and it was far from your first rodeo, it wasn’t anything less than scarring. 

Even though the mafia infiltrated and rescued you successfully, the inner turmoil never fully recovered. Though you moved past the nightmares and the flashbacks that hid in your damaged subconscious, the memory never stopped hurting. Especially when he up and left you to deal with it on your own.

“I know,” is all he can muster. 

A thrilling laugh of spite rips from your throat. He hates it.

“What? That’s all you can say? You can’t even give me an explanation?”

“I… I was out of options for us, Y/N. After the mission, I knew it was me making you vulnerable. People were hurting you over me, and I didn’t want that for us anymore. I made a plan to leave, and I thought that you could come with me… but I was stupid and in a rush and the deal was only for my cooperation if the Agency helped me out. They wouldn’t let me take you.”

Your usual crisp verbosity fails you now, everything you need to say stuck in your throat. A stabbing anguish falls like bullets in a downpour, a storm born only in the bitterest winter. 

“I know I fucked up, Y/N, I know I did. And I’ll always be sorry and I’ll always regret it. And I’ll spend every second of my life trying to make up for it.” Jeon’s lip quivers through his shaky breaths, his eyes now soaked, the ache in his heart unforgiving. “And I know I can’t ever take it back, but you hate me so bad…”

A pained upturn of your lips feeling the grudge of a thousand wrongdoings phases over your expression, for him, for you, for everyone you’d ever known in this sickening lifetime.

“I don’t hate you, Gguk,” you sob through your teeth, wiping furiously at your eyes, “I hate… I hate that I love you regardless of what you do.”

He winces. “Please don’t do that to me.” “Do what?”

Hot streams of tears trickled down his supple cheeks, voice cracking as he whispers, “Say that you love me when you know how I feel.”

“Oh shut up, Jeongguk!” you yell, wet rage prickling your veins as it courses through you. Your cheeks are now just vessels for a dam breaking loose. “I have always loved you!”

And it hurts so bad to say it. The way he makes your stomach flutter feels like a betrayal to yourself. But that smile he wears like a medallion, those eyes that are always searching for you, that golden heart that loved you so well - everything you hate is everything you love. Even when you want to ignore the truth for everything it’s worth and all the weight it heaves on its shoulders, it’s impossible to escape the way you love him even when you wish you could just hate him.

You calm yourself with a shaky breath. “I loved you before, and I loved you after, even when you left and I knew you weren’t coming back.”

“That’s not true,” he sputters, taking a step toward you. “I was always going to come back. Every day, I begged for help to get you out. But the deal I made with the agency was only my rescue for my cooperation, and it didn’t include you, no matter what I tried to do.”

It stings your chest. You have to turn away when your head drops to your palms, but he’s quick to reach a hand to your shoulder for your attention. 

“It’s been over three years, Gguk,” you whisper, sniffling as you wipe your running nose with your sleeve. Your voice is clogged in disappointed acceptance. “Don’t lie. Just say my relevance to you faded and you forgot.”

He grasps your arm gently, beckoning your eyes to meet his. While your tears are slowing from tire, his are an endless faucet left on in negligence.

“No,” his tone softens, “No, I was waiting until it was safe.”

You shake your head, the soreness in your chest present as ever as you try to hold it all in. “It was never going to be safe.”

“Maybe. And maybe it won’t ever be. But you have to let me make it right.”

“How do you intend on doing that? Putting snacks in the fridge doesn’t do shit, Gguk.”

He inhales deeply as his lips press together. Jeon takes a careful glance around the room, eyebrows furrowing as he silently pleads with you. 

“I made a plan to get you out after the mission is completed. The higher-ups at the Agency agreed just in exchange for you to give a private report with as much as you know for future reference. From there, it’s you going wherever you want, no strings attached, no extra deal you have to make.”

“That won’t work,” you scoff.

“Yes, it will! I promise it will! Listen, everything is already planned. My friends are taking extra care because they trust me. You’ll have new records, a new passport and a license, new everything, and even…”

“Gguk...” You whisper as he continues rambling. “Gguk. Jeongguk!”

He takes in a sharp breath as his words are cut off mid-stream, feeling his heart drop to his stomach.

In a quiet, calm whisper, you explain, “I can’t. I have Penny and other people here that I care about. For god sake, I have money I've been saving for years in that apartment, all our stuff is there, I can’t just leave and not come back.”

The desperation in his voice is now out in the open. “I know. I wasn’t expecting that, but I’m working on her now, too. You just have to trust me.”

For a second, he lets himself swell with hope, but your deep, despondent sigh crumbles him right back down to where he started. 

“Gguk…” you start, but he can’t bear to hear it, leaning down to meet your hesitant eyes straight on. Distress clouds his watery pupils as he implores you with every ounce of sincerity he can muster to the surface for you. He doesn’t know how else he can make you see he’s being more honest now than he ever has been in his life. 

“It’s okay if you can’t forgive me. I understand, and I’ll never stop being sorry. And, and I’m sorry for how I acted when I saw you again, but I was just so scared.” His lip trembles as he searches for eyes for something, anything. “I didn’t know what I was supposed to do because I was so scared of what you’d say and how you’d feel and I thought if I acted like it was fine, it wouldn’t hurt as bad.” 

He swallows on a dry mouth, trying not to stammer but his heart denying him that ability.

“I, I thought about you every day. Every day. And I knew it was complicated and everyone told me I should just let go and, and I just couldn’t! I just knew it was you. It was always you. And I am so, so sorry I made you feel it wasn’t.”

By now, you can’t restrain your tears, no matter how hard you clench your teeth or comfort your face. In a moment of deep affliction, there’s no other place to turn but him. The second you pull him to you is relief synonymous with the feeling of when a battered castaway finally spots a plane coming for their rescue; it is joint. 

“I wish I could trust you, Jeongguk,” Sobs muffled by his comforting chest, you cry, ”But I don’t know if I can do that. I want to believe you so bad, but I… I don’t know if it’s worth it.”

The comforting warmth of his body is a mean juxtaposition against the harsh sobs that rack through it. Jeongguk smells of something sweet and nostalgically familiar, like sunny beach days spent down by the salty water, plucking seashells from the sand and digging for hermit crabs once the waves pull away from the shore. Light sunscreen and grainy memories that flash by as your brain slides through like film.

“That’s okay,” he mumbles into your hair. Your will splinters in his arms. “Just think about it. That’s all. Just think about it.”

Though you nod against him in shaky assent, it’s not a promise. 

☆☆☆

Not the next day, but the day after, is when you decide to make your move. 

The casino is a home base, hidden in plain sight. Not even that - crowded by the public eye, and yet not a suspicion raised despite its astronomical numbers being reported over the past few months. Sure, it was bustling full of rich men in need of something to spend their money on, but not enough to sustain those incredible reports.

And under that brittle, flimsy assumption comes your similarly brittle, flimsy plan. Go in, see what you can see. Scout for suspicious activity, chat up drunk patrons and loosen their lips, explore the building a bit. See what you see.

Your fingers are nimble, but your prickling nerves make them fumble as you try the clasp on your necklace. The nail on your pointer can’t seem to hold the small lever down for long enough, even when you twist the chain around so you can lean forward to do it in the mirror. You even consider just tossing it to the side and going without the necklace.

Jeon, standing awkwardly to the side and already having fixed his sleeves in place countless times, glances over to you in the mirror briefly. You sigh when you catch his hesitant watch in the reflection - his shy offer goes unspoken, just a reminder that it’s there if you want to take it. All it takes is a minuscule top of your head to give in.

 Resisting Jeongguk is like resisting gravity. It pulls you down sooner or later, no matter how high or far you push yourself off. But at the end of the day, it keeps you grounded.

His footsteps are barely audible on the carpet as he approaches timidly. Light on his feet, as always. You surrender the ends of the necklace to him and tug the pendant back around to the front. The pads of his fingertips are rough as they drag lightly across your skin in the exchange, igniting a flaming feeling in their path. You can feel the hairs on the back of your neck prickle as he pushes them out of the way with the back of his hand. Considering his extensive training and incredible eye, you’re sure he notices it, but you’re grateful he doesn’t say anything.

You try not to let your eyes wander in the mirror for too long. For your excursion tonight, your dress is one of the best you own - a simple, dark satin gown with a generous leg slit to steal some eyes, but not enough to make you uncomfortable. The deep cowl neck is flattering in its pristine v-shape, especially with the way the pendant hangs itself just above.

Jeon is sporting all black. His shirt is ironed smoothly, fitting well over his shoulders and tucked with care into his trousers and secured with a sturdy belt. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows to reveal his skin, tattoos peeking out in a shamelessly appealing way, and the collar…

Okay, too much. You’ll go into sensory overload if you look any longer. He’s caught onto it, the way a smirk creeps onto his face. He lingers a second longer after he’s clasped the jewelry in place. The Gguk you know flicks his eyes up quickly and throws a small, short smile your way, hands reluctant to pull away as they take the time to drift over your bare shoulders.

You clear your throat, taking the initiative to get on your way. He hides the way his spirit dips at the rejection, but he knows he can’t expect more. Once you’re outside and have locked the door behind you, the night air hits you, cool and fresh and promising. But for what exactly, you can’t be sure.

☆☆☆

The Belvedere is one of the most expensive-looking places in the city - in the months since you’d last worked a case around the gambling district, it had certainly been renovated. At the very front, the casino’s name glows light blue in a thin font while large ivory columns hold up a wide intricate ceiling to shade the pavilion. A wall of luxe glass doors lines the entrance, so sparkly and reflecting you think it can’t be just glass. 

As inviting as the front entrance seems, it is not your way in. Too many scrutinizing eyes, too many cautious cameras, too much security for your type of job. That leads you to the side of the building, a small alley between buildings with one side entrance. The agency already looped the footage twenty minutes ago just to be safe.

But of course when you try it, it’s locked.

“And… what now? They’ll notice if we just break in.”

Jeon shrugs. “Maybe not until a little while. Besides, we’re covered.” His pointer finds the camera up above the two of your for reference.

“I’d rather hold off on the damage we do.”

As he racks his brain for another option, your brain tunes in to the muted sound of shoes on linoleum. He raises a question just as you put your ear to the door but your shush quiets him immediately. The footsteps are coming your way.

Just as you feel the door about to open, you tug Jeon to the side next to the door’s hinge, pulling him down by his collar into a kiss. The door opens loudly and his hands, after his initial shock dissipates, find themselves on your waist as your own snake their way around his neck. You make sure one hand covers the side of his face generously and that your hair masks your own, meanwhile Jeon can’t help himself from getting swept up in you.

A guard, you think it is, halts when he sees the two of you, but takes it off his radar when he can no longer stand to watch your shamelessness. Or rather, Jeon’s shamelessness. His lips persistently press themselves to yours, nipping and pulling all the while his large hands push into your waist. Something about it makes you think it’s not just for a distraction.

The man shakes his head and turns the opposite direction, walking out toward the street. Before the heavy door falls closed behind him, you reach an arm out to grab the handle. Jeon pulls back slowly, blinking dumbfoundedly. He never thought you’d do such a thing - but clearly, it wasn’t such a thing to you by the way you were grinning like you’d only told a joke. He swallows, mentally slapping himself in a note to get himself together. You’re already stepping inside, and he picks up to follow suit.

You follow the hallway down the main room, and no one raises any concern, probably unable to sense suspicion in their state of inebriation. The two of you weave your way through crowds of people with too much money to spend, quietly thinking of how easy it would be to pickpocket them - but that’s for another time. 

A quick scan of the room provides you with the bar, rows of slot machines, pool tables, and a large lounge area filled with the sounds of mindless chatter and glasses clinking. You order drinks to blend in, nothing alcoholic, because as much as you wish you could get drunk and have fun in a casino, that wasn’t the reason you were here. Jeon hands you your coke with a practiced movement.

In a cheesy sort of cheers, he says, “To… the Lion and the Scorpion? Or is that too soon?” He purses his lips, half scared you’ll agree its too soon. It’s relief when he hears the laugh he missed so dearly.

“Not too soon, just a little embarrassing.” You clink your glass to his and take a sip. Jeon leads you over to the dartboards in excitement, one of his favorites to partake in. He chooses the one at the end of the row so you can stand beside him, supposedly to be impressed by his skills and praise him.

“God, this reminds me of Macau,” he sighs out contently. His coffee eyes roam around the large expanse of the hall, seeming to glitter under the crystal chandeliers hanging above you as he walks back from the controls, darts in hand. He gets into position and throws his first, landing for two points in the ring of red. As if you didn’t already know, he adds, “I loved Macau.”

You scoff. “What, because of the way our covers were blown and we had to massacre the lobby, or the sex?”

“Why not both?” He shrugs, smirk creeping onto his face. Another dart leaves his grip, expert aim leading right to the bullseye.

You take another sip of your drink. “Careful,” you warn, “Can’t be too good at this. It comes with questions.”

He hums, and you wonder if he’s even listening. “And you still had blood on your chest. Weirdly sexy.” His eyes narrow jokingly as he speaks just low enough so only you can hear it, and the reaction it pulls from you is exactly what he wanted when he starts to laugh. He lets go of his last dart with a shake of his head, either at the memory or his bad throw that says he’s going fishing.

He turns back to you. At your annoyed expression, he takes another swig of his drink and leans down to your ear. “Seriously though. That was hot.”

You roll your eyes before sending a scowl his way. “I’ll make sure to be extra messy tonight, just for you.” Your eyes crinkle peevishly. The sarcastic tone doesn’t escape him, but he does look hopeful.

“Hey, speaking of, this could be my New Macau. If you’re feeling frisky after the mission.” He throws you a flirtatious wink. While your poker face implies disinterest, your stomach is somersaulting head over heels, and you have a feeling he knows it by the way his eyes linger on you when you raise your glass to your lips. 

The phone in your purse vibrates. It’s a text from Yeji - need to get a move on. Jeon already has your gaze when you look back to meet him, but he knows it’s time from your expression alone. With a small nod, he goes up to end the game on the machine’s screen. Instead of coming back to you, though, he subtly taps your arm as he walks past and heads off to the door of the main floor, disappearing from your sight. You wait for a good thirty seconds, let people pass across the camera view at random, before hopping down from the barstool to follow in his footsteps.

You find him waiting in a secluded hallway, away from crowds or casino-regulars. He looks solemn, back pressed against the wall, and you have a feeling that what he has to say might upset you. He thinks so, too.

“Listen, you have to make a decision now. Before we split up, because there’s a chance I might not see you after this.”

You shrug. “I haven’t decided yet.” His eyebrows draw together as he gives you a pleading expression. His eyes flick to both sides of the hall before coming back to you, releasing a deep breath before pushing his hair from his eyes.

“I gave you the time, Y/N. You have to before it’s too late.” Jeon gulps, fumbling for the words. “Just come with me, please. I know it’s a lot to ask and I know you’re scared but you can trust me. I can help you.”

“No, Gguk. You don’t get it - It’s not possible. It’s not an option.” You sigh in resignation. A depleted smile surfaces as you shake your head. “Not in this life.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You did it once, you can do it again.”

“I’m not… I- I won’t. Y/N, please…” His lip quivers, his eyes glossing over.

He can’t accept the answer your silence provides. It’s not enough, not something he’s willing to endure. If it’s going to be a no, he has to hear it loud and clear.

He purses his lips tight. “I’ll flip a coin then.”

“...What?”

“I’ll flip a coin. Heads, you come with me. Tails, I’ll go,” he says shakily, swallowing, “...and I’ll never speak to you again.”

Before you can stop him, he’s wiping away the tears that have not yet had the chance to escape and aggressively fishing a quarter from his pocket, placing it on the tip of his thumb. Desperation burns in him, but you’re paralyzed. All you can do is stare, a fish out of water being held in the grip of an angler who just can’t let go. Or maybe one that’s urging you back out to sea.

His thumb flicks and the coin flies, the sound barely audible in this corner of the building but piercing to your ears. It flips in the air, every rotation executed with purpose - in that moment, as its arc nearly completes, the thought strikes you like lightning and without a second thought, you hand reaches up and snatches it midair.

Jeon is awestruck. He searches for something to say as his fountain of hope runs dry.

Weakly, you mutter, “Okay.” Its compliance, but a strange relief that makes you feel guilty the second it washes over you.

“Okay?”

“I’ll come.”

A tight-lipped smile spreads on his face - it’s the best he can do after such stress. In a heartbeat, he embraces you tightly, broad shoulders enveloping your form. His grip is familiar and only full of good things, even if it might suffocate you. His long, wavy locks brush lightly against your jaw as he buries his face in your neck. For once, you let yourself have that rare moment of comfort. 

“I won’t let you down,” he says, a vocal assurance for himself maybe more than for you. He thinks that maybe he shouldn’t say it, but he has to. “I promise.” 

It’s his first small triumph tonight. If nothing else, it is a debt repaid. He won’t push for more. He pulls back, lets you fix your hair and readjust your dress.

“Let’s get a move on. I’ll search the main floor, you take a look around the building. Keep in touch.”

You’re about to turn away from him, but his arm catches your wrist at the last second. When you look back to see what he has to say, he has trouble finding the right words.

“Listen… Y/N, I don’t know what it is, but I have this awful feeling. And I’m trying to ignore it, I know I’m probably just nervous, but I just want you to know in case. You don’t have to say anything…”

The hair framing your face bounces as your head begins to shake, trying to deny him before he can even say it. “No, Gguk, I know-”

“No. I...I love you. And you gotta know that, no matter what happens.” His thumb traces small circles on the patch of skin where yours meets your index. Before you have a chance to respond, he gives your hand a tight squeeze and plants a chaste kiss to your cheek, lips plush and sweet against your dimple, his last action as your token of remembrance. 

He doesn’t know why he feels so frail as he walks away, wiping away the wetness leaking from his eyes as he tries to calm himself down. Maybe it’s the lack of information, maybe it’s you possibly being in danger again. He tries to push it down as he struggles to resist the urge to look back at you; He’s just all up in his head, right? You can defend yourself, you’ll be fine without him, he reassures himself. You can make rope from kitchen twine.

You’re stuck on your own as the distance between you grows, heart racing as your time to say it back runs out like sand in an hourglass. In less than seconds, his figure has already disappeared around the corner.

A delicate finger reaches up to press the small button on the spyware piece tucked behind your ear. The whisper is low but you mean every syllable, regardless of the leftover turmoil that has consistently tempted you into anger the past few years - “I love you, Jeongguk.”

It’s a shot in the dark for you without his physical presence, but he hears it. It’s barely audible, but he hears it, and rings in his mind for moments after. It makes him feel right, like the moment when everything sifts into the bowl perfectly, no clumps of doubt left behind in the minuscule metal crosshatches. Even if just for a few seconds, the feeling of relief stays frozen in time.

You’re on your way back to the main hall when a buzz from your purse alerts you to an unknown number calling your phone. Typically you’d let it ring, thinking it was spam - but considering this was an agency phone, that wouldn’t make much sense. Your finger hovers over the green accept button, hesitantly pressing down and lifting it to your ear. 

The response is immediate. “The Scorpion,” a man on the other end addresses you, sounding much too enthusiastic for your taste. His voice is masked with a changer, the tone fluctuating as he speaks. “I’m glad you could make it tonight. I’ve spent a lot to make this place nice.”

The theatrics elicit an impatient eye roll from you. “Who is this?”

“Who do you think? You’re a smart cookie. There’s a reason they call you the Scorpion, isn’t there?”

He lets the pause marinate and continues, “I actually wanted to meet with you. I need to discuss something vital to you in person, but you’ll have to do some things for me first.”

You begin to turn around, spinning on your heels and intent on heading to Jeongguk downstairs, but the voice on the phone stops you. “Where do you think you’re going?”

You freeze, an eyebrow raising at the voice’s inquiry. Keen eyes scan quickly, landing on the faceless lens of a security camera - 

“It’s my casino. Of course I can see what you’re doing.”

A skeptical breath escapes you, squinting at the camera focused on your position. “...What do you want?”

“I just want to talk.” It’s casual.

“How do I know it’s not a trap?” “You don’t. But you don’t have any other option, really. If you need convincing… why don’t you check your home security?”

The dubious persona falters as your heart stops. It couldn’t be. You exit the call and open the app on your phone right away, and a sinking feeling hits you like a truck on the freeway, full speed and with reckless abandon. The view from the camera, grey and grainy, displays the apartment in pieces, furniture overthrown and papers scattered. The dread crawls up your spine as your worst nightmare, the one thing you always prayed for despite the lack of faith, comes to life; Penny is gone.

You call the number back.

“What now?” you say, jaw clenched. trying to calm your breathing.

“Take out your earpiece, toss it to the floor, and crush it. I need to protect my location somehow, right? Just a precaution.”

You slowly remove the receiver from its spot nestled in around your ear, thumbing the tiny matte black tech. It’s your connection to the outside, to safety. It’s your connection to Jeongguk. But the Falcon has played his cards right, leaving you with no other option. It falls from your fingertips, clatters to the linoleum, and you crush it underneath your heel.

“Now, your weapons. My guards will come to escort you - hand over your gun and any knives you may have on you. I know you’re sneaky, but now… really isn’t the time. I’ll see you in a bit.” A cold click ends the call and he’s gone.

On cue, two masked men dressed in all black emerge. They don’t frighten you, you know you could take them if you needed to. However, the priority is Penny, so you have to. You surrender your weapons and phone to them, and then they begin to shuffle you away to wherever the Falcon had made his nest.

Despite the nerves prickling like electric shocks, uneasiness itches in the back of your mind. Something about the phone call - was it the strange familiarity that made you feel so nauseous? You couldn’t quite place your finger on what was so off, on what about it pulled the alarm, but something besides the obvious situation at hand was wrong.

☆☆☆

Jeongguk doesn’t have much to go off of. He’s looking for something, anything, that can clue him in. He finds a creepy looking stairwell and decides to take it down. That’s how you find everything in need of being found, right? By following what feels off?

He comes to a storage room full of dusty metal shelves, all lined with boxes upon boxes. He takes a quick sweep of the room, shrugging to himself before delving into one. It’s just piles of text he doesn’t understand, pages and pages of orders and receipts dating back years and years. Maps of the building, information of repairs and inventory and renovations. It doesn’t mean anything useful, until he sees orders under names that ring a bell.

But from where? People he went to school with, maybe? For the life of him, he can’t remember where he knows them from.

He’s frantically flipping through pages, pulling boxes from the shelves and trying his best to read under the dim light. It’s not making any sense, until he lands on orders filed under the name… Jeon?

He freezes, all alone in the middle of a storage room full of thousands of documents, a sickly feeling washing over him.

A trembling hand reaches up to press the button on his earpiece.

“Y/N? I think I just found something.”

He waits, and no response from you.

“...Y/N?”

☆☆☆

The penthouse is in the heart of the city, just a few blocks away from the Belvedere. The view is enough to tell it to you - it overlooks miles of blinking lights and busy streets with which you have an archetypal love-hate relationship with. 

You’ve stepped fresh off the elevator into an open room that is in dire need of an interior decorator, or at the very least some basic furnishing. It’s basically empty, the dark hardwood floors even coated with a light layer of dust. Nothing except the moon and the fireplace at the other end of the room illuminate the space.

There’s shuffling, and the guards on either side of you are grabbing firmly onto your arms.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You struggle against them, fighting to get out of their grip, but one of them mutters how it’ll be better for you if you cooperate. You strain against the instinct to escape, every bone in your body screaming disgusted by the forced submission. Handcuffs click into place, and pressure on your shoulders pushes you to your knees. Then, they resign themselves to the back corners of the room.

A door creaks open at the far side of the room. The man sports a dark coat that obscures his figure, and long, dark hair hangs over the man’s face. His steps are slow and calculated on the wooden floor as he makes his way to the fire. Slender, practiced fingers grab onto the poker and stir the fire, glowing orange embers soaring in a blizzard of an inferno. A silver ring glints in the moonlight - one you’d recognize anywhere.

The details flood back, chains of connections like dominoes tipping over the edge of gut-wrenching betrayal - 

“...Boss?”

The man pauses, followed by a sudden clasp of his hands in… delight?

He spins on the heel of his oxfords to face you, hair sweeping back as he smiles at you.

“Keen as ever, my dear. You truly are the Scorpion. I know how you feel about your title, but you’re deserving of it.” 

A shaky breath leaves your throat, eyes stinging as you make out a low, “What is this?”

At the sight of your panic, the boss hurries over to you, making a show of how he takes your jaw in his hands. Though you flinch, he wipes the escaping tear with a calloused thumb.

“No, dear, no need to cry! This doesn’t have to be difficult. You are just leverage - you won’t be hurt as long as what needs to happen, happens.” The way he shakes his head, the twisted compassion in his eyes, makes you sick.

“Then where’s Penny?”

His sigh is accompanied by a sad smile. “Penny is the leverage over you. In case you get any funny ideas.”

“For what? What is this about?” you press, “What about the Syndicate, huh? Aren’t you gonna tell me what this is for?”

A rush of air, and then a sharp pressure on your throat. The Boss’s blade creeping up your throat - a small burn as he nicks your skin. 

“I’d watch my mouth if I were you. You should remember where your loyalties lie.”

You swallow thickly, and he continues.

“The Syndicate is real. Their presence in this city is real - but we are on good terms with them. I help them, they help me. They sacrifice a few men because they do what’s needed for the terms of the agreement, just like us.”

He blew up a building, ransacked the agency, led you on a wild goose chase in search of a threat that didn’t exist? There was always something psychotic about the Boss, that’s why he instilled so much fear in you - his lack of empathy, the lengths he’d go just for a show of power, but a ploy like this?

“And what’s that got to do with me?”

He scoffs. “It’s not about you, my dear. It never was. It’s about your connection to who it is about…”

His grin grows inverse to your pained frown, lips quivering as the realization dawns on you. “Jeongguk.”

“You’re the link, Y/N. I know how much you hate to love him. Only if you were forced to for the sake of the city. The reconnection wouldn’t be easy, but that boy is persistent, and the moment he heard you say those words back, it was sealed.”

You’re choked by the weight of his words crashing down on your throat. It’s horrifying, the way the tears well up and spill recklessly, finding it hard to breathe with your arms restrained. You focus your hardest on the effort to stay conscious, but the nausea is eating away at you.

“He was honest, too. He’s tried multiple times to fish you out of here. And it always rubbed me the wrong way. He’ll leave me behind, but not you? You’re my best, Y/N, but I despise you simply because of what your existence means.”

“You’re going to kill him?” you bite your lip to hold back the sob trying to crawl its way from your chest.

The Boss blinks, tilting his head in a faked compassion. “Only if he makes the same mistake again.”

An alert sounds out from his pocket. He fishes out his phone and holds it up to show you a map with a green dot steady on a location, seemingly yours.

“And it looks like we’ll find out right about… now.”

The elevator behind you opens, and the guards point their guns straight at the figure stepping off. His gun is held up protectively, but he has nowhere to go, face falling as he reads the situation - reads the pain on your face as you stare back at him on the floor.

He lowers his pistol, glaring at the man waiting smugly in front of him.

“Nice to see you again, Jeongguk.”

His lip turns down in disgust, spitting rancor - 

“Can’t say the same for myself, Dad.”

☆☆☆

The tension in the air is tight, like a thousand strings of yarn pinned wall to wall and floor to ceiling and impossible to maneuver. The Boss tsks at the cold reunion, more bitter than he had hoped. 

“What, you didn’t miss me all these years? I raised you, after all.”

“Raised me?” Jeongguk scoffs incredulously. “Try training me into your personal pawn, like some fucked up trophy for you to flaunt.”

“It was only so you could someday take my spot, son. I treated you the same way my father did me.”

The bitter timbre of his voice is laced with venom, so uncharacteristic of the Jeongguk you know. “Well, I worked out my daddy issues with a therapist. Maybe you should give it a shot. You should also probably mention how fucked up you are to plan a scheme like this just to bring me here.”

“You left, Jeongguk. I’d do anything for my son.”

“Oh, please-”

A loud click, and cool metal pressed against your forehead. Jeongguk freezes, and he knows the stakes. His blood boils from the blatant manipulation. There was a reason he left - he hated feeling this exact moment, and he hated reliving it even more. It was a place he thought he’d never be in again.

The Boss rolls his eyes again. “Always with something to say, forgetting I’m your elder, your father no less. Plan on letting me speak soon?”

His eyes are as cool as Jeongguk’s now. Dark, disappeared from dramatic frills or drawn-out tones. The resemblance is stunning, strikes fear in your heart, both physical and the mannerisms long-buried by time now resurfaced by each other.

When you meet the Boss’s eyes, they show no remorse for someone he claimed thinks of as his best.

Jeongguk’s eyes flick down and back up. Cooperation.

“Thank you.” He pulls the gun away, letting you catch a breath. “It’s simple, son. You agree to come back, and everything goes smoothly. If not, you won’t be leaving this room alive, and neither will she. Can’t have my trump cards playing against me.”

“Leave her out of this.”

“She’s the reason you’re here, how could I leave her out of this?”

“This is you and me. Not her.”

His father muses the idea, chews it up, spits it out. “Okay,” he grins. “Just us. I’d say go until one surrenders, but that’s not how us Jeons do it. If you can kill me, you’re free to do what you want.”

The guards lower their weapons, leaving the room at a snap of the Boss’s fingers, and Jeongguk’s grip on his tightens, knuckles turning white as he nods sharply in agreement. He’s been caught, a three-year-long game of cat and mouse finally come to a standstill. The man he looks at is just another cruel, cold-hearted crook on a power trip. The last thing he wants to do is fight him, because as skilled as Jeongguk might be, his father is equally such. He also has the upper hand: No feelings of remorse.

But he sees you on the floor, and when it comes to your life on the line, he knows he’d do anything. No matter the risk or the cost, he’d play a losing hand if he had to, if just to keep the fear from your mind. He steps past you, eyes speaking of reassurance when they meet yours, but it’s not a promise. 

Once Jeongguk has made his way around you to the center of the room, the Boss’s attention falls to you.

“Hear that, dear? This is a family issue. But in case you need any more convincing…”

The same door he creaked through minutes ago flies open, and in shuffles two people. Penny’s figure mirrors your own, arms tied behind her back. Her eyes are red and puffy, hair mussed and clothes wrinkled. There’s no blood or bruising visible, but it kills you the second you lay eyes on her. Your chest heaves silently, panic rising as she is brought in front of the fireplace, led by… Yeji?

The sleek, dark ponytail is unmistakable, and her cat eyes flick over to you in guilt as your words confirm her presence.

“I’m sorry,” she mouths, tears clouding her eyes. “I didn’t know.”

It was impossible to believe how easily everything was collapsing. Maybe your foundations were not as strong as you once thought. Wasn’t it just a week ago you had last spoken to her, taken her advice on working with Jeongguk?

“Again. No need for anyone to get hurt as long as you don’t interfere.”

But would Yeji hurt Penny, even at the Boss’s command? Was she that scared of him? Penny finds you, and you try your best to communicate reassurance, but you fall short. She trembles in fear the same as you.

Without warning, the Boss’s blade flies across the room. Jeongguk side steps, but the red gash sliced along his cheek taunts him for being a second too late. He reaches up a finger to dab at the blood in awe.

His anger fuels him forward. He raises his gun, ringing out shots that bury themselves in the drywall as he closes the gap. The Boss dodges each one. Slender fingers pull the gun from its holster, firing back immediately, glass shattering behind the younger.

Jeongguk zig zags on his feet, blade swinging up viciously at his father while he pulls the trigger in his left hand. The Boss is quick despite his age, no hesitation to his wide, ruthless swings. Jeongguk ducks and spins, changing their positions, knocking a knife from his grasp.

The man laughs. “That was good, but you can do better!” he yells, evading Jeongguk’s relentless swipes. As he taunts, a shard of glass reaches your vicinity. “Or are you too scared to hurt your old man?”

Your fingers bleed hot as you force the shard into the keylock, lifting up the metal lever.

It only fuels Jeongguk’s fire. A firm kick to the chest sends the Boss stumbling back. Jeongguk progresses, his knife dropping around in his grip, taking the slim moment to drive a sharp ice pick stab to his father's shoulder.

His eyes flick to you, and he doesn’t have the time to pull it back out. His father parries his left wrist outward and the gun is knocked from his fingertips, skidding to the floor, arriving kindly right in front of you. A single shot blasts out and Jeongguk lets out a clipped yelp. Your wrists free from the lock and reach for the solution just inches away.

But it’s already checkmate. The Boss’ blade is pressed up against Jeongguk’s throat, who is on his knees as he clutches at his thigh, crimson seeping through his fingers.

“Has the Lion been tamed since I last saw him?” The Boss mocks. There is nowhere for Jeongguk to go. “I’m disappointed, son. Love has made you weak.”

It steals the breath from your lungs. His eyes dart to your figure, mirroring his son’s actions just moments ago. He dares you to make a move. With his play, you can’t.

But that’s where the Boss is wrong. The man void of love sees it as a shot with a predetermined course from point A to point B, easily interfered with by the right tools, by the right move. However, love should not be mistaken for something meager. It’s an ever-weaving thread, crossing and connecting each and every way. Love does not have to be star-crossed and dire, it is not always a fated, tragic romance. There is no one love to outlast all others - not when it can be one you choose.

Yeji meets your eyes from across the room. The Boss has only a bluff catcher against her, the mistake of expecting loyalty before knowing for sure. It’s a twisted collusion that you never would have chosen, but it’s not your hand to play anymore.

Her vision is blurry through her tears. Yeji takes a breath she’s sure will be her last and releases it shakily. She has to do it now. She thinks of every other woman roped into his scheme, every future Penny that will be taken if it doesn’t end here, and she knows you can do it, because she was never strong enough to.

“Forgive me,” she croaks. 

An enraged bellow leaves the Boss, but all too late. She has already fired, breaking the lock that has held you captive all these years. A scream rips from your throat as Penny’s body falls forward and collapses to the hardwood.

Yeji is shredded by the entourage of bullets ripping from the Boss’s gun. She stumbles back, hits the wall, sinks to the floor.

Your hands instinctively reach for the weapon in front of you, hands fumbling as you pull the trigger with the weight of a thousand lives behind your index alone. The Boss falls, knife slipping from his fleeting grip, the third and final seal to the game.

The silence is stunning. Nothing feels real. It’s all shock before the pain rushes in, the inability to breath, the feeling of drowning. It’s utter anguish as you fight to the other side of the room, but Jeongguk holds you back. Pushing past him, only for him to spin you around and make you look him in the eye.

“We have to go,” he says through gritted teeth, voice cracking. His eyes plead with you as they blink away tears. Blood coats his hands, urgently dripping down his wrists as they grip yours. “Y/N, we have to go.”

 It dawns just as the day on the glowing horizon behind him that it’s over, but there is no victory in sight.

☆☆☆

The coming days are a whirlwind. Most of the time you’re numb, finding yourself stuck in your mind replaying memories over and over, and wincing to pull yourself out of them to the real world that is not much better. The funerals are a blur, long and tiring processions of black and sympathies you are not capable of accepting that leave your head pounding by the time you finally can sleep. But the dream world is not as kind to you as you would have hoped. 

It isn’t the memory of her death. It’s the memory of her smile, bright and tender, that could not see another day to shine. You haven’t stepped foot in the apartment yet. You will at some point, but not yet.

Yeji is another story. It’s a moral dilemma of what your inner compass tells you is wrong and your love for the only friend you ever had. Yeji was not bad, you know that. But it was murder, and perhaps that was why it did not go unpunished. Were her actions the results of weakness, or strength? Of personal desire, or wide-scale consideration? You could spend hours wondering whether things might have been different if she hadn’t done it, but at the end of the day, you would never get the chance to know. 

In the meantime, the mafia is collapsing. Those who wanted to leave took their chance the second the news of the Boss’s death came in. Ran away to other cities, shelters, anywhere they could to get away from the struggle of the organization. Others who had nothing else are stranded picking up the pieces. They won’t be able to make a comeback, you know that. They’ll turn to other forms of crime, maybe even those that you’ll have to face again in the future.

You can get away from it all for a few moments of peace, but not much more.

Jeongguk’s apartment is close to the marina. He’s lucky for such a beautiful view. This early in the morning, the world is silent, relaxing without the mindless bustling of life. Boats float calmly across the harbor, sails reaching up to the sky streaked with blossoming pinks and clement oranges. Daybreak’s retiring light glitters as it touches the surface of the water with a gentle hand.

The glass door slides open slowly behind you, and Jeongguk’s presence enters to calm your thoughts. The slight limp in his step is barely visible, and he’s lucky that his father’s bullet avoided his femoral artery. If it did, he’d probably be in a much more dire situation than he has now. Since that night, rumors have surfaced that the Boss missed due to nervousness, or fear. Jeongguk knows that his father’s aim was too sharp to miss, and also that he was a hypocrite.

He takes a seat in the chair beside yours. His hair is mussed from a long night of tossing and turning, the same as yours.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you mutter, tongue coated with exhaust.

He hums. “Me neither.”

The flux of air from his sturdy chest is a comfort that relieves the pain for just a little while. Lifts it away like a fog being cleared, and the weight falls off your shoulders so you can breathe again. His eyes swim with affection, and you’re sure that a thousand particles of stardust must be locked away behind his irises.

It never fails to amaze you how Jeongguk always seems to know what you’re thinking. “It’s not your fault,” he says.

“I know.” It’s weak, barely a whisper. Your head drops to your palms despite your claim. “But it really feels like it.”

He takes a deep breath, atmosphere placid and unassuming. “You did everything you could. Some things are just out of your control, no matter what you do. It’s not fair, but just because you couldn’t stop something bad from happening doesn’t mean you caused it.”

You swallow blearily. “I just don’t even know where to go from here. It’s never going to be the same. So what do I do now?”

“I don’t know,” he speaks gingerly, “Maybe you should get out of here. Start again, somewhere else. I’ll probably do the same eventually.”

Your head begins to shake at the thought.

“I don’t want you to go,” you pause. “I told you that.”

Jeongguk softens. “Oh… okay. I, I won’t then.”

Finally, your head raises to see him properly. His calm guise masks the need of reassurance beneath. “I mean it. Do you remember when you said to tell you the next time so it didn’t land on what I didn’t want?”

He nods slowly.

“When it was in the air, there was just this split second watching it that it hit me. I knew what I wanted. Despite everything,” the corners of your mouth upturn, but not all that happily, “I wanted to choose you.”

Dark, wavy hair falls in front of his eyes, brushing at the healing cut that will certainly leave a scar. His gaze is tender and soft and all that’s good in this world. He looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. And if you asked him, he wouldn’t hesitate to agree.

“I forgive you, Jeongguk. For everything, I don’t care. I’d go through it again and again if I had to.” A fleeting smile pushes the tears from their deep wells. “‘Cause I need you.”

Jeongguk suffered the subtle heartbreak of unknowing for years on end. He’d sit on his balcony just like this, mild evenings under the setting sun, knowing you were out there living under the same sky as him, yet so far apart. He thought of you crossing city streets, breathing the air of the home you loved and hated simultaneously, maybe even sitting out on the fire escape of your own apartment. You were within a radius of just miles, which sounds like nothing compared to how far he’d go for you. 

He saw you everywhere. Saw you in every crevice and crack of the city. When the sun was shining brightly, when rain poured like bullets. From the window of the train, from the coffee shop. Retracing his routine steps was hard when he always saw your footprints right beside his own.

It was the feeling he’d been waiting on. At last, he feels contentment in his chest. It’s all he’s ever wanted. His pulse stutters as he thinks that he might just be dreaming, but when he reaches out to touch your clasped hands, steady fingers curling over yours, he knows it’s real. You’re real. It’s pure, unadulterated sunshine splintering over his soul.

Jeongguk stands, holding out his hand for you to take. He pulls you up with care and tugs you into his embrace, warm and kind. His arms around you are safe and sound, and the gentle beat of his heart eases the noise in your mind. It’s the heart that wouldn’t quit on you, the one the angels must either admire or envy. It’s the only thing that feels okay.

One day, things will be better. It’s far away and hard to grasp, but it’s there, waiting for you. Things that are meant to be will find a way, no matter how long it takes, just as Jeongguk and you found your way to this very balcony. But for now, sharing the weight of a heavy heart soothes the lonesome burden of loss, and what it means to love.

[thosearentcrimes]

In defense of "standpoint epistemology"

People like to denounce something called "standpoint epistemology". Now, in responding to this, I am faced with a dilemma. I could either interpret "standpoint epistemology" as being that which the people complaining about it are talking about, or I could interpret it as what the articles in which it was theorized described. What I will do is first present standpoint theory and standpoint epistemology as I understood them from its promoters. In particular, this essay will largely be a commentary on "Rethinking Standpoint Epistemology: What is 'Strong Objectivity?'" (1992) by Sandra Harding. First, I have to say that I do not find the text particularly satisfying. Most of its critiques are valid, but on the rare occasion that Harding implies any methodological changes, they seem infeasible or ineffective. Given that Harding is proposing a change of worldview and not directly a change in behavior, this is understandable, but it would still be nice to know what the actual implications of the change in worldview would be! All that said, I am prepared to defend the vast majority of the text.

According to Harding, standpoint epistemology is a response to the "sexist and androcentric results of scientific research". It is one of two responses she presents, the other of which she calls "feminist empiricism", which says that the biased results of prior scientific research were due to insufficient rigor, and that the underlying principles are fine. In contrast, standpoint epistemology, according to Harding, proposes a transformation of science and its mechanisms to more actively remove bias. Harding explicitly rejects relativism and essentialism, which are the positions most commonly attributed to her work. I am not sure why anyone would think she was lying, given that Harding clearly considers relativism and essentialism to be popular strands of feminist thought, and as such they are positions she could safely adopt publicly. Perhaps the jargon and the relative lack of concrete proposals have convinced people the idea is more radical than it really is.

Standpoint epistemology derives from standpoint theory, which is broadly the claim that the perspectives of people who are marginalized in society are, if anything, more relevant and accurate than those of dominant groups. Historically it draws from Marxism and the dialectic approach more generally (in particular, Hegel's Master/Slave dialectic), but the observation that marginalization compels people to understand their oppressor better than their oppressor understands themself (and as a corollary, that a life of privilege can be blinding, like how rich people do not know the prices of common household items) does not require dialectics at all. It is still however a rather controversial idea, with two major opponents. The first is that the view from the dominant position is more objective because it is less involved. This is blatantly false and silly. The more serious objection is that this theory obstructs the objective "view from nowhere". It is very important to ask - is there such a view? Is there knowledge that is not socially situated? The answer, according to Harding, is no. This is really the heart of the dispute between Harding and empiricism. It is rather difficult to prove the non-existence of "nowhere", especially on empiricist terms. If there is a "nowhere" to view reality from, then where? Of course, in reality, the view from nowhere is typically the view from above repackaged. Standpoint Epistemology can rightly be accused of self-contradiction, but at least it does so consciously.

This leads us into Harding's first methodological change, and the only one that is complete enough to be worth discussing separately. The idea is this: the lives and perspectives of marginalized people should be used as a starting point for the production of knowledge. This is as opposed to the only implied alternative of production of knowledge starting with the lives and interests of the dominant group. We might then imagine, from this, that Harding seeks to exclude men from philosophy in a mirror to the way women were historically excluded. This is however not the case. Harding believes it is desirable, and in fact very much necessary for men to also produce knowledge using the lives and perspectives of women as a base, and even names some philosophers, men and women alike, who she considers to have done important philosophy from women's perspectives in the past. Additionally, this quote from the article is extremely important here: "for standpoint theorists, reports of marginalized experience or lives, or phenomenologies of the 'lived world' of marginalized peoples, are not the answers to questions arising either inside or outside those lives, though they are necessary to asking the best questions". Clearly Harding and standpoint theorists in general are aware of the tendency that they are accused of promoting, and are just as opposed to it as the empiricists are.

Harding presents some interesting distinctions between the subject of knowledge under empiricism and under her reformed model of science. Harding alleges that it is a problem that science is presented as being disembodied, as being information existing outside of time or society, because the things science studies are embodied, exist at particular times and observed by particular societies. I'm not sure I agree here! Is it actually necessary for the object of knowledge and the subject of knowledge to be similar in kind? Surely that kind of distance has its advantages as well as its disadvantages. The next claim is more interesting. Empiricism supposedly has a tendency to consider knowledge to be generated by generated by particular individuals and not by societies or groups. This is a view that I think was significantly more prevalent last century, when the article was written, but it is still the implication behind much of the existing pop history of science and the way science is taught in schools. But why is this not correct? Harding makes the interesting point that she only considers her beliefs to be knowledge when they are socially validated. That is, while the beliefs may have been formulated by an individual such as Newton, it is a scientific community, over centuries, that transformed them into knowledge, and later restricted that knowledge to motion at non-relativistic speeds. The distinction between a belief that is true and will be turned into scientific knowledge and scientific knowledge itself is actually quite important, because it leaves the door open for true beliefs that do not, for whatever reason, become knowledge. However, the social methods by which beliefs become knowledge in science are acknowledged by empiricists and are in fact a core part of empiricist ideology. The whole point of peer review and scientific discourse is that knowledge is generated through social legitimation, so it seems a bit off to assert that the standpoint epistemological project is aware of this and the empiricist project is not. What I will say is that empiricists rarely embrace obvious conclusions of the fact that scientific knowledge is socially constructed, so I kind of understand why Harding feels the need to point it out.

What is it that Harding actually proposes? It is to use the lives and perspectives of marginalized people as a starting point in the production of knowledge. The purpose of this is that "the subject of knowledge be placed on the same [...] plane as the objects of knowledge", that is, that we should consider the conditions under which a particular piece of knowledge was produced to be a component of that knowledge, and reported along with it, producing what Harding calls "Strong Objectivity". I think it can be useful to study the conditions under which ideas were created, and that this can provide productive avenues of critique. On the other hand, that is what History of Science and History of Ideas are already doing, so I'm not sure this point provides any methodological changes that would simultaneously be useful and not already be part of the revised empiricist model of knowledge production or easily imported into it. The last thing Harding proposes is for science to be integrated into democratic structures, but it is important to note that by this Harding means democracy in the sense that anarchists mean it, which is a notion too vague to constitute an actual methodological proposal. Harding devotes the last section of her article to explaining why it is the notion of objectivity that needs to be transformed, and not simply the scientific method, from what I gather her reason is mostly that it is the more intellectually coherent thing to do. If I were to propose my own methodological change in line with Harding's critique, it would be that scientists should attempt to identify communities that are relevant to their research, and then run their experiments and articles by sensitivity readers (which I understand is done in fiction writing), as a form of review complementary to peer review.

Harding's work is in some respects an unfortunate casualty of the march of history. She herself notes that her ideas will inevitably become obsolete over time, but I suspect that there are things she did not expect to happen as quickly as they did, that make the article less relevant now than it was when written. Her assumption that scientific knowledge production is necessarily the domain of the elite is somewhat dubious. Academia has become significantly more diverse and representative over the last three decades, and it has also become much less prestigious and well-paid (I do not think this is entirely a coincidence). It remains true that knowledge production is the domain of a particular non-representative subculture (in fact, the fact that they are involved in knowledge-production will itself make this culture non-representative in at least one way), but the only parts of that subculture that seem to be heavily integrated into the socioeconomic elite are people who were already prominent when the article was written. Additionally, empiricist science has had three decades to fortify itself against the critiques that were made of it, which it has done to at least some extent.

What have we learned? Well, first, that none of the people denouncing "standpoint epistemology" seem to know the first thing about it. This may be because there are people loudly promoting standpoint epistemology who don't know the first thing about it either. I have frequently encountered people who are clearly interacting with a large group of confidently ignorant people and then absorb their vocabulary while critiquing them. What I would suggest as a remedy is to ignore people who don't know what they're talking about. Second, we have learned that standpoint epistemology is probably not possible to do, and it is unclear if doing it would be worth the cost if it were. Lastly we have learned that critical studies are depressingly often simply studies of academic environments (reminiscent of psychology studies performed on a dozen white male college students). Why does Harding focus on scientific knowledge production, and not on knowledge production more generally? At the very least a mention of theories in media studies that are complementary to the account she provides would be appreciated. Or perhaps, even more ambitiously, any sort of reference to the real world rather than only endless discourse.

I would like to end by presenting an interesting open scientific problem that seems to be hard to grasp using empiricist methods, but might be more yielding to a standpoint approach. The article "Physician–patient racial concordance and disparities in birthing mortality for newborns" (2020) (sci-hub.do/10.1073/pnas.1913405117), an analysis of 1.8 million hospital births in Florida between 1992 and 2015, suggests that, while there is a generally higher rate of infant mortality for Black babies than for White babies, the rate of infant mortality for Black babies being delivered by White physicians is significantly higher than for Black babies being delivered by Black physicians (note that the infant mortality rate for White babies does not vary significantly with physician race). The authors of the study controlled for a number of possible confounding factors, and the only difference they reported was that specialized pediatric instruction reduced the size of the gap in outcomes but did not remove it entirely. Now, my own hypothesis to explain the data is that White doctors in Florida and likely the US more generally are doing racist, likely eugenicist, infanticide, and this hypothesis does not require the standpoint approach. But for people who want other explanations, I think approaching the issue with methods from standpoint epistemology might be productive.

[silverarmedassassin]

Home for the Holidays (2/2)

Bucky x Reader | Word Count: 5,661 | Warnings: None

A/N: Here is part two! Thank you to those who humored me and read this little mini story! Part 1 can be found on my masterlist, which is conveniently pinned to my blog 😬

This is part 2 to my holiday submission for @wonderlandmind4​‘s fall/winter writing challenge. My prompt was: Character B is very enthusiastic to introduce character A to all their traditions, but tries to be sensitive when A seems like they’re struggling to fit in/enjoy themselves.

Dividers by the lovely @firefly-graphics​

“You’re going to love it here,” you announce as you take the exit to your small hometown. The drive out of the city had been relatively quiet, the playlist you’d crafted specifically for the trip was only briefly interrupted a handful of times by you pointing out a landmark or attraction tied to childhood memories. Normally, silence on a road trip would make you uncomfortable, but not with Bucky. In the few months you’ve known him, you’d come to understand he was a man of very few words most of the time, so you rarely felt the need to fill the empty space with senseless words.

You’d gotten to know him a lot better in the few weeks leading up to Christmas. He had been making an effort to spend time outside of his apartment more, which often meant he would come down to yours to share a meal or watch a movie. It was nice, getting to spend so much uninterrupted time with Bucky and, if the offhand comments that Sam had offered the handful of times you’d seen him coming and going, Bucky was enjoying the time too. If anything, it was helping him open up again. And, if that’s all you could offer your neighbor, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, instead he continues to look at his window at the passing landscape. Driving home has always been one of your favorite things to do, as the concrete jungle of the city slowly tapered off into nothing but dense forest, hills, and nature preserves. As much as you loved where you were in life now, there were always moments in time where you questioned why you’d ever decided to re-root yourself in New York City.

Once off the interstate, it doesn’t take you long to reach town limits, and it’s only a few short minutes of driving to reach your parent’s home. As you pull your car into the drive, you see Bucky tense out of your peripheral. You’d had a feeling the reason he was being so quiet today was because he was nervous, but this subtle action reaffirmed that.

“My dad’s not home yet,” you state nonchalantly in an attempt to ease his anxieties a little. “It’s just my mom home. I told her to be on her best behaviour, so you don’t have to worry about a million questions.”

Bucky glances over at you and the look in his eyes tells you that statement has eased him just a little. The fact he was so nervous to meet you family made you feel bad for even inviting him in the first place. But you knew he didn’t have anyone, as Rebecca’s family was going on a cruise, and Bucky had shared Sam was spending the holiday with his mother out of state. Despite your wanting to help him feel less alone during this awkward time of transition and settling, you felt guilty for bringing him all the way here.

Before you can let that guilt settle uncomfortably in your chest, you pop the trunk and jump out of the car. You’re only going to be home for four days, as Bucky didn’t want to stay away for too long and you wanted to use the extra time off of work to finally finish making your apartment feel like your home. Due to that, you both only had a small duffle of clothing, so unloading your things was quick.

As you lead Bucky up to the front door, you’re suddenly reminded to alert him of one tiny detail that might make him uncomfortable. As you turn to tell him, the front door of flings open and your mom comes barreling out, arms wide open. “I forgot to tell you,” you say, voice slightly muffled by your mother’s arms, “Mom’s a hugger.”

“Oh hush,” your mom says as she pulls away from you, her sights already set on Bucky. “Everyone needs a good hug.”

That night, Bucky had an easier time falling asleep than he ever imagined. New places, mixed with the fear of having one of his nightmares typically kept him up, if not all night, into the wee hours of the morning. The non-prescription sleeping pills Sam had suggested, mixed with the calming effect you seemed to have on him, were likely to thank for the early night. He isn’t surprised, however, when he startles awake around three in the morning. As he sits up in bed, sweat-drenched hair sticking to the sides of his face, he tries to remember what exactly the dream was about. It was another little something Sam and the others had suggested he do, something about acknowledging the things that hurt us most or something.

After a few minutes of sorting through his brain and trying to pin-point exactly what was the cause of his sudden consciousness, he gives up. Bucky decides that, instead of attempting to fall back to sleep right away, he would refill his glass of water and attempt to clear his mind of any lingering shadows.

Your home is quiet, a kind of peace settles over the entire building that no place in the city could ever harness. He thinks that maybe one day he’ll retire, move someplace quiet like this, maybe have a family of his own. Bucky pauses slightly in his descent of the staircase, caught off-guard by his own thoughts. He’d never been one to think about the future, not since he woke up in it. Just living to see the sunrise over Manhattan another day was enough for him. But his mind hasn’t quite been the same since you came along.

As he rounds the corner into the kitchen, he expects to find it devoid of others, but instead finds your mother sitting at the small kitchen table you’d all been sitting around just hours before, laughing and sharing a lifetime of memories with an outsider.

“Trouble sleeping,” she asks without looking over to where he’s standing. Instead, she raises a steaming mug to her lips and takes a tentative sip.

“Ye-yeah,” Bucky says, voice still thick with sleep and disuse.

Your mom hums as she looks over to him, profile lit effortlessly by the early winter moonlight streaming in from the back door. “That’s nothing a good cup of tea can’t help fix. There’s still water in the kettle if you’d like.”

Bucky watches her a moment longer before accepting her offer. She directs him on where everything he needs is located and, before he knows it, he’s sitting down across from her, his own warm mug full of a lavender and something concoction. If anything, at least it smells good.

“I’m really glad Y/N brought you along, Bucky,” your mom says as she takes another sip of her own tea. There’s a glint in the corner of her eye that Bucky can’t quite place, and it admittedly makes him a little nervous. “I do have to admit that her father and I were a bit shocked when she said she was bringing someone home. And then finding out that someone was a...well, you. I guess you never expect your own kid to get mixed up in the affairs of a superhero,” she chuckles to herself.

Bucky takes a large drink of his tea, instantly regretting it as it burns his throat the entire way down. He doesn’t know how to respond to that. When it had sunk in that he was going to be visiting you home for Christmas, meeting your parents and seeing your hometown, it made him anxious. He remembered that, back when he was still the punk who ran the streets of old-time Brooklyn like he owned the place, when a girl invited you to meet her parents it meant you were going steady, or at least headed in that direction. He knew things had changed a lot in terms of dating and relationships in general between men and women in the eighty-odd years he had been under, but he couldn’t help but wonder if this - spending one-on-one time with his beautiful downstairs neightbor’s mom - still held the same implications as it did in the forties.

“I, uh,” Bucky isn’t sure what to say. He doesn’t want to make it sound like he is disinterested in you, he knew that you talked about him in some capacity with your mother, afterall. But at the same time he didn’t want to sound too overzealous on the off-chance that this entire trip meant nothing other than a friendly visit for the holiday. “I’m really thankful you opened your home for me.”

Your mom takes Bucky off guard when she snorts out a small laugh. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to...Listen, I don’t know exactly what is going on between you and my daughter, but whatever it is, it’s really good for her. Y/N is, as you’ve likely picked up, a giver and a caretaker. She never asks for help when she needs it, and rarely accepts it when it’s offered.

“She took the whole Snap thing pretty hard, harder than she let on I think. That’s when she really threw herself at taking care of others, so much so that she forgot to take care of herself sometimes.” She pauses and looks intently down at her mug. “Y/N needs to be taken care of sometimes, too. And, whether you know it or not, I think you do that. I haven’t seen my daughter this happy in a long time. So of course we would open our home for you. Now and whenever you may need it.”

Bucky’s unsure of how to respond to such a tender sentiment, but the way your mom is looking at him tells him no response is needed. It’s a look, he assumes, only a mother can give. One of knowing and mystery and tender loving. One that she so openly offered to him, a stranger, an intruder in her home and holiday season. He realizes then that, everything he’s gone through, everything he’s ever done both voluntarily and not, doesn’t carry as much as he’s been thinking. That, despite it all, maybe he is more than what HYDRA made him and that he is deserving of the good things that have come to him in recent weeks.

“Well, Bucky,” your mom says as she takes one final sip of her tea. “I’m going to try to get some sleep. I suggest you do the same. Christmas Eve is kind of a big deal around here. You’ll need the energy, especially if you want to keep up with Y/N.”

Bucky quickly learned that when your mom said that Christmas Eve was a big deal, she meant it. You had come knocking at his door a little past seven this morning, telling him that, if he did not get up, you would not hesitate to grab a handful of snow. Despite the too few hours of sleep he ended up getting and the desire to hide away just a little longer before facing your entire family again, Bucky pulled himself out of bed and plastered a smile on his face.

The morning passes in a flurry of Christmas activity. Cookie dough is beat and patted and molded into festive shapes while various Christmas melodies flowed through the home. It was tradition, you had said as you deposited a fresh batch of snickerdoodles into the oven, that Christmas Eve morning was reserved for baking and eggnog making and singing out-of-tune to Christmas songs. So, you taught him how to use a rolling pin properly, showed him the perfect amount of pressure to put on the cookie cutters, and even scolded him when he took a spoonful of dough all for himself. The uncooked sugary goodness was just as good as he remembered.

As the last of the cookies are placed on a rack to cool, and the eggnog is nestled neatly into the fridge to chill, Bucky feels his back pocket start to vibrate. His heart drops momentarily when he pulls his phone out and sees Sam’s name scrolling across the screen. Sam only called for two reasons: Avengers business or to coax him out of the hole Bucky sometimes digs himself into, and only one was pertinent to the situation at hand.

Bucky excuses himself and steps out onto the back porch where he can talk in private. “Is everything okay,” Bucky asks in place of a proper greeting.

“Merry fuckin’ Christmas to you too, bud,” comes Sam’s witty response. Bucky has never wished to reach through a phone and slap the grin he just knows Sam is wearing right off his face. “I was just calling to see how things were going.”

“They’re fine, Sam,” Bucky huffs out, crossing his metal arm across his chest. “I made cookies for the first time, I think.”

Bucky can’t help but crack a smile when Sam starts to laugh on the other end. “That must have been a scene. I would tell everyone not to eat ‘em, though.”

The easygoing banter continues for a few minutes before the topic shifts to how Bucky is really doing. He shares his past day - because really he’s only been away from the city for a little over twenty-four hours - and Sam updates him on the goings-on at his own family gathering. Bucky listens intently while watching a pair of cardinals take turns pecking at the bird feeder hanging just beyond the porch and the sunset looming just beyond the yard.

“You sound really good, Buck. I’m real happy this neighbor can look past your shitty moods and spend time with you,” Sam says before saying his goodbyes. Bucky would be lying if he said he wasn’t happy to hear from him. It was one of those little things that reminded him there were people out there that cared.

Instead of going back inside right away, Bucky decides to stay out on the back porch a little longer to enjoy the view of the setting sun and the tranquility that comes with being out of the city. It was rare that he found himself in a place as quiet as this, with a view unobstructed by skyscrapers. He wanted to savor the moment a little longer, appreciate the things he hadn’t realized he’d been missing for all these years.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” While lost in reverie, Bucky hadn’t heard you join him on the porch. He looks over to find you standing just to his left, already focused on the view. He admires the way the last rays of daylight streak across your face, takes in the way it makes you look like you’re lit from within by some ethereal, otherworldly energy. And maybe you were. After all, you’d somehow found a way to look past his flaws and broken pieces and settle yourself deep within his bones, whether you knew it or not.

“Yea, it is,” Bucky replies without taking his eyes off of your face. He’s not sure if he means the sun or you.

You look at him, then, the softest smile he’s ever seen planted on your face. He notices that under your left eye is a streak of flour that had found a home there at some point throughout the day. Without much thought, Bucky makes to wipe it away. “You have a little...” when he swipes his finger across the soft skin of your cheek, he swears he hears your breath hitch in your throat, but he tries not to think too much into it. He had unintentionally used his left hand, after all.

You both stand there like that for a moment, his thumb still lingering just under your lower lashes and you looking at him like he was the one responsible for this sunrise and sunset every day. The spell is broken, however, when a winter breeze blows through, causing your to shiver and curl in on yourself for warmth.

“Hey, so, if you’re up to it, we still have one more Y/L/N tradition that we have yet to complete.” You wait for a reaction, and Bucky’s not sure what you were looking for, but when he doesn’t say anything, you continue. “The city goes all out with the lights each year, and we usually go downtown to look at them. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. It’s usually kinda busy, and I know it’s cold and-”

“I’d love to,” Bucky smiles, and when he sees the unparalleled joy that spreads across your face, he knows then that he would say or do anything to be the reason for that look over and over again.

It’s just beginning to flurry when you make it to the main drag of your little hometown. Your parents lived just far enough away to feel like a quiet neighborhood, but close enough that you could easily walk downtown without immediately regretting your decision.

It comes as no surprise when you find the wider-than-normal sidewalks in front of the neat row of old storefronts crowded with other residents bundled up in their winter’s best. Despite the shoulder-to-shoulder situation in some sections of the street, you didn’t mind the crowd one bit. The unique and beautifully decorated window displays and intricately lit buildings and trees made the awkward shuffling and getting elbowed by strangers worth it.

At some point, you get separated from your parents and, when you turn to see Bucky’s reaction to the spectacle, you find he’s a good two couples away from you. You decide then that the only way you’re going to avoid being separated from anyone else is by looping your arm through his. He doesn’t fight it, and there’s only a slight moment of stiff awkwardness before he relaxes his arm and allows you to guide him through the crowd. Your cheeks hurt from the genuine smile on your face, and your throat is already feeling the effects of the amount of talking you’re doing. You have to point everything out to Bucky, though, from the horrifying, oversized light-up tooth the town’s dentist has put on display since you could remember to the ever-changing elegant light show that danced across the courthouse. You’re so enthralled in making sure you share every last detail of this special tradition that you fail to notice the way Bucky has closed in on himself.

Despite the glistening lights and the way the moonlight was catching on the large snowflakes as they fell, the light that usually shown in Bucky’s eyes had dimmed to barely the flicker of a candle. The smile that graced his lips was for your benefit and only appeared when you looked back at him to ensure he was still listening to you. As much as he loved watching your enthusiasm seep out of every pore, and enjoyed hearing the way the pitch of your voice got just a bit higher when you spotted something you especially enjoyed, Bucky wasn’t having a good time. The crowd, despite living in New York City, was making him nauseous. Every time he let you pull him down a side street, each seemingly smaller than the next, you felt the knot that had settled in the bottom of his belly tighten just a little bit more. At least when he was in the city, he felt comfortable, knew his way around most of modern-day Brooklyn, and had identified the perfect escape routes just in case a situation went south. Luckily, he’s never had to utilize such routes. But here? The place you were so excited to show him, share with him was foreign to him. The idea of not knowing what waited beyond each turn of the corner, who stood watching through the windows above the quaint storefronts took him back to his time on the run, back to when his days were filled with strict, careful routine, and he felt he was living on borrowed time.

“Earth to Bucky,” you laughed as you waved a hand in front of his face. He blinked a few times, pulling himself back to the surface before he could drown in his thoughts. You were looking at him, obviously waiting for an answer to a question he didn’t hear. “Where’d you go?” you laughed, blissfully unaware of the demons that were creeping in the shadows of Bucky’s still fucked mind.

“I, uh, got caught up in the lights, I guess,” he replied lamely, flinching when he realized just how stupid the answer sounds. He watches as an array of emotions flick across your eyes; amusement, questioning, concern. He had to look away before you could settle on a look of pity. Bucky couldn’t handle that.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” your probe, pulling him off to the side of the walkway into the entryway of one of the many buildings. “You don’t look so good.”

Bucky felt like kicking himself, wanted to scream at and scold his fragile mind for taking the joy and excitement you had been exuding just moments ago and turning it into worry, pity, anything but what you deserved to be feeling right now. “Bucky, please tell me if something’s wrong.”

He takes a breath before looking down at his snow-covered boots. “The crowds, being in an unfamiliar place...I still have problems with that, I guess.”

Your face falls even more at that. “Why didn’t you say something? We could have gone back home ages ago. Or not come at all. Or, or…”

“Y/N, it’s fine. Really. This is a tradition; I didn’t want to ruin it.”

You cross your arms and pout at that. He’s waiting for you to stomp your foot, much like Becca used to as a child when something didn’t go her way. The thought of his sister stings a little. She would have loved something like this, Bucky thinks, and that makes his uncomfortableness even more of a nuisance. He’s alive and able to see crazy Christmas displays and enjoy the things children growing up when he did couldn’t experience, yet here he is, broken and wishing he was anywhere else.

You pull him from his revere again when you start to tug on his metal arm. “Come on,” you huff, not out of annoyance or anger, but something else he can’t quite put his finger on.

“We’re not going back to your house,” he says, digging his heels into the concrete. This causes you to stumble a little and let go of his arm. “Please, don’t let me ruin this for you. I’ll be fine.”

“The only way you’ll ruin this is if you continue to be miserable while walking around. This is the same display as last year anyway,” you shrug. “I think I can skip one year.”

The two of you stand there for a moment, just looking at each other before Bucky sighs and relents. You loop your arm through his again, this time holding it a bit firmer and closer to your body, and begin to worm your way through the crowd. The further you get from the downtown streets, the quieter and emptier the sidewalks became. It wasn’t long before it was just the two of you walking along in silence. Despite the crowd-less walk, you don’t drop his arm.

“I’m really glad you came with,” you whisper after a few minutes. You’d lead him down the long route to your home, both for the fact it was sparsely traveled by foot and because you weren’t quite ready to lose the closeness of holding Bucky’s arm. “Even if I made you uncomfortable.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you think he’s retreated back into wherever he goes when he’s feeling stressed, but then he replies. “No, thank you. This is obviously a special holiday for you and your family. And here I am, intruding.”

You snort and bring your free hand up to wrap around his metal forearm. “You could never intrude, Bucky. I enjoy spending time with you.”

Despite the chill in the air, Bucky has never felt as warm as he does when those six words leave your mouth.

When you return home, boots are quickly shed and coats are hung neatly in the closet. Bucky stands quietly by the door, waiting for your lead. Despite your efforts of making him feel comfortable in your home, his movements were still shy and timid as he glided over the hardwood floors.

“I’m going to finish putting the dishes away,” you say after a moment and nod towards the T.V.. “You’re more than welcome to turn something on, I’ll only be a second.”

Bucky nods his head and watches you disappear into the dark kitchen. He waits until the clatter of pans and ceramic bowls reaches his ears to head up to the guest room. He didn’t feel much like socializing anymore. The day, despite its laid back approach and festive touch, had been both mentally and emotionally draining for him.

Bucky gracelessly flops down onto his back on the borrowed bed. He’s contemplating sending a message to Sam, maybe do that video chatting Wanda enjoyed so much but he loathed. He needed the comfort of home, the familiar to drag him from the hole he could feel himself sinking into. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t even enjoy himself on Christmas fucking Eve. He sighs as he flips onto his side and listens as the faint sounds of you puttering around the kitchen, his enhanced hearing allowing him to hear your humming of a Christmas song he can’t quite place, travel up the stairs and wrap him in a warm embrace.

He’s not sure when he drifted off, or for how long, but you pull him back to the surface of consciousness with three soft knocks on the cracked bedroom door. “Bucky?” you say softly, not daring to enter his space without an invitation. “Is everything alright?”

“Tired, I guess,” Bucky says as he pushes himself to sit up. As he swings his feet over the side, you push the door open a little more so that you can see him.

“There’s a...We have one more tradition that I’d like to share with you, but I wanted to do it separately.” You timidly step further into the room, arms held behind your back. “We usually share one present on Christmas Eve. Typically pajamas, sometimes just a gag gift. And I, uh, I wanted to make sure you were included this year.”

Bucky watches you carefully as you make your way to sit next to him on the bed. As you settle in on the mattress, you rest a neatly wrapped package on your lap. He watches as you run your hands along the paper in a nervous attempt to smooth out the nonexistent impurities. When he finally looks up to your face, he finds that you are already intently watching him, your gaze unwavering as his meets it.

“But I don’t have anything for you,” he nervously blurts out. He can feel the heat of embarrassment as it creeps up the back of his neck when you offer him a soft laugh.

“That’s not the point, Bucky. Just...here.”

You shove the gift into his hands and, as he examines it, he can feel you practically vibrating with the excited but nervous energy you’re not giving off. This was always the worst part of receiving gifts - having to open them in front of the giver. It always made Bucky a little anxious, worried that he wouldn’t deliver the expected or desired reaction. He smooths his hands over the silver paper a moment longer before he digs a finger into a seam in the wrapping. He’s slow to unwrap your gift, a part of him wishing that you hadn’t gifted him anything at all. Bucky didn’t have anything for you, and, the more he thinks about the fact he showed up to a holiday without even a small gift for the one who invited him, it makes him want to leave and never show his face around you or your family again.

When the wrapping is finally discarded, a brown leather book sits firmly in his lap. His name, his full name, is expertly embossed across the front, and the corners decorated with a simply but intricate design. When he flips it open to the first page, a set of familiar faces are smiling back up at him. His ma, dad, and himself with Becca tucked neatly in what he remembers to be a soft yellow blanket - the photo of when they brought her home, the first photo he saw when he visited her just two short months ago.

“I wanted to give you something special, meaningful,” you say when Bucky looks up at you. “Your family helped too. They gave me copies of your old pictures, provided some of their own.”

Bucky looks back to the book as he continues to flip. He watches himself grow older with each turn of the page. Pictures his ma had taken, some from school, even some from his time as a Howling Commando. Articles, magazine clippings, and copies of book pages filled the middle of the book, all about him, praising him for what he did and what they thought he lost his life doing. He can feel tears start to prick at the corners of his eyes as he looks over previously unread words of kindness, admiration, and sadness, all for him.

He doesn’t think he could feel any fuller until he flips to a hand-drawn picture of himself and Bridget, signed sloppily but in the most loving way. He can’t help but let out a watery laugh, and he can hear you add your own chuckle. “She was very excited when I asked her to contribute. That little girl loves you so much already, you know?”

Yes, Bucky knows. He knows his worth in this world now, thinks he’s finally found his misplaced spot in this place in time, and it’s all thanks to you. His chest grows tighter the further he flips in the scrapbook. Pictures of his sister when on her wedding day, when his first niece was born. Graduation photos, birthdays, and family get-togethers just because all were documented for him to see, for him to live through these pictures because he wasn’t around to bear witness in person.

When he gets to the very last pages, he pauses. A face he hadn’t expected to see smiling back at him was tucked neatly in this book, and it filled him with a warmth he thought his poor, frozen bones would never feel again. A picture of you and him on the day of Becca’s funeral, all smiles despite the somber day. It looks like you’re mid-laugh and had only just looked at the camera in time for the photo to capture your face. He’d almost forgotten that a family member - name and relation lost to him at the moment - had insisted on getting pictures of all those in attendance, had mentioned something about never seeing each other outside of things like these so he had to take advantage. He was glad that cousin or nephew or third-something-twice-removed had pestered them into taking it, because, despite not wanting to look at his broken, mismatched self, you were there shining brighter than he thinks he’s ever seen any star.

“Bucky,” you whisper, clearly unsure of what to make of his silence.

“I...I don’t know what to say, Y/N,” Bucky swallows the lump in his throat in an attempt to keep the tears that have begun to swell in his eyes from coming out in his voice. “This is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever given me - done for me, actually.”

When he looks up at you, he tries to blink back the tears but it causes them to spill down onto his cheeks instead. “Oh, Bucky,” you gently laugh and raise a hand to wipe away his tears. When your hand makes contact with his cheek, however, you realize what you’re doing and make to pull it back. Bucky, however, is quicker and places his flesh hand on top of yours to hold it firmly to his fuzz-covered cheek.

“I lied,” he whispers and you give him a concerned and questioning look. “Earlier. I said I didn’t have a gift for you, but I do.” As he’s speaking, he slowly begins to lean in closer until your face-to-face, only a breath away from one another. “Only if you want it, though.”

You nod and bring your other hand up to fully cup his face as he closes the space between you, gently connecting your lips. It’s a slow, chaste kiss that has him craving more. More of the feel of your soft lips against his, more of your breath catching in your throat, more feeling your eyelashes butterfly across his own as you pull away just enough to rest your forehead against his. He opens his eyes slightly to get a peak of you. You’re already looking at him, a smile spread across your lips.

In that moment, he wishes he had the ability to read minds so that he could know exactly what you were thinking. Before he has the chance to say anything, you’re leaning back, this time pressing your lips more firmly against his own. If it weren’t for the fact he was so enraptured in the essence of you, he would be embarrassed by the low groan that rumbles deep in his chest. He feels your lips perk up into a wider smile before planting another quick peck to his lips before pulling away so that you could look him square in the eyes.

You brush a lock of his hair from his face and tuck it behind his ear before whispering, “Merry Christmas, Bucky.”

[seijohsfairy]

𝙻𝙾𝙰𝙳𝙴𝙳

big brothers find it hard to draw a line; alternatively, that one day where issei is fed up with tooru’s selfishness this is a rewrite of my very first fic on this blog so if it seems familiar that might be why!

.wordc. 6k+ tw incest, dubcon, breeding, coercion, unprotected sex, very affectionate niichan issei and step brother tooru

+

Issei turns his head to the side, plush pillows obstructing part of his view when he looks at you. You’re laying on your belly, legs paddling back and forth through the air in a motion that he presumes is soothing, on his couch. You can’t sit- or lay- or be still when you’re thinking about something important.

He recognizes the telltale signs easily, this one a bastardized version of your typical nervous tick. He pushes some of the pillow from in front of his face, and sighs. “You know you can’t hide in here all evening, right? You can stay if you want to, but eventually people will come looking for you.” His voice makes your nervous jitters calm enough to hold you still for a while, as you hum into the pillow you’ve pressed your face into.

You know. But you don’t say anything else, so he rolls onto his side and waits for you to make sense of your thoughts, arm under his head. It’s not that you’re not wanting to tell, if that was the case you wouldn’t have come into his room with your hands laced into the bottom of your shirt in frustration after all. He doesn’t mind anyway, since he gets to look at you without feeling guilty this way.

For once not having to pry his hand in between the tight hold Tooru loves holding you in. You came to him for a reason, the least he can do is help. After a minute or so in silence, Issei speaks up again. “You want to tell me what happened to your neck?”

Your neck, tainted deep purple and dark red that seems to spread out under the soft skin. He’d seen it this morning too, but your turtleneck had covered the main chunk of bruises then. Now that you’re only wearing a shirt to go to bed, it’s much more of an eyesore. And though he feels bad for even thinking it, the sight makes his stomach churn.

“We both know you didn’t burn yourself on your straightener like you told me. Looks like you got mauled by a bear,” he smiles when the sentence makes you giggle, head finally appearing from within the soft couch to look at him. He breathes, before nodding his head toward the colourful splotches again. “A boy did that, huh.”

You swallow. “Yeah. Tooru niichan kissed me there. H-he said- said it would protect me from bad guys when he can’t be around.” He doesn’t know why he even asked, he knew that. He knew it because he was there when Tooru formulated his little plan, saying that it would be the best way to keep you ‘safe’. The guy’s been totally possessive ever since his mom married your dad, making him your second niichan, if not by blood. “It’s not wrong, because he loves me,” you quickly mutter after it, and Issei can basically hear Tooru’s voice when you repeat the line he must’ve drilled into your subconscious.

He knew of it, and fuck, he even agreed to it in his head. Instead of protecting you from bad guys he should protect you from himself, keep you from his thoughts, his needs, his wants. But he can’t, and it’s the guilty feeling of pretending not to know that is eating him alive. He wants to be ignorant, wants to pretend like he doesn’t understand the implications there. Tooru loves you, yes. He loves you loads, but not just like an older brother should love his little sister and though you’re not technically siblings, you’ve been together for long enough not to make a difference.

Issei loves you too, though he’s not as obvious about it as the other is. He loves you too, Hell, he probably loves you even more than anyone else loves you. Though he aches to pretend he’s ignorant, he’s nothing better than Tooru. Because instead of being grossed out, or worried, the sight of those love bites only makes him jealous. And that’s an even worse kind of wrong, because you and him really are siblings before anything else. The way you flush any time they ask you something ‘weird’ seems to imply you know it’s wrong too but you’ve always been too kind to tell your big brothers ‘no’.

Always been easy to sway when they want something. Just let me kiss your cheek, just let me hold your hand, just let me rub your back. Just let me hold you in my bed, or else I can’t sleep. Just let me pull you into my lap because I’m cold. Just kiss me back once, I need to know that my lips are soft. They’ve gotten sickly efficient at the requests, both of them, both Tooru and him.

He likes to think of himself as a good older brother despite it. “Please don’t tell,” you bring out when he stays quiet, eyes going big as you lift your head up from your resting position to support your torso on your underarms. It causes your oversized shirt to ride up on your legs, exposing the pink lace panties that cup your curves perfectly.

As a good older brother, that shouldn’t send blood rushing through his veins. It shouldn’t be a Herculean task to drag his eyes away from your skin. And yet it’s so much fucking harder than he wants it to be. He stutters out a vague agreement at your plea but turns to the ceiling. Those panties are the ones he jerks off into when you’re not home. They are your favourites, so they are his favourites too, and he loves grabbing them from your fresh laundry before you get the chance. Never after you’ve worn them, he hasn’t dared to do that yet. But he’s thought about it enough times for the vivid image of it to flash in front of his eyes.

You don’t get to confine in him a lot, so the thoughts make him feel more than just shameful. Uncomfortably, he shifts his lower body away from you when he notices the strange way his sweatpants pull. The grey fabric seems to defy gravity, wrapping a bit too tight around his muscular thighs and spanning over the bump of his crotch. You’re not looking at him anymore, too preoccupied by the books on his desk to pay him much mind, and he sighs softly.

If you were to look over, this could be explained away. Guys get erections sometimes, it just happens. But he knows better. His little sister makes him hard. His hand slides lower swiftly to rearrange his hardening cock next to his thigh, before he takes a few deep breaths to calm himself. This does catch your attention, a worried frown coming to form between your two brows. “Issei nii, you’re not mad, are you?”

Your soft call of his name makes his heart warm, but his eyes don’t move from the ceiling, can’t- or else he might do something stupid. God, he really doesn’t want to be weird. He truly doesn’t, but what the hell is he supposed to do when you lay there looking like that, with those big, doe eyes just for him? He looks over. Your naked legs are resting together in a way that props up your ass under that shirt- his fucking shirt, and your pretty lips are drawn into a pout. You always steal the shirts of the men in the house, using them as impromptu dresses.

He calls it disgusting in his mind, how his dick twitches in his pants at the sight, but he doesn’t look away. “No, I’m not mad. I could never be mad at you.” This much is true, and relief floods your features at it. He swallows the tightness in his throat, before looking at the mess Tooru’s made of your neck and shoulder again. It’s that same jealousy that makes the next words come. “I won’t tell, but you do have to come over here and explain big bro Issei everything that happened.”

Closer, he just wants you closer. It’s like a spell that refuses to let him breathe properly. And though you think about it for a few seconds, you eventually slip out of the couch to join him on the bed, tucking one of your legs underneath you. You look a bit embarrassed, sitting there on the edge of his dark bed. The brunet sits up too, and scoots back a bit to allow you more space. “He-” you start, picking mindlessly at the cover of his blanket “-he came into my room in his towel and laid down on my bed. And he hugged me a lot, and kissed me.” Your leg twitches up and down with the nervous confession. You probably hadn’t expected to have to tell your other big brother about it in detail, considering the guilty expression that slips on.

Issei doesn’t think you’re guilty. If anything, he is. He even makes peace with the fact that he’s about to be a lot more guilty. He puts his large hands on your thighs when you finish and shuffles you closer to him, which you allow. When you don’t say anything, soft breathing indicative of your doubt, he takes your legs and drapes them either side of his body, so that you’re even closer. You’re so warm, so soft for him.

Fingertips under your chin drag your face back upward, to his soft expression. It’s a gentle smile, filled with love and what must be understanding since he nods at your words and pets your hair. “Kissed you on the lips?” he questions then, one hand rubbing comforting circles on your inner thigh. It’s a bit too close to your center but you choose to ignore that. Kissed me everywhere, you want to say, but the words don’t come out.

Again you pout, but before you can explain more his lips are pressed to yours. A little peck, and another on your nose. “It’s okay, you can tell your big brother anything, right?” He sounds so secure, that you can’t help but nod. You suddenly feel really overwhelmed, from the sweet coaching of your one brother, the greedy hands and lips of the other, the stress of not being able to tell anyone. As tears come up with every blink, you toss yourself into Issei’s chest, sighing in relief as his arms immediately wrap tightly around you. You feel so ashamed of lying to him this morning, when all he wants is to make sure you’re safe and happy. His familiar scent is the most comforting thing in the world.

Your face is pressed tightly against his neck, hands grabbing onto the sides of his shirt as you whimper in defeat. You already knew you’d spill as soon as you walked into his room, but that doesn’t take away how good it feels to be honest. “I’m sorry for lying to you this morning, but I thought you’d be mad.” His fingertips are chilly on your skin, dragging goosebumps out of you automatically as they brush the skin of where your thigh meets your waist, alternating between gentle tracing and more forceful kneading of your tender skin. It’s too close, he’s too close but he’s always been touchy with you, so you allow it without a second thought.

Despite the cracking coolness that always comes off him, his hugs are warm. It’s dizzying. The small of your back is rubbed in gentle, methodical patterns as Issei breathes into your hair, the warmth of his close body lulling you into security. “I’m really sorry, niichan. I won’t lie again. I just didn’t want you to tell daddy.” Your face sinking against his pecs, you can feel his heartbeat, it seems to thump through your own body with violent gratitude. “And Tooru said—”

“I know, little one,” he cuts you off gently, before burying his nose into you in return. As if even this close isn’t close enough. His voice is low in the silence, unwilling to disturb the rest of the house. “Tooru knows what he’s doing. He is smart about that stuff. It’s not your fault.” Once again he shifts to grab hold of your chin and tilts your face toward him, but because you’re so close you almost bump your forehead to his chin.

The dark haired man doesn’t care at all, mouth just about level with yours and his breaths brushing past your cheeks. You attempt to put some space between your two faces but the hand that was on your chin immediately slides to the back of your neck. With that strong hand he keeps you in place as he presses his lips against yours again. Your eyes stay open in surprise at the first kiss, hands opening to push away from him but hovering mid movement at the little noise your brother makes.

“Issei, don’t,” you mumble into his mouth, flushing.

You don’t tell him that he’s too close though. He’s taking care of you because you came here. He’s holding you because you crawled into him. You asked for this, right? The lips on yours are soft and move slowly, as if not to scare you away. He kisses on you, kisses your top lip and then your bottom, and the corners of your mouth while you sit still like a wooden doll in his hold. If you were to pull away you might hurt him and you don’t want that.

After a few more of these kisses he pulls back, a line pulling between his brows at your unmoving state. “It’s okay,” he says softly, brushing some of your hair away, “you want to feel better?” It’s not really a question, since he continues right away. “I’m not going to do anything else, just kiss like that. It’s okay, right?” You swallow, unsure. It feels like you’re guilty of something, just not knowing what. But he looks so sure of himself.

“I’m not gonna do anything else,” he assures again, and so you nod. This leads him to drop his hand away from your neck and back down your body, long fingers settling right above your butt. “Your big brother’s here for you. Kiss me back.” It’s not a question, voice soft but steady and from the way his eyes sharpen onto your lips, you don’t want to disobey. You asked for his help, after all. You can’t remember really, but you must have.

Once again he leans in to kiss you, you press your lips back against his harder and he hums in agreement. You do your best to make him feel the movements of your mouth, not wanting to disappoint. Your soft pecks spurs him on more, body hovering over your much smaller shape eagerly as he moves his lips against yours, and too soon he starts pressing his tongue to the seam of your lips. He pries them open with ease, holding your head in place by your jaw when you move to pull back from him.

He’s soft though, careful still, but doesn’t want to let go of you. Feeling like you’re not allowed to move makes your chest tighten, uncomfortable spikes trembling in your airways. It’s such an uneasy feeling. Tooru does it too though, so it must be normal when kissing. You still don’t really like it. His lips are effortless in their chase of yours, plush and tender. It feels- a bit awkward, but he tastes good. Like honey and camomile tea. And he seems to think you taste good too, because he sucks at your tongue until it’s in his own mouth. It feels funny.

You feel his tongue rub around yours, finishing off with a few open mouth kisses before pulling back to breathe. “Much better. Good girl,” he whispers, flicking your nose playfully. If you were feeling a bit stressed before, this calms you. He’s here for you. This is all for you. The praise is sucked into your frazzled brain, happy to make him so happy. You even dare give him a kiss of your own, which makes Issei smile like he’s the sun.

For a moment you two sit like that, tangled together in each other’s arms. Then your big brother tilts your head to the side a tad, and brushes his fingers over the mess Tooru made of your skin. He wasn’t as gentle. Issei clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Did he hurt you? Do these hurt?” They do when he presses his fingers into them, hard, and you wince at the touch.

“Sensitive, huh?” he nods, before connecting his eyes with yours. “Niisan will make it feel better, okay?” And then, with a warning lift of his eyebrow he commands, “Don’t pull away.” His lips on your jaw. They are a bit cold against the irritated skin, dragging down from your face to your collarbones. Despite the sudden development, you feel grateful that he’s so sweet to you. Your big brother really is the kindest person to you, helping you even when you don’t ask for it.

His breath hitches as he buries his face into your skin, his body leaning a lot of his weight into you. It makes you sink under him more, leaning back in an attempt to keep the same distance. If he gets much closer he’ll be on top of you. You don’t know if you want that. “You shouldn’t let him toy with you so much, little sister. He’s too rough with you,” Issei suddenly brings out, biting at the skin above your collarbone ever so softly.

His lips start planting more open mouth kisses on the abused skin, before he finally just grabs your thighs and drags your waist to his knees so that you’re laying under him. You squeak at the sudden move, before he lays his entire body on top of yours, pinning you to the bed. Your breathing is short when you look at him, eyes big. “Niichan, you can’t,” you mumble, “Tooru said only h-he’s allowed to lay on top of me— like t-this.”

Your flustered stuttering is adorable to him, rosy cheeks making his hands come up to cup them. Not only is his body heavy and able to cover you entirely, it’s too warm. His thick thighs press your own down, and there’s a hardness that presses to the inside of your leg like that. You know what it means, it means he feels good. You don’t want to take that away from him, but you don’t feel good right now. “Issei nii,” you whine from under him again, and he shakes his head.

“I don’t want you two to fight— he’ll be mad,” you breathe again, looking to the couch that you came from earlier. A rough kiss is pushed to your mouth again, but this time you rebuke a bit harder against Issei’s eagerness and pull away. “Stop, oniichan. Daddy said you two can’t play rough with me anymore.” He listens to you but keeps rocking his center to yours gently anyway. The continued movement of his hips creates a friction that pools heat in your lower belly. You want to give in to the touches, since that’s what your big brother wants, and what they say goes. But the conflicting orders leave you in an insecure limbo.

“No, no, it’s okay.” He coos at your expression, before lifting his body from yours a bit and pushing his crotch to yours better. His lips move back to your marked neck, and true to his word, the warming kisses do work to soothe the pain of the hickeys a bit. Your entire neck is left going hot from his wet, greedy mouthing. When you whine at his blatant ignorance of your words, he smushes his face to your throat. “It’s alright. He won’t know, I won’t tell him.”

The brunet groans as he repeats the soft circular movement a few times more. He brings out a tense breath. “Hey, look at me. Look at me.” You listen so well, big eyes flicking back to his in an instant. He loves you so much that he can’t control himself well, pressing a few desperate kisses to your lips again. “It’ll be okay, I’m doing this because I love you. See?” He lifts his hips then, and you both look at the obvious tent in his sweatpants. “You know what this means, right? I promise it’s okay.” He lifts his entire weight on one of his arms for a moment, to lead your hand onto his clothed cock, squeezing your fingers around him. “Ah,” he breathes, eyes fluttering closed for a second.

“Feel okay? You like it?” You let him use your hand to stroke up and down, again and again, as his cheeks color a soft pink. Tooru does this when he lays in your bed often as well, and he always says it’s because you make him feel so good, too. You’re happy to make your big brother feel good, even if you’re not listening well right now. “Oniichan?”

“Yeah, feels perfect,” he breathes back, before taking your hand from him. “Stay like that.” He opens your legs wider, pulling you flush with his waist again, and then lowers himself back onto you. Because he’s so big, he can lean down to kiss you without having to squish you and does so with an eagerness like that of a hungry animal. He bites your lips and parts them with his own, before pressing his tongue back into your mouth, lapping and greedily taking everything he can get. His breath is so hot in your mouth, movements too fast for you to catch up. All the while he moves his hips to yours, rubbing his hard, covered cock against your panties. It feels good, though it makes you feel a bit icky too. When he pulls back a string connects your two mouths.

“You’ve done this before? With Tooru?” If he’s referring to the rubbing, then yes. Tooru doesn’t kiss on your lips as much though, he likes kissing other places instead. You slowly nod at his question, not wanting to elaborate on the whole thing. It makes your brother hum. “With anyone else?” At that you flush, immediately shaking your head. As if Tooru would let anyone outside the family close enough to touch you in the first place. “No? Good. Only your big brothers should get to make you feel good.” His hips don’t still for a moment, rubbing his cock in between your legs up and down, rolling it side to side every so often.

It’s really warm, his body hovering so close to you only keeping the heat smouldering in your chest. And the continued movement too, it’s almost too much for you. Making you delirious. But you can’t say anything, because you don’t want to disappoint your brother. You let him suck at your tongue, bite your throat and shoulders, let him rut his hips into yours until he starts shaking on his arms. The huffs and breaths falling from his lips are soft, meant only for you. “Please,” he faintly whispers, though you’re not sure what he’s asking for.

“You love your big brother?”

“Yes, of course!” you mumble at that, looking at the dark spot of his pants that he ruts into you rhythmically. He goes fast now, desperate like an animal in heat, one hand moving to knead at your tit. It’s a steadying move more than anything, his weight making it hard to take full breaths. You whimper softly, before grabbing at his shoulder in an attempt to lighten his weight on your chest. “Stop now, niichan, down there is sticky. It’s enough.” Your underwear is becoming uncomfortable, warm wetness covering your bottom lips. You don’t know when that happened, but as it cools to the room temperature it grinds your panties to your sensitive skin. “Wanna take it off,” you beg.

Your confession makes the older boy choke, looking down between your two bodies at the way his clothed cock ruts into you. “Ah, fuck,” he grunts, not wanting to move. Issei has thought of you like this for years, sneaking kisses and cuddles for as long as he can remember being close to you. But up until now, he’s always been the responsible one. The realist of the family. Yes, he would jack off to the thought of you bent over the table. And yes, he would glare at boys whenever they looked at you with mischievous eyes. But he never let it show this much.

Just minutes earlier, he had convinced himself that as long as his pants were still on, it wasn’t that bad. That only skin to skin would be wrong, would make him as desperate and volatile as your step brother is, but now that idea is suddenly front and center in his mind. It’s so warm, boiling almost. Precum beads through the fabric, the outline of his member is visible easily. It sticks to every dip and vein. “Fuckfuck fuck, just one second.”

It’s impossible to make himself stop, finally finding the courage to have you this way. No, more than that, losing the will to hold back. The want to take you as his becomes more unbearable the longer he drags on. His fingers pinch at your nipple, rolling it under his thumb until it hardens. Your noises are heaven to him. He pants. “Say that you love your big brother.”

“I love my big brother,” you mirror, sweat pooling under your tits as you wrap your arms around his neck. It’s so confusing. You want him to stop, but your body doesn’t seem to wanna let go. Issei moans loudly, and presses his lips back to yours. Over and over, he’s quivering on top of you, looking both too big for you and incredibly fragile despite it.

“I’m-,” he breathes, before grunting as he lifts his head as far away from you as possible, trying his best to clear his head. But it’s no good. His chest still heaving rapidly, in time with yours. He shakes his head to himself. “Whatever, I’m fucked anyway. Screw it.” He switches his fingers quickly to the other nipple, before shoving the shirt up your body enough to reveal it to him. He latches his lips there, sucking and lapping at the supple skin of your tits. His hot breath cascading over you. “Say it again, say my name,” he says and you oblige.

“Love my big broth-ah- brother Issei.”

He grunts praises into your hair, the arm carrying his weight scooting up a bit so he can lace his fingers in your hair. The other hand moves under your thigh and swings it around his waist, before fumbling with the now drenched cloth being rutted in between your lower lips. He doesn’t stop grinding into you, making it a struggle to pull it to the side to expose you more. But he gets there.

“So fucking pretty,” he moans, looking at his hand as it moves in between the folds of your center like it’s not his own. Your wetness is spread around the sensitive area as he takes a deep breath. “Ah- fucking shit- I’m in love with my little sister. I love my little sister. I love my little sister.” The chant is so faint, you want to pull him close and never let go. You love him too, of course you do. Even in the uncomfortable position, he does his best to slide a finger into you, and a second one.

“Wanna marry you and make you have my babies,” he mumbles out words into you in rapid succession, panting above you with sweat pooling at his hairline. “My bred little slut.” He makes himself grunt with the words, moving his head back to slot in between your neck and shoulder, biting at the skin there. “Mine, mine, mine,” he growls out against you, not letting the skin between his teeth slip until you cry out. That hurt. But the rest really does feel good, like he said it would. He moves his digits in and out in sloppy jerks, too shaky for a controlled movement. Loud squishing sounds fill the room. The rutting is now almost painful in speed and pressure, but in a mind-numbing way. “Say this little sister wants to be fucked by her big brother’s cock,” he begs against your chest, rubbing his face into your tits greedily.

“This little- ah ah ah- this little sister,” you try, his fingers drilling into you too hard to focus on anything, “wants to be fucked by-mhm her- big brother’s cock!” You squeeze out the last words quickly, before pulling the bunched up shirt in between your teeth to keep quiet. It’s a thought far off but the knowledge that your father could come home any second still makes you squirm. You shouldn’t be disobeying. You suckle on the shirt as you let him take advantage of your body, watch your tits being squeezed and your cunt being filled with his fingers with half-lidded eyes. It takes just a split second for Issei to grab at the edge of his sweats and pull it down his thighs enough to expose himself.

He stops his rhythm only to sit back on his heels and push your knees up to your chest, before laying back onto you. His big cock twitches against your leaking cunny as he grabs it at the base, and presses it into you. “God, I’m so fucked,” he brings out with a shivering breath, before pulling at the fabric in your mouth for you to release it. It makes some spit drip from the corner of your lips, covering your chin in wetness. He slowly pushes into your dripping hole, breathing stuttered at the heat of it. “But I only want you, and I want you to only want me.”

You know it to be true even before you can notice the tears welling up in his eyes. He might pass out before he’s in you all the way, he thinks, having just pushed the head in. He’s so fucking shaky. He moves the thick head of his leaking cock in and out a few times. Holding his breath as he slides a bit further each time, until he holds still in you with a loud groan. He takes a moment to breathe, really about to pass out any second. Head spinning.

All his muscles are solid, trembling with the strain. Your glowing heat compared to his skin is heaven. When you cry out softly at the massive stretch, he looks at you and presses one hand to your cheek to rub comforting circles into it. You look so content to be taking him, he feels so loved. So warm, and wanted, you’re so perfect to him. Like you were made just for him. You must sense it, because all of a sudden you smile at him. A soft, accepting sign of happiness that could only happen in this family. “I really love you, Issei,” you say.

Before he knows it, he’s choking up, a few tears rolling down the sides of his face thick and warm, he’s just so happy. “Ngh-ahh, you’re mine, my little girl.” He thrusts in the last half of him into you in one move, not trusting himself to last much longer like this, and immediately pulls out again. Each time he bottoms out in you, you make little noises. His girth drives into your softness slowly at first, filling you out entirely to the brim. It’s a stupidly perfect fit, making your cunt stretch just enough not to be painful, but only just.

“Niichan—”

You let out a stuttering breath when he connects his waist entirely with yours, the snap of his hips stinging pleasurably at your clit. Both already wound up far past your limits. Issei uses the last of his strength to rest all of his weight on his two lower arms where they are next to your head and pumps into you hard, before wiping a bead of sweat from his temple. “I love my little sister,” he admits again, throat tightening. He angles his body to slam into the exact spot to make you numb. “You’re so good to me, so warm.” The bed rattles from the violent movements, and his grunts are in time with every slap of his balls to your ass. “And you’re- ugh- so fucking tight. No one else—” He moans when you dig the nails of your one hand into his back mindlessly. “You’re mine.”

“Yes, yes, yes.” Your hands sliding higher as you mewl at his thrusts, grabbing onto the soft, shorter hairs at the base of his head. His eyes are closed, frown deep as he does his very best to last in your heat. You lift your butt from the bed to slam back into his thrusts, but honestly are going half brain dead with every snap. All you can do is whimper his name like a prayer, definitely when his thick fingers move to your sensitive clit. He rubs two fingers in tiny circles, thumb pressing beneath it in the same motion over and over, as you cling to him for dear life.

He’s at his limit just as much as you are. The greediest words fall out of his mouth before he can think about them. If he was more conscious of his actions, he’d probably be embarrassed. But you’re so tight, warm, clenching around him like your life depends on it. “Wanna fill my little sister- with my cum. Fuck a- mhm- baby into you. Love you so fucking much.” His thick cock curves into your warmth over and over, hitting high in your belly each time. Your knees bump into yourself as Issei pumps into you with his full weight over your tiny shape, not giving the bundle of nerves any rest.

It’s way too much. “Niichan, I need—” you bite your bottom lip so hard you can taste metal and clench your eyes shut, feeling the coil in your belly tighten until it’s ready to snap. “Please, ‘Ssei,” you beg. You must be pulling his hair so hard it’s dizzying, but you’re way too far gone to care. “Ah- pleaseplease please!”

“Cum on your real niichan’s cock, slutty girl,” he breathes, speeding up his rhythm to a punishing degree. You’re a hair away from coming all over him, and he can feel it too. He holds a breath, before quickly bringing out some more words. “Open your eyes,” he begs, “keep your eyes on me. Wanna see you cum.” You open them to look into his dark brown eyes as best as you can, before you grab hold around his arms and grasp at his shoulders as your building orgasm shoots through you, walls clenching around his cock with a vice-like strength.

Your mouth falls open and you bring out a mess of words, chanting his name as your vision goes white and black marks the edges. Your legs are wrapped around him entirely now, squeezing and shaking from the intensity. While you ride on a high Issei comes too, fingers barely moving anymore, a few thrusts bottoming as he spills hot, white ropes into your cunt. He’s surprisingly quiet, looking at your precious face under him as you come undone.

For a few moments after you’re away from the world, sweating and panting as you cling onto him, before you bury your face in his neck and whimper nothings. He topples onto your body, exhausted, before he wipes his hands on his bed and reaches up to cradle your head. Your legs drop down from him as you catch your breath, the soft lotus scent of his shower gel being the most comforting scent in the world.

When you’re finally back to Earth, you let out a little giggle, and press gently at his shoulders to move him. Way too warm now. Issei groans at your pushy move, but removes himself from on top of you. He might just fall asleep if he lays there any longer. Ever so slowly, he pulls out, pausing to watch the mix of your fluids slowly gush out of your swollen pussy to drip down your body.

He sighs deeply, before smiling at your blissed out face and moving from the bed. It bounces slightly when his weight is removed. “I’m going to go get a towel and some water for you.” He brushes some hair from your face which you gratefully hum agreement to, pulls up his boxers and sweats and walks to the door of the room, before quickly slipping his drenched shirt over his head and tossing it into the hamper in the corner. When he slips out of his room quietly, the lights in the hall are already off. He shuts the door with a glance back at you, noting that you’d most likely be in dreamland by the time he returns, and moves quickly.

Just as he makes it to the bathroom, the door swings open. Tooru gives the taller guy a look, stepping to the side to let him pass. When the hell did he get home? He ignores it and grabs a towel, dunking one half of it under the tap, before grabbing a glass. All under his brother’s watchful eyes where he leans into the doorframe still. As the silence drags on, Tooru just sighs, shaking his head and raises an eyebrow. “You’re messed up, you know that?”

“So are you.” Issei glances over at the other, who crosses his arms over his wide chest.

Tooru only sighs deeply, before moving out of the bathroom, voice lithe but stable in the silence of the house. “If I don’t tell on you for being a sister fucker, you owe me.” Before Issei can respond though, Tooru’s lips pull into a little smile, widening mischievously. “If.”

[pruinesce-a2]

META: TODOROKI FUYUMI + COMPLEX PTSD.

this meta is gonna probably going to heavily reference child abuse and domestic abuse, so please don’t read if you’re vulnerable to those topics. i used a read more but i don’t think they’re working. ON TO THE META

complex ptsd ( c-ptsd ) generally develops as a result of chronic trauma, over months or years, most often experience throughout childhood; it’s rare ( but definitely not unheard of ! ) that it will develop in an adult, because, as the article i’m going to pick apart states,   “ when an adult experiences a traumatic event, they have more tools to understand what is happening to them, their place as a victim of that trauma, and know they should seek support even if they don't want to. children don't possess most of these skills, or even the ability to separate themselves from another's unconscionable actions. the psychological and developmental implications of that become complexly woven and spun into who that child believes themselves to be -- creating a messy web of core beliefs much harder to untangle than the flashbacks, nightmares and other posttraumatic symptoms that come later. ”

emotion regulation.   “ survivors with c-ptsd have a very difficult time with emotions -- experiencing them, controlling them, and for many, just being able to comprehend or label them accurately. many have unmanaged or persistent sadness, either explosive or inaccessible anger [...] they may be chronically numb, lack the appropriate affect in certain situations, be unable to triage sudden changes in emotional content [...] it's also very common for these survivors to re-experience emotions from trauma intrusively - particularly when triggered. these feelings are often disproportionate to the present situation, but are equal to the intensity of what was required of them at the time of a trauma -- also known as an emotional flashback. ”

the first things that stand out to me here: fuyumi easily fits the criteria of unmanaged or persistent sadness, but what really catches my eye is the concept of inaccessible anger. the boys very clearly fall under explosive anger, but fuyumi ... is seemingly never angry. it's a common point of contention in many posts i’ve seen about her; that she’s not reacting the way she should as a victim of abuse, that she “undermines” her brothers’ trauma by wanting to forgive her father. first of all i shouldn’t have to remind the fandom that she, too, is a victim of that abuse but it’s also entirely untrue that she’s disregarding her brothers because she even canonically identifies that she feels the same way they do - she identifies that yes, she is angry, yes, she understands they’re well within their rights to be so. but unlike them, this anger is ... far away. fuyumi, physically, emotionally, cannot bring that anger to the front. it’s frustrating for her, too. 

i also want to point out the last sentence in this point: emotional flashbacks + the phrase “ what was require of them at the time of a trauma. ” an important thing to note is that often times, throughout fuyumi’s experience with these events … she’s the level-headed one. she’s the calm one. she’s the one mediating. this isn’t a new behavior - in an effort to mitigate her father’s abuse, this calm, peaceful nature is what these traumatic events have required of her, and as such, when anything begins to show potential for going wrong, she reverts back to this behavior.

explosive anger + disproportionate intensities in a certain situation definitely apply to natsuo; see the way he gets so angry over seemingly minute comments. touya / dabi is just. all over the place w/ this one he’s in all of it

difficulty with self-perception.   “ in its simplest form, how they see themselves versus how the rest of the world does can be brutally different. some may feel they carry or actually embody nothing but shame and shameful acts - that they are "bad".  others believe themselves to be fundamentally helpless; they were let down by so many who could've stopped their abuse but didn't [...] many see themselves as responsible for what happened to them [...] and, countless others may feel defined by stigma, believe they are nothing more than their trauma, worry they're always in the way or a burden, or they may sense they're just completely and utterly different from anyone or anything around them - they are alien. startling as it is, all of these feelings and more can live inside someone whom, to you, seems like the most brilliant, competent, strong, and compassionate human being you know. ”

she holds herself partially responsible for her father’s abuse - this is ALSO outright stated as canon, as seen here and here. the idea of helplessness, and particular bringing in the idea of learned helplessness ( thank u  @/unsighty for pointing that out ) is ALSO very important to note here ... note in the shifuku page she says, “ i couldn’t do anything for shouto. ” both fuyumi AND natsuo also probably struggle with the idea of being a burden ( that neglect says hello ! ) / being in the way, too.

i also really like this note about how these feelings can be present in someone labeled “ brilliant, competent, strong, and compassionate ” ... because that’s exactly what fuyumi is seen as.

interruptions in consciousness.   “ some may forget traumatic events (even if they knew of them once before), relive them intrusively, recall traumatic material in a different chronological order, or other distressing experiences of what is called dissociation. dissociation is a symptom that exists on a spectrum, ranging anywhere from harmless daydreaming or temporarily "spacing out"; to more disruptive episodes of feeling disconnected from one's body or mental processes, not feeling real, or losing time; all the way to the most severe, which includes switching between self-states (or alters), as is seen in dissociative identity disorder. episodes of missing time can range anywhere from a few minutes, a couple days, or even large chunks of one's childhood. The larger gaps in time are typically only seen in did, but those with c-ptsd alone can still endure 'interruptions in consciousness' that result in memory gaps, poor recall, traumatic material that is completely inaccessible, or, conversely, re-experiencing trauma against their will (e.g. flashbacks, intrusive images, body memories, etc.). ”

while this is definitely a symptom we see more of in shouto ( my boy is dissociating 24/7 ) , fuyumi experiences it sometimes as well. memory gaps, poor recall, and particularly re-experiencing trauma applies to fuyumi here - i think by and large she deals with intrusive imagery; i.e., while she’s in the kitchen, if she hears shouto nearby, or sometimes if she hears the kettle whistling / crying on the tv, she gets a flood of memories of shouto and her mother on the floor in the kitchen.

i think dabi can definitely be HEAVILY attributed to the idea of these losses in time, disconnecttions and self-states - and like with fuyumi, he definitely experiences intrustive imagery. we see that here, i think.

difficulty with relationships.   “ this refers more to a survivor's potential to feel completely isolated from peers and not even knowing how to engage, to harboring an outright refusal to trust anyone (or just not knowing why they ever should), trusting people way too easily (including those who are dangerous, due to a dulled sense of alarm), perpetually searching for a rescuer or to do the rescuing, seeking out friends and partners who are hurtful or abusive because it's the only thing that feels familiar, or even abruptly abandoning relationships that are going well for any number of reasons. ”

fuyumi, first of all, definitely struggles to know how to engage with her peers. she’s outgoing and clearly a people person - so it’s often a question why she’s so nervous and struggles to make relationships and ... well. here’s why.

i don’t think fuyumi outright refuses to trust anyone, but there is intense hesitance and unsureness, particular for certain groups of people: men, people who are much taller & bigger than her, people who have some kind of fire affinity / ability, and people who are loud. the idea of perpetually searching for a rescuer, or to do the rescuing ... while typically you might think she falls under the former ( and i think she does, in a way. fuyumi never talks about her trauma, but her concept of love ties into this - someone who can take her away from her father, someone who has the power to do that? someone who is unafraid of him, or someone that he has no hold over? yeah. looking @ kenta n nishiki w this one ), fuyumi also searches to do the rescuing. once again i’m referencing this page - “ she became a teacher to compensate the fact that she couldn’t protect her younger brother. ”

i’m also pointing at the “dulled sense of alarm” - in my canon, fuyumi, for example, went out and put herself in the way of danger and met with less than savory contacts in an attempt to find information on dabi, once she got the inkling he might be touya.

obviously shouto and natsuo also have this urge to rescue, and dabi doesn’t trust anyone.

the perception of one's perpetrators.   “ this can be one of the most insidious battles for some survivors with c-ptsd -- even if it seems crystal clear to those on the outside. victims of such prolonged trauma may eventually surrender, assuming their abuser(s) total power over them, possibly even maintaining this belief once they're 'free'. "i'll always be under their thumb, they call all the shots, they may even know what's best for me more than i ever will." others may feel deep sadness or profound guilt at just the thought of leaving them - including long after they've successfully left, if they were able. some may remain transfixed by their abuser's charming side or the warm public persona that everyone loves; it may feel truly impossible to think ill of them. many hold a constant longing for their abusers to just love them - craving their praise well into adulthood, slaving away in their personal lives just to make them proud. alternatively, there are others who may obsess about them angrily, holding only hatred and disdain for them to the point of persistent bitterness and/or vengefulness. some can even stir desires to seek that revenge. (though, it should be clearly noted that it's not at all common for them to actually do so. It's more about the thoughts than the actions.)

    many survivors can have a primary, more surface-layer set of thoughts and feelings about their perpetrator(s), particularly when asked. they may know what they're "supposed to say" or "supposed to feel", and then follow suit. but it's helpful to know that a collection of all these responses can, and often does, coexist within one person, vacillating between extremes underneath what's shown to the world or even to themselves. day to day, and year to year, their feelings may shift - and - what the survivor knows to be true intellectually versus what they feel emotionally may remain incongruent for a very long time. ”

OKAY SO. THAT’S A BIG ONE. THAT’S A LOT TO READ. but i think it’s very, very important to fuyumi’s reaction to her trauma, and also to the fandom misconceptions of her. fuyumi clearly is very attached to her father. there’s no denying that. and the particular sentences that stand out to me here are “some may remain transfixed by their abuser’s charming side or public persona” and “they know what they’re supposed to feel”. i’ve said continuously that her father being a hero, and one so well-known and praised at that, has HEAVILY affected her views of him ! as a child fuyumi conflagrated his public persona as the “real” him. she struggled with this...... idea that his violence + aggression were a kind of "fake" version of him - aka "that's not the real him", "he's not always like that", "he used to be a lot nicer", etc. etc. and it’s only as she got older that she moved away from this line of thinking, though she still catches herself with it now and then. and, of course, fuyumi only ever wanted his attention and praise. she worked tirelessly to please him, trying to get him to come to her skating competitions, getting top marks in school, attending todai, always having dinner on the table in spite of her obligations.

it’s also so important to note the second paragraph in this section. fuyumi knows she should be enraged, she should want nothing to do with him, but that’s just ... really difficult for her, i think, especially when unlike shouto and natsuo, she remains in that environment. so there’s this disconnect between her desire for his love + making him proud, to defend him, to make their family “whole” again vs. the knowledge that she shouldn’t want anything to do with him.

natsuo holds that persistent bitterness, and dabi definitely wants revenge so um. yes. next point

one's 'system of meanings'.   “ of the many, many well-observed developmental disruptions those with c-ptsd face, one that many find to be the toughest to conquer [...] is what's referred to as one's 'system of meanings' ; an area that, after being subjected to such tumultuous trauma, can feel almost irreparable. what this criterion is referring to is the struggle to hold on to any kind of sustaining faith or belief that justice will ever be served to indiscretions of ethics and morality. these survivors' outlook on life and the world at large can be unfairly contorted, and understandably so.

    they may doubt there is any goodness or kindness in the world that isn't selfish-hearted. they may worry they'll never find forgiveness. others may even believe they only came to this world to be hurt, so there can be no good coming for them. this level of hopelessness and despair, as well as these greater meanings assigned to their suffering, can fluctuate greatly over time. there may even come several years where things no longer feel so bleak or as though they were conned of a meaningful life. but, as more layers of trauma are processed in therapy, or new memories bubble to the surface, they may wrestle with it once more as new feelings strike a devastating chord inside their chest. this is a common experience for so many survivors, and can have lasting ramifications with each plunge. ”

this point is, clearly, much more extreme in her brothers. shouto’s aggravation at being reprimanded for breaking the law when it meant doing good; natsuo’s clear resentment of heroes; and this one is, of course, most prevalent in dabi. see: “ the struggle to hold on to any kind of sustaining faith or belief that justice will ever be served to indiscretions of ethics and morality, ” or “ they may doubt there is any goodness or kindness in the world that isn't selfish-hearted. they may worry they'll never find forgiveness. ” LIKE HELLO. the hatred of heroes, the idolization of stain. SCREAMS DABI

i think fuyumi’s ‘system of meanings’ is ... much less disturbed than her brothers’ ( COUGH DABI COUGH ), but there still is some disruption there. by and large, fuyumi still believes that the good in the world outweighs the bad - but the disruption in her belief is also going to be that the hero system is a falsity, it’s a sham, it’s glorified and she inherently dislikes the concept of heroism. 

so anyway. i’m upset hbu

[starkerisendgame]

Mirror Image

The boy in the chair was not Peter. Or rather - It was Peter, just not their Peter. As it turns out, Doctor Selvig had been correct. Doors opened from both sides, and portals were the science-magic version of doors. 

They had opened a door to another reality, and the reality reached through, dragging Peter across and stepping through in his wake. That had been all the strength their attempt had to spare, and the portal had promptly collapsed. 

Sitting across from them, was a boy with Peter’s face. An almost exact twin, barring the fact that this boy was even paler. An almost translucent white that seemed to bring out the fact that his eyes were like arctic ice. Eerie in a way that made Tony uncomfortable, should he connect with them for too long. 

This Peter had scars, too. A jagged, vertical one down his throat, and one on the rise of his cheekbone, stretching up towards his right temple. What looked to be a handprint was barely visible under the shirt, fingertips reaching across his left collarbone. Tony felt sick staring at them. 

There was another two fundamental differences in this Peter, too. He somewhat had a version of the Iron Spider, except...It lived within him. Activated as his call and stemming from a sickly familiar blue glow, visible under the shirt fabric. 

This Peter had a reactor. 

Icy eyes blinked demurely, and Not-Peter cocked his head with a pitying look. When he spoke, his voice was raspy, almost seductive. “Look familiar, Mr Stark?” and when he lifted his gaze, the smile was sharp, more a dangerous baring of teeth. Tony ground his teeth, jaw ticking. 

It was Peter, but it was all wrong. This Peter fought like a cornered animal, rabid and out to kill. At Tony’s side, the Winter Soldier slowly slid his tongue over his bleeding lip. hand pressing gauze to the puncture wounds at his side. Tony couldn’t help reaching up, fingertips barely skimming the outline of his own saving curse. 

“He gave it to me” Not-Peter continued, eyes fixed on Tony with a lethal, gleeful stare. Tony couldn’t help jerking, looking up at the boy. Was he a boy? It was hard to tell. He seemed young, but hardened. More muscular than their Peter, and a little taller. He? 

Not-Peter practically purred, a vicious smirk settling on his mouth. “Oh, that’s right. You don’t know, do you? See, there isn’t just a me, back there. There’s a you, too”. Tony stepped closer, shoulders squaring. If there was a him in this other world, then Peter was safe. Right? The hope and relief must have been open on his face, because a bitter, crushing laugh broke his thoughts. 

“Well. Not a you exactly. Although you have his face. His name. No...This Tony Stark is a God among men. He perfected Extremis, and he conquered that pathetic little planet. They all bend the knee to him. And your soft, sweet little version of me? He’s going to eat him alive”. It tapered off into a snarl at the end, and the only thing that stopped Tony surging forwards was the Soldier’s hand on his chest, immovable and solid. 

“Leave us” he spoke quietly, almost a whisper. But Not-Peter’s head tipped again, a challenging mix between a pout and a smirk on his face. Tony sucked in a breath, turned and looked into the steady, grey eyes of his companion. After a moment, he jerked himself from the grip and turned away, hands shaking as he left the confined lab. 

Within it, the Soldier tossed aside the gauze and pulled a chair from a nearby workbench and drew it back-first in front of the other-worldly boy, sinking onto it with spread thighs, arms resting over the ridged back. Not-Peter looked delighted, eyes blatantly roaming the body on display, the metal arm that tapped its fingers in an idle pattern. 

“Now you...He would like you. I know the look in those eyes” Not-Peter purred, flirty and low. “Although...The arm. He’d want to make some adjustments to that. He likes to improve his toys”. The Soldier cocked a brow, unimpressed, but interested none the less. From what this boy said, his reality’s version of Tony was evil. The villain, not the hero. 

The boy’s lashes fluttered as another sonic pulse wracked his body, followed closely by a minor electrical one. A hasty set-up, designed to contain the metal coursing through his body. Not enough to kill him, but enough to take away the chance of him breaking free. 

“Our Peter. Where did you take him?” He asked after a moment, his own head tilting as he waited for the boy to recover. He had deduced fairly quickly, that regular torture would not work on this other Peter. The boy had been broken as many times as the Soldier had, and was beyond the reach of typical pain. 

“You so rudely interrupted my time with him. I had to give him something to entertain himself with whilst I investigated” Not-Peter shrugged, looking idle and unconcerned. Their Peter was with the evil twin of Tony, then. That meant their timescale for fixing the portal was now on a strict limit, if the form of the boy before him was anything to go by. 

“Tell me about him”. 

Not-Peter looked almost dreamy, exhaling a soft sigh and squirming amongst the heavy restraints. “Mr. Stark is a Deity. He’s not like this pathetic copy-cat. He’s Superior. And I am his. I was like your Peter, once. Soft. Delicate. Weak. But he was kind enough to perfect me, the same way he brought himself above everyone else. He is a King”. His voice was a mixture of fierce, soft, proud. 

So this...’Superior’ Tony had taken this Peter on as a...Project? Pet? Undoubtedly, they were either together, or this Peter idolised that Tony to the point of wishing they were. He reached out, tapped a metal finger harshly to the reactor with a loud clang. The boy stiffened, snarling at him with bared canines. 

“And torturing you. Modifying your body. Breaking you open to force all these little bits of himself inside. That’s his love?”. 

The low smirk, the sharp gaze. Defensive, offensive. It was enough. Regardless of if his Tony loved him, this boy loved his Tony. The Soldier hummed thoughtfully, pressed against the reactor before taking his hand away. 

“He will come for me” Not-Peter rasped, looking gleeful. Vengeful. “He will break yours, first. Will make him cry, and scream. Make him beg. If he survives, he might be lucky. He might become like me. Although...You should hope he doesn’t. I don’t like to share”. 

The Soldier looked thoughtful, hand raising to tap the reactor again, tracing the light pattern visible through the thin, dark shirt. “Your Stark. Does he know how to inter-reality travel?” The boy looked rueful. 

“He was just beginning to toy with the idea. After all, why rule just one world, when you could rule them all?”. So. Evil Tony did not know how to open the portal. At the least, it kept them safe from the man invading, before they were prepared. But it also meant the only hope for Peter lay at their own shoulders. 

The Soldier rose gracefully, keeping touch with the pulsing reactor. The boy watched him carefully, following his movements as he shifted around his chair, placed a boot between the boy’s thighs, and promptly kicked him over. He moved swiftly, pressed his foot to the boy’s stomach without gentleness, and ducked down, grasping the ridge of the reactor. 

“Do you think I am like him?” He asked softly, meeting the sharp, hateful gaze from behind strands of dark hair. “He broke you. Bent you. He made you cry. Scream. He made you beg. Do you think the blood on our hands is the same?” He asked, locking his grip.

The boy almost spat on him, a sickening smile spreading. “You can’t hurt me. You could never hurt me as he did”. It was as far as the boy got, because the Soldier pressed his hand to his ribs, and begun to slowly, steadily, pull. The boy was still baring teeth, but the fury in his eyes had lessened, replaced with something almost wary. 

“What are you doing?”. 

The Soldier did not answer. Simply enforced the connection between metal, pulling slowly, but steadily. Skin begun to falter against the grip, and the steady fury begun to bleed away from the boy’s eyes. From wariness to realisation, to cold resolution. 

Skin tore and the boy’s breath staggered on his inhale, eyes widening. “You are bent. But still breakable” the Soldier noted, pulling harder. The metal jostled, flesh coming apart around the pull of metal. Wet blood begun to soak the material, and the Soldier felt the reactor slide upwards. The boy whimpered, but the steely gaze remained, tinged with fear as it was. 

The Soldier let go, pulling away and pulling the chair upright as he withdrew. “I will break a piece of you, for every mark that Stark’s boy returns with” he promised, leaving the room. Tony was a breath around the corner, looking sick and resigned. 

“Did you hurt him?”. His voice wobbled, thick with sorrow. When Tony looked up, his eyes were raw with unshed tears. The Soldier frowned slightly, looking down and flexing the fingers of his metal hand. 

“He is not yours. And he is not above pain. In his reality, you are the villain. A perfected form of Extremis has allowed you to dominate the world in his reality. That boy is his...Plaything. But they have yet to create a portal, which means we have the upper hand”. 

It was no consolation, and the Soldier knew the implication that his words held. Their Peter was not safe there. Least of all in the hands of Stark’s alternate self. The proof was in the boy they had left behind. 

“If you two are in that reality, there stands a good chance that we may come up against other people we know there. People like me. And there’s a large possibility we aren’t good there, either. I will get the others together, bring them up to speed. You should go back to the original blueprints of the portal”. 

The Soldier moved off, and then it was just Tony, shaking against the wall and doing his best not to think of the boy with Peter’s face, just a thin layer of concrete and glass away. He knew he should walk away. JARVIS could keep an eye on the boy, and the Tower was one of the most secure places in America. If needed, Barn Doors Protocol could be activated. 

Except. 

He found himself stepping through the doors, shuddering as glacial eyes fixed onto him. Not-Peter’s head tilting slowly, and a cross between a smirk and a pout quirked his lips. “Awh, now isn’t this just adorable?” He murmured, lounging where he was tied. Tony’s jaw ticked and he stopped, scowling. 

“Tell me what is going to happen to Peter” he demanded after a moment, approaching warily. Not-Peter’s lips tipped into a sharp grin, and he shrugged lightly, tipping his head to look casually around the room. 

“Mm, hard to say. Daddy’s never exactly predicable”. 

Daddy. 

Not-Peter’s gaze flicked to him, as though knowing Tony had tripped over the word, and he simpered, licking slowly at his canines. 

“He could be dead already. Daddy doesn’t have much patience. Or maybe he’s lucky, and he’s gonna end up just like me. Or perhaps....Perhaps Daddy enjoys having another broken little thing with my face. Perhaps he’s enjoying hearing my voice begging again”. 

“And if he likes it enough...Your precious little knock-off could be getting pounded into the wall as we speak”. Tony stiffened, leaning close, and Not-Peter was practically grinning now, eyes laser focused. “Does he beg for you, you weak little copy? He’ll beg for Daddy. Does his tight little ass milk your cock, hm? Daddy’ll split him in half. He’ll never be tight again”. 

Tony struck him. He didn’t mean to, and even Not-Peter looked surprised for a moment, blinking slowly before turning his head, now outright delighted. A sliver of wet, pink tongue dipped into the slight break of skin at the corner of his mouth. 

“Does that piss you off? Knowing your wet piece of ass is gonna come back all sloppy and used? Or are you worried Daddy’ll ruin him forever, huh? Worried you’re gonna get him back and all he’s gonna want to do is crawl right back to-” Not-Peter’s voice cut off as Tony gripped him by the jaw, drawing their faces close together. 

“Do you think your version of me would still want you, if you came back all sloppy and used? Do you think he’d keep you around, if he knew you bent over like a good little slut for the ‘weak’ version of him?” Tony asked after a moment, forcing himself to say the words. Forcing himself to steel his voice. 

There was something akin to startled fear, just a brief flicker, that crossed Not-Peter’s eyes. It was enough. Tony forced himself to smirk, slow and cruel. 

“Mm. I’m not so different in another universe, then” he remarked, pushing away Peter’s jaw and standing, giving the boy a crude, cold once-over. Then he turned away, striding for the door. The sound of Not-Peter’s thrashing and howling followed him the entire way out. 

[timelordthirteen]

In All Things 17/?

Mr. Gold/BelleFrench, Explicit (eventually)

Summary: A Rumbelle arranged marriage AU.

Chapter Summary: Gold and Belle talk with Maurice, but things escalate when Milton arrives.

Notes: *Bernie Sanders meme* I am once again asking you to forgive me for it being 84 years since the last update. I hope you all enjoy the first appearance of the Cane of Feels. ;) The next chapter is already almost done, but the ending part kept getting longer and longer so I split things up. See note at the end. Also tags have had a minor update to include canon typical violence which occurs in this chapter.

[AO3]

Previous: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16]

Belle took a breath and felt Gold squeeze her hand.

She looked up and gave him a tight smile. Her stomach had unsettled all morning, leaving her pacing in her bedroom as she waited and barely able to eat anything for breakfast.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

She let go of his hand, and pressed hers against the laces of her dress. “Yes, I think so.”

He tugged once on his jacket and held out his arm for her to take before pushing open the door to her room. They walked the long hall together, his stride slowed to match hers, with the thump of his cane the only sound she could hear save for her own breathing. At the top of the stairs her heart started to pound, and she caught him glancing at her sideways as they took the first step in sync. It was endearing, the way he seemed to be looking after her, checking at the smallest sign of discomfort.

The concern from her father had always felt overwhelming, stifling even, and was one of the things that in the aftermath of her mother’s death had pushed them apart. She could understand it, though, that constant need to make sure the one person left in his life, his only child, was safe and well, but he had channeled it into nitpicking what she did with her time, criticizing her choices of friends, and being overbearing about her need to be married and settled. Well, she was that now, at least, and so long as Gold remained as he was, she thought she could tolerate it amiably.

Before she knew it, they were at the door to her father’s study, ready to make their unified confrontation. Gold reached for the brass door handle, and then paused, casting another sidelong look at her.

“What are you going to say to him?” she asked.

Gold shrugged lightly. “He’s your father, and this is your family’s home. I thought I should defer to you.”

Belle blinked. “Oh...all right then.”

She looked forward again, squaring her shoulders, as he pushed the door open.

Maurice startled and spun on his heel, turning away from the large window where he’d been gazing out into the small garden bordered by a short hedge and a now barren flower bed. His gaze fixed on her and his face shifted, his mouth curving awkwardly in a smile that seemed more like a grimace.

“Belle,” he said, fidgeting with the cuffs of his coat. “What are you doing here, my girl?”

Belle slipped her arm free of Gold and stepped forward. “We came to talk with you.”

Maurice’s eyes darted to the side, widening as he finally noticed Gold’s presence.

Gold inclined his head in acknowledgement as his hand tightened around the handle of his cane. “Maurice.”

Belle inserted herself between the two men, pressing her clammy palms to the front of her dress. “I spoke with my husband about Avonlea’s finances.”

Maurice sputtered for a moment, his face going pale as he looked back and forth between them. “Lord Gold, I - I can explain. “Y-you see -”

Gold’s eyebrows lifted. “I’m not the one who requires an explanation.” He looked pointedly at Belle, who turned to look back at him before facing her father again.

“Belle, petal,” Maurice said, moving to try to take her hands.

She backed away at the same time Gold came forward, placing a steadying hand on her arm. He could feel the slight change in her stance and the way her shoulders relaxed, her face tipping up to meet her father’s eyes and fix him with a hard stare.

“Please, just let me handle things. Everything will be fine if -”

“Stop it!” Belle’s eyes flashed as she stepped forward, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “Don’t patronize me, I’m not stupid. I know what I saw in those ledgers, and if any of that is your idea of handling things, then you might as well sell off the land to the King now. The better to let him sort out how to manage our meager stores through the winter.”

The force of her voice caused Maurice to startle, and Gold had to fight to keep from smiling.

“I’m so sorry, Belle,” Maurice continued, his shoulders sagging. “I am trying to do my best for Avonlea and you, but the King -”

“Well,” came a voice from the doorway, “isn’t this a nice little family reunion.”

Belle and Gold turned simultaneously to see Milton striding slowly in the room, his hands behind his back and a sneering smile leading the way, and dressed in a garish gold doublet with dark leather breeches and boots adorned with gold buckles. He looked more like a lord in King George’s court than the steward of one of the poorest estates in the kingdom, and Belle frowned.

“Milton,” Maurice said, starting to step forward.

Gold raised his hand, the motion silencing Maurice immediately. “This doesn’t concern you, Steward.”

Milton’s head tilted to the side. “Oh? It sounded to me like you three were discussing the business affairs of the Avonlea estate, which is very much my concern.”

Gold’s eyes narrowed. “Then you should attend to them properly rather than allowing them to become continually indebted to the King.”

Milton was momentarily thrown off by Gold’s blatant admission, but he recovered swiftly and came around to stand between them and Maurice. “They are attended as His Majesty wishes them to be attended.”

Belle’s eyes went wide. She wondered at his emphasis and if the King truly wanted to ruin her family, but before she could dwell on it long, Gold left her side in a rush and stalked towards Milton with such determination that the other man couldn’t move out of the way. Instead, he twisted and tried to back away from the desk only to find himself pinned with the bookcase at his back.

“If King George,” Gold began, his voice sharp and firm, “wants to see these lands so obligated to him that the only choice is to cede them to the royal house, then he will be sorely disappointed when I assert my claim to them!"

“No!” Belle spoke before she could stop herself.

The shock of what Gold had said and the implication that he would take over her family’s estate so soon after swearing to help her save it. Legally, by order of the Council of Lords, husbands retained rights to the lands of their wife and her family, though most were not exerted if there was an heir or a current ruling lord. For Gold to do so went against everything she had believed him to be and made him just as power hungry as Gaston or the King himself.

Gold turned, pivoting on his heel with his cane planted at his side. He fixed her with a stare, and her eyes flashed with anger as she took a daring step forward, her heels louder than usual on the wood floor. His gaze was almost pleading, and she looked to her father and pressed a hand to her stomach, fisting the laces of her bodice. She wanted to trust Gold, and she had until this moment, but with so much at stake she couldn’t be certain of his motives. She knew so little about them and about him, not the least of which was why he wanted to marry her in the first place. Perhaps it had all been to this end, to expand his influence and wealth.

“Belle…”

She met Gold’s gaze again and swallowed as she took a step back, acquiescing in action instead of word, but Milton had sensed the discord between them and sneered at her. “You see what he is now, my Lady?”

“Quiet,” Gold snapped, twisting abruptly towards the Steward. “Your time here is over. You will collect whatever things you can carry with you from your quarters, and leave. The rest will be sent -”

“To the royal palace,” Milton interrupted, looking entirely too self satisfied for someone being fired and evicted at the same time. “I’m sure the King will want to hear all about this affair.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” Gold leaned in, his jaw tense and his hand gripping the handle of his cane hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

“Oh?” Milton’s voice rose along with his eyebrows, his tone and expression mocking them all. “The King wouldn’t want to be informed how Lord Maurice bought off a knight and a lord to to cover up his financial incompetence, and his daughter’s shame?”

In an instant, Gold moved, grabbing a fistful of Milton’s vest and shoving him flat against the bookshelves. Behind him he could hear Belle call out his name, but it was muted by the rush of blood in his ears, his anger overwhelming the sense of civility he’d been barely restraining since the Steward entered the room. He brought his other hand up, still holding the cane and pushing it against the other man’s chest.

“You came from nothing,” Milton spat, “And yet you’re the same as the rest of them, aren’t you? Another rich man with your money and games, taking the lands of your wife’s family without so much as a by your leave?”

A low, growling sound slipped out as Gold flashed his teeth and pressed the handle of his cane to Milton’s throat, forcing a choked gasp from the man’s throat. The words were true, he had come from nothing, but he wasn’t playing at any game. He was only trying to protect his family.

“I will do whatever needs to be done,” he hissed. “It is none of your concern, or the King’s.” Milton’s mouth worked, opening wide as he sucked in air, a sickeningly ragged sound that made Belle wince and startled her body into action. She staggered forward, catching herself on the edge of the desk as she watched Milton’s eyes bulge in fear, as though he had finally realized the severity of the situation.

“Cameron, please!”

Belle’s voice stunned Gold into releasing Milton, who coughed and sputtered for breath the instant Gold’s cane was removed from his throat.

“Cowing to the little wife already?”

Milton flashed a sneering smile as he rubbed at his throat. His voice was strained and hoarse, and an angry red line was already rising up across his neck. Belle swallowed and glanced at Gold who’s hard stare and dark eyes sent a shiver down her spine.

“Did you give up more than your seed on your wedding night?” Milton continued, drawing his hand down from his neck. “Did you offer her your balls on a silver platter?”

The steward opened his mouth to speak again, and Gold moved with a flash of agility Belle wouldn’t have believed possible. He lifted his cane out to the side and then swept it across, hitting Milton in the right leg, and knocking it out from under him with a sickening crack. Belle shut her eyes at the sound as she turned away from the calamity.

The motion of Milton’s fall sent him into a small side table on his way to the floor, and when Belle opened her eyes Gold was standing over him, his cane raised over his head. She felt her body start to shake and clenched her hands into fists in her skirt.

“Stop it!”

Belle’s voice startled Gold, who staggered back from Milton as the length of his cane slid through his grip and came to rest at his side. The room was quiet for a long moment as the two stared at each other.

“I think that answers my question.”

“Milton…” Gold warned, rounding on him again.

“What? What will you do to me in front of your precious little wife and the lord of these lands? Hmm?” The steward licked his lips, his mouth spreading into a wide, creeping grin as he pushed himself up on his elbows. “Then again, I’ve heard the Lady likes brutish men.”

Gold stepped forward, his boots on either side of Milton as he lay on his back against the bookcase and the remains of the table. He planted his cane next to the man’s head, the tip thumping so loud and sharp that Milton winced as though it had come down on him directly.

“Speak about my wife again,” he said evenly, “and it will be your last words.”

Belle pressed a hand to her lips to suppress the sob in the back of her throat. She knew what Milton was trying to say, thinly veiled as it was, and the thought that he knew what had transpired between her and Gaston, that he might even know more than that, perhaps even the truth of how her marriage to Gold came about, made her body tremble.

“Stop,” she managed. “Just stop.” Gold looked over his shoulder, his eyes wide, almost as if he was surprised to see her. She swallowed hard, her mouth dry and her tongue thick in her mouth. “Let him go.”

Gold held her gazed and nodded slowly before using his cane to push away from Milton. He stepped back just enough to allow the Steward to scramble to his feet, who tripped over the leg of the broken table and nearly fell into Gold. He caught himself at the last second and shot a glare at all of them. Then he tried to step around Gold who caught him by the shoulder and held him still.

“The only reason you are walking out of this room under your own power, you pathetic worm,” Gold said quietly, keeping his voice just between the two of them, “is because of my wife. Remember that the next time you think about disrespecting her or any other woman.”

“Well, my Lord,” Milton said, setting his eyes on Maurice as he moved out and around Gold. “I hope you are happy being run off your own land by your fine choice of a son-in-law. Though I suppose you won’t be a vassal much longer. Best get used to Maurice then.”

Maurice bristled at that, and after appearing paralyzed during the earlier ruckus, seemed to have regained his faculties and his anger. “I’m a lord until the King says otherwise, but you are nothing. Get your things and leave at once, or I will have the guards do it for you.”

Milton’s lips curled in something that resembled a grimace more than a smile. He looked Maurice up and down and then bowed at the waist in a way that felt mocking and cruel rather than respectful. “As you wish, my Lord.”

He swanned passed Belle on his way to the door, close enough to brush her skirts which made her step to the side. Her eyes narrowed at him, and he gave her a flat smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Perhaps your husband will allow you to rename this place after he steals it out from under your family.”

She whirled on the Steward, her jaw tensing. She could think of no retort so she settled for glaring daggers at his back until the doors closed behind him. If Gold did claim Avonlea as he indicated he would, then Milton was right. It would be effectively stolen from her and her family, and her mother’s legacy would become just another pawn in a political game. It would be a bargaining chip or collateral. There was a pang in her chest and a tightness in her throat at the thought of losing her home. It wouldn’t really be gone, it wasn’t as if the estate and land would be raised and left barren, but it wouldn’t be the same somehow, it would have a change in a way that felt irreversible. But maybe Gold wouldn’t go through with it, maybe it had been some kind of ploy to needle Milton and send a message to King, maybe -

The doors swung closed, thudding and echoing in the room, and startling her from her thoughts. She turned to see Gold looking at her, his face unreadable, and her father, wringing his hands.

“What now?” Maurice asked.

Gold sighed and turned away from Belle. “Now I draw up the necessary papers to cede ownership of Avonlea.”

Belle’s stomach sank and the mix of emotions she’d been holding back since they entered her father’s study spilled over. She cried out abruptly and then muffled the rest of the sound with her hand pressed over her mouth. Gold looked to her again, and upon seeing her, immediately came towards her, his hand outstretched.

She backed away quickly, almost stumbling on the edge of the rug when the heel of her shoe caught. “No.” She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut, feeling two wet trails down either cheek. “You can’t. You - you promised!”

Gold tried to come closer, but she kept moving away from him. “It’s for the best, Belle, just let me -”

“Let you take my family’s home?” she shouted. “Let you - you ruin us further? Let my father be the laughing stock of the kingdom, and shame me all over again?”

His face looked stricken at her words as his steps became uneven. “No, that’s not what this is. Please -”

Belle shook her head and shot a cold, harsh look at her father. “Well done, Papa.”

“Petal -”

She raised both her hands and Maurice’s voice trailed off as they dropped to her sides. Without another word, she spun on her heel and rushed out of the room. A second later, she heard the doors open and Gold call out for her, but her quick steps hastened into a near run as she hurried away from the study and back to her room.

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Rest assured that any strife between Gold and Belle will be reasonably short lived. I know he looks like an ass right now, but he's got a plan.

[lucifers-trash-stash]

Good Girl

Summary: Freddy Krueger has been waiting for so long to haunt the hearts and minds of new victims. As soon as he stumbles upon her, he knows she’ll be the perfect vessel to spread his fear.

Word Count: 3574

A/N: Happy Halloween!!! So this fic was written for @sherrybaby14​ and her Fall Into You Challenge, and my prompt was “Why me?” I’ve written for Freddy since high school, but this is the first time I’ve actually written smut for him, and it’s definitely some of the most non-con stuff I have written so uh I hope u all enjoy this insane premise and maybe find it as hot as I do lol I’ve also been playing around with smut in the 3rd person recently just as a way to try something new so I hope you like it!

Warnings: DEFINITE NON-CON! It turns more dub-con towards the end but considering the implications of the fic this is definitely non-con and if that bothers or upsets you then you shouldn’t read it. Knife play, slight degredation (this is Freddy we’re talking about, he throws some “whores” and “sluts” around), loss of virginity, daddy kink, manipulation, tricking someone into sex, and voyeurism. So esentially my nightmare if Freddy discovered what my kinks were.

There were a lot of dreamers that had wandered into the Springwood Slasher’s domain. No one ever came to him willingly, and only a few ever escaped his metal claw. However, the years had not been kind to him, and over time he had grown as rusty as his blades. The people that stumbled into his world often drifted out just as quickly. They simply didn’t scare as easily anymore, and none of them gave a second thought to the man with the ratty fedora and red and green striped sweater, much less spread the fear to their friends.

He simply had to adapt, and Krueger was a man that could devise a solution to this dilemma quite easily. It would take time and the right target, but all would fall into place again, just as it had many years ago. Only a matter of time and he would be back in business.

It didn’t take long for a fly to land in the spider’s web. He didn’t interact with her the first few times she slid into his dream world, taking great care not to spook her away. The time he spent watching her was to gather every scrap of information he could. Her fears, her desires, every thought that flit across her mind as she spent her sleeping hours fantasizing about what she truly wanted. And what she wanted surprised even a man like himself.

He pegged her for college age, a tad older than his usual prey. She was cute in an innocent, naive sort of way, perfect for his intentions. And her plump figure was a nice little addition as well, a body he could really sink his claws into. 

But what really held his stunned curiosity were the content of her dreams. This sweet innocent thing consistently fantasized about losing her virginity. And not to any particular man, like a boyfriend or a crush. No, it was perhaps a revolving door of different older men that she dreamt about, whether they were people she knew or they were celebrities, Freddy had no idea. But he knew for certain he wanted to keep pursuing the mind of this woman, and watch her deepest desires fulfilled in her dreams.

All of her dreams followed a similar scenario, whether it took place in her bedroom or elsewhere. Older men with beards, silver hair, tattoos, hairy chests, broad shoulders, some tall, some short, some muscular, some thicker, with large hands that would hold her open as they ravished her body. They would all whisper lewd things to her, telling her how they would take her virginity. Some were gentle while others were firm, depending on what her mind desired at that moment. They would touch every inch of her body, always paying attention to her soft breasts and her soaked lower lips, while she cooed and whimpered as they ate her out. And then they would fuck her in every position imaginable. She must have enjoyed dirty talk, as every scenario involved them praising her up and down, worshipping her, telling her what a good little babygirl she was. 

The sight of such debauchery would leave a wide grin plastered over Freddy’s marred skin, his libido raging ever higher at every performance he viewed. He so desperately wanted to turn the dream to his favor, but he had to lie in wait for the right opportunity. It would come eventually.

When he first made contact with her, he transformed himself into one of the men she dreamt of. He didn’t often stay in another form for too long without transforming back to scare his victim, so it was an uncomfortable experience wearing the skin of one of these handsome, older men. Yet she couldn’t tell the difference, performing for him just as she normally would have. He indulged himself, letting her yank at his silver hair while he lapped up her honeyed juices. So long since he tasted from a willing partner, or as willing as this one could be given the circumstances. It was hard containing himself when he entered her, her legs locked around his waist in a vice grip as she tossed her head back and revelled in the pleasure. He even let her curl up to him after as she fell asleep within the dream. He waited patiently until she had left his realm before jumping back up and shedding the skin of the other man, shuddering to himself as if he had just touched something revolting. 

He carried on with that for a few more times, until he decided it was time to test what she was capable of handling next. She had been growing bored of her usual dream man, so her mind was susceptible to suggestion. So when he donned the appearance of the man he used to be, long before the fire, she was confused at first and yet accepted him. He was certainly her type, though his thinning red hair was something different than her usual fantasies. He could tell she warmed up to it by the way she ran her fingers through it when he kissed her. Her body fit so lovely against his as he knelt above her, groaning as he sunk within her tight heat. Her fingers ran up and down his smooth skin, a body that was his and yet not. His bare hands could grip her as his hips bucked into hers, everything so accessible to him. Not even his wife had been this exquisite, even at her very best. Eyes rolled to the back of his head as he groaned deeply, praising her on how well she took him. That adorable smile, the smile she made when she had been so thoroughly and enjoyably fucked beyond her wildest dreams by Freddy fucking Krueger, almost drove him to start another round. But this was enough for tonight. There would be many more opportunities. 

The longer the charade went on, the antsier Krueger got. This wasn’t his typical behavior. He would have sooner called himself a coward for hiding behind a revolving mask of men just to lure one single woman, but he couldn’t help it. The feeling of fucking her was like a drug, and he was damn sure things would change as soon as he revealed himself. But the real question was why he even cared? Perhaps it was that she would make things harder. Or even worse, he might have grown feelings for her. The thought made him want to retch. He had feelings for no one. 

He resolved that when she fell asleep next, he would finally take her. 

------------------

For the woman, it started like every other fantasy she'd been living recently. Her dreams over the last few months had become so much more lucid. She woke up hornier than usual, and on a few occasions discovered she had orgasmed in her sleep. It was embarrassing, and yet they were some of the best she had ever had. She thought it was nice to wake up the next morning feeling fully refreshed after her dreamworld trysts. 

But this time was different. It was almost as if there was a heaviness in the air, but she couldn’t fully place it. The ginger haired man she had dreamt about recently was here though, waiting for her. She had conjured him out of nowhere a week ago, but wasn’t sure how. Never had she encountered a man like him before, so how could she have thought him up from thin air? He was simply an odd entity from the recesses of her brain and had no reason to believe otherwise.

He waited for her in the entrance of what was most likely a bedroom. A grin flashed as he glanced her over, admiring the nightgown that hugged her form. With a simple coaxing of his finger, he commanded, “Come here, babygirl.”

A shiver shot through her spine, and she did as he asked, stepping closer to him until he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her flush to his body. Her fingers clutched to his weird red and green striped sweater, focusing more on the ravishing kiss than on his unique fashion choices. His free hand wrapped around the hair on the back of her head, pulling just enough to be firm but not too painful. Whoever this dream man was, she wished he were real. He knew everything she wanted and more.

When he pulled away, the smile he gave her made her uneasy. Even with his pleasant expression, his eyes showed no emotion. It was like the smile didn’t reach them, instead putting on a facade. But before she could think about it any further, he spoke honeyed words to her, “I have a surprise for you darling, you’ll be sure to love it.”

There was no time to question him, as he immediately swept her into the room, the door slamming behind them. She jumped, and yet he didn’t even flinch. She was starting to grow skittish, nervous. Things weren’t as they seemed at yet she was sure nothing bad would happen. It was her dream, after all. 

All of a sudden he was on top of her, pinning her to the bed, pawing and grabbing at every inch of skin as he peeled the gown from her body. Her nerves settled once more, allowing herself to relax in his arms, knowing that she was safe. It was her fantasy, her dream. He would never betray her, she was ultimately the one in control of him. The only reason he knew her desires so well was because he was from her head. That’s all.

And then another set of hands wrapped around her wrists and pulled them from her body. Her eyes shot open, staring in shock at the sight before her. It was two disembodied hands that ripped forth from the mattress and had grabbed her. How was she supposed to respond to that?

But then she looked up as she heard a dark chuckle above her, her eyes widening as the ginger haired man had turned into someone else. His skin was burnt, his wide smile pulled across his face in malicious glee. The sweater was now ratty and worn, and an equally dingy brown fedora rested upon his head, the shadows covering his eyes but not the hungry glint that he cast down at her.

Her gaze travelled to the glove that had appeared on his right hand, like a shop project from Hell. Over a normal brown mechanic’s glove he had formed metal plates on the back of his hand, extending to the fingers and from there fastening long blades to each finger, creating a fearsome clawed hand. She gulped as his fingers twitched, an amused sound coming from him as he watched her flinch.

It then dawned on her that she was pinned beneath this man, exposed completely to him except for the gown that was still bunched up around her waist. But the blades on his hand could easily rid her of that. And from the look in his eyes, he planned to.

“What’s wrong, babygirl,” he sneered, the pet name sounding tainted on his lips. “I thought you liked it when a man took charge?”

Her breath was caught in her throat, unable to form a response. She simply laid beneath him, not sure whether this was really a dream or not. It felt too vivid, too real. She would never be able to come up with something like this man on her own. Even then, the thought dawned on her that he looked familiar. Behind his wretched face, he still shared those ice blue eyes and his hooked nose with the ginger haired man. 

“I don’t understand,” she whimpered. She couldn’t fathom what all of this meant, if it was supposed to mean anything at all.

He simply chuckled, bringing his blades slowly down to her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut, expecting pain to come. But the only sensation she felt was a single cool blade against her skin, gently trailing down her body without leaving a mark. When she dared opened her eyes, she saw he was trailing the blades down her skin from the blunt side. Her breath hitched when he brought a single blade up her chest, coming to a stop beside her nipple, already becoming taught from the cold. She turned her head to the side in shame, trying her best to hide herself from him. But that didn’t stop him, if anything the action spurned him further. He groaned obscenely, his thighs tightening around her hips, and she could feel how hard he was through his pants. 

She wanted so much to scream, to struggle, to fight him off. But she didn’t want him to grow angry with her and hurt her more than she expected he would tonight. She hoped her submission would please him, and judging by his arousal, it certainly was. 

He sucked in a sharp breath, a second finger blade flicking out to join the other. She flinched again, and watched in a mixture of fear and arousal as he tenderly pinched her nipple between the two blades. He watched her expressions through hooded eyes, grinning as she struggled to cope with the new sensations. 

“You’ve been very good to me, sweetheart.” His free hand groped at her other breast, pinching the nipple more firmly than her other one, causing her to whimper. The feeling of his burnt hand along her soft skin was new, the texture adding new sensations that she had no idea how to feel about. “Always such a good little girl. I know you’ll do everything I ask you.”

The more he spoke, the more her body began to conflict with her mind. Here was this nightmarish man on top of her, biding his time before he assaulted her. And yet, she couldn’t help how much her core grew hot at every sweet word that came from his mouth. He was right, she wanted to be a good girl for him, whatever that meant. The thought scared and thrilled her in ways she couldn’t begin to fathom.

“Why me?” she asked, her lip quivering as she tried to speak.

He sneered down at her, never once hesitating in pinching and pulling at her nipples. “What can I say? I have a special place in my heart for the cute, innocent ones.” He groaned again. “And the tits are a great bonus.”

He suddenly pulled back from her, simply staring down at the sight before him. “Daddy’s been waiting months for this moment. And Daddy always gets what he wants. Isn’t that right?”

At first she didn’t register it as a question. But his blades neared her throat, and as he leaned down until he was right in front of her face, he growled, “Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she gasped, the blades pressing just hard enough to pinch the skin of her delicate throat. 

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

He grinned and pulled back from her, letting her breathe again. “Good girl,” he cooed. “But as fun as being your Daddy is, I need you to become familiar with another name. A name you’ll be screaming as I fuck you so hard into the bed you’ll wake up fantasizing about the next time you fall asleep. That you’ll tell your friends and spread my name as far and as wide as you can.” He paused for a moment, as if relishing the thought. “Only you can help me get back to the power I once was. You would do that for me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, Daddy,” she repeated again, and he chuckled. 

“I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me. Now, repeat after me,” he said, pressing his gloved hand to his chest as if reciting the pledge. “Freddy. Krueger.”

“Freddy Krueger.” Saying the name sent a pleasurable chill up her spine.

“Good girl,” he cooed. He adjusted himself so that her thighs were propped up in his lap, grinding himself against her slowly, watching her twitch and whimper. “Yes, my good little girl. But I have a feeling you’re my good little slut too, hmm?”

He gripped her hip with his bare hand and quickly drug his blades down the remainder of her nightgown, tearing it to shreds. She yelped, but he left her unscathed. “Most women are disgusted by the sight of me. About what I want to do to them. They run and scream and yet I always get them in the end. But you want me. You still want this old burned dream demon to fuck you senseless. How much do you want to bet when I pull away these panties you’re going to be soaking and ready like the little whore you are?”

Her face burned in shame and he smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said before yanking away the remaining scraps of fabric from her body, leaving her completely vulnerable to his touch. He laughed darkly as he looked down, admiring her before immediately rubbing her sensitive clit against the front of his pants, watching her juices soak into them while she whined so cutely. 

“This is why I love young women. Takes almost nothing to get them all wet and ready.” He tapped the back of his blade against her clit, revelling in the obscene noises that left her mouth. “All ready for Freddy.”

She wasn’t prepared for how quickly he entered inside of her, a low groan escaping her mouth as her body arched from the bed. She struggled against the hands at her wrists, the sensation of being completely bent to his will was an intoxicating thrill that she couldn’t describe. He grunted above her while he adjusted himself into place, letting out a low groan when he finally bottomed out, staring down at her form as she writhed beneath him.

“This. This is what I wanted. Such a good little whore for me.” With every shallow thrust she cried out again, those noises he so craved. “So long have I been waiting to fuck your little cunt in my true body.”

He placed his glove beside her head, her eyes were drawn to it for a brief moment before he began to set a ruthless pace on her. She cried out and he watched in glee as she threw her head back in the moment, absolutely loving everything he was doing to her. 

“And your cunt knows me so well. Even in other forms, it knows exactly who really owns it.” He smiled as she began to look up at him with a confused expression, or as confused an expression one can make while on the brink of ecstasy. “Oh, did you not know?”

He smiled darkly, leaning down to her body as he continued to fuck her. Whispering in her ear, he gleefully explained, “I’ve been fucking you for months now, sweetheart. You thought you were fucking your fantasy men, but I was there, watching, wanting. Then one day I slid right into that sweet cunt and you’ve been coming for me ever since.” His free hand went to circle her clit, leaving her in an orgasmic panic. “This cunt belongs to me. I popped that sweet little cherry of yours and now you’re mine. You wanted to be Daddy’s little girl?” He leaned forward to growl in her ear. “Here he is.”

The rest was a blur. She barely registered the true horror of the situation as she was coming undone right under his fingers. Her whole body clenched and seized, her pleasure awash over her. At first there was a moment of silence, and then a loud keening wail from her throat as her desire peaked. Freddy was the only word she knew in that moment, and she screamed it like a mantra as he continued to fuck her through her orgasm. He only managed a few more thrusts in her tightening walls before he spilled inside her, his hot seed filling her up and mingling with her own juices. She couldn't remember her wrists being let free but she was suddenly aware that she clutched to the back of his sweater, riding out the waves that kept hitting her. Eventually the two were finally reduced to a silent, trembling pair, panting and gasping for air.

And just like that he was gone, and she was awake in her own bed. She sat straight up in bed, her body drenched in a cold sweat as she looked around the room as if he would pop out at any moment.

“Only you can help me get back to the power I once was. You would do that for me, wouldn’t you?”

His voice still echoed clearly in her ears. “Freddy Krueger.” The name was strange yet felt right. She was his, and while she wasn’t sure if she liked it or not, she was content with the idea. 

For a brief moment her breath caught as a thought crossed her mind. Slowly, she peeled the sheets from her body and parted her thighs to look at herself. More than her own juices spilled out from her, and the reality of it spurned a new desire in her. A desire to give into him, to help him, and he would reward her and praise her in return.

She would be his good girl.

[theholycovenantrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, MIMZ! YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED FOR THE ROLE OF RAPHAEL.

Admin Rosey: I never really thought that Raphael’s application would be so f u n to read. Macabre? Absolutely. Impassioned? Of course. But hilarious to the point where I was giggling? Definitely unexpected but that is what made this so enjoyable and it is ultimately why this application received a r e s o u n d i n g yes from each of us. There was a perspective that I always envisioned for Raphael but was never able to articulate it myself until you laid it out, word by word, with this application, Mimz. Raphael is such a multi-faceted and character that holds so much potential, and the way that you wove it into every aspect of the application made this so fun to read. Thank you so much for taking the time to produce such a wonderful application! Your faceclaim change to Kendrick Sampson has been approved. Please create and send in your account, review the information on our CHECKLIST, and follow everyone on the FOLLOW LIST. Welcome to the Holy Land!

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias 

mimz

Age

21

Personal Pronouns

she/her

Activity Level

i’ll typically check the dash every day, and i try not to keep replies stewing for longer than a couple of days! that said i can be a little slow, especially around exam seasons.

Timezone

pst

Triggers

REMOVED

How did you find the group?

miss minnie bleubeard’s blog

IN CHARACTER

Character

raphael, with a fc change to kendrick sampson

What drew you to this character? 

short answer: divine amorality sexy HAHAHAHA

long answer: there was something i read a little while ago about some of the best surgeons being able to dehumanize their patients to a rather frightening degree. there’s a level of abstraction that you need in order to not let your empathy get in the way of the practice of medicine; ultimately, a body is a body is a body, right? and then there’s the moral quandary of healing - it is a doctor’s duty to heal, but what does that actually mean? to what extent is a doctor’s duty to relieve suffering? to obstinately prolong life? if the body heals but the mind still ails, is a person healed? what i’m getting at, here, is that in some ways the healer is the most dangerous character of all. 

when i read raphael’s bio, there was a quote in that article from a surgeon named david cheever that came to mind: “as a result of anaesthetics, the surgeon ‘need not hurry; he need not sympathise; he need not worry; he can calmly dissect, as on a dead body.’” to me, raphael is an explosion and expansion of this concept. raphael is, quite literally, a medical ethicist’s worst nightmare, and to me, that’s absolutely fascinating. without sympathy, what separates a healer from an educated control freak with a god complex? with raphael, we can extend this concept to its furthest extreme. raphael isn’t even human - how could he even begin to sympathize with an experience so foreign to him? why would he worry about something trivial as human suffering when it essentially exists as a theoretical concept to him? divine beings have no reason to play by human rules, and as a creature raised by god’s side raphael was so far removed from the concept of human suffering that it’s sort of a no-brainer that he developed a sick fascination with it, like a child who managed to con their parent into buying a grand theft auto game and is obsessed with running over pedestrians because the stakes never quite feel real. it’s a perspective i’d absolutely love to explore in a group rp setting because the nature of rp means that it’s kind of...completely unsustainable? like as writers we’re shoving these characters together, which means that raphael will have to be exposed to mortals. there’s room for a lot of character development there, and it seems like something extremely interesting to explore.

BUT HERE’S THE THING⁠—and this is where the character gets really fun, in my opinion. i’ve talked a fair bit about god complexes already, but when applied to raphael an interesting question is raised: how much is a complex, and how much of it is actually being divine? what really made me want to get my grubby little hands on the reins of raphael’s story was seeing the disconnect between the way his connections are written from raphael’s perspective versus the other character’s perspective. it’s a fun little hubristic shade that makes him an unreliable narrator and infinitely more interesting than a simple morality thought experiment. i think it’s easy to see raphael as this super cool, all-powerful master manipulator (i think that’s a pretty accurate take on his self-image, in fact), but he’s not the only player in this game. for every pawn he’s trying to move, there is someone else trying to use him in a similar way, and i don’t know that he truly understands the ramifications of that. see, i think it’s easy to reduce raphael to the points i discuss in the previous paragraphs because that’s what he wants you to think of him. but this is a world of gods and superpowers and magical political intrigue and game of thrones doesn’t exist so nobody can tell him that he’s on the path to becoming a cersei lannister (admittedly i haven’t watched got so this reference might not be right but i feel like it’s right so uh. yeah!). maybe i just like to see arrogant men getting knocked down a peg? this might be a projection of that. i dunno. i just know that there are quite a few mind games and mental gymnastics to untangle with raphael and that’s fun. he’s fun.

also. i would like to once again reiterate: divine amorality sexy. it’s not good, to be clear, and i don’t condone it, but i’m just saying.

What future plots do you have in mind for the character?

WHEN  THE  CITY  CRUMBLES  AROUND  YOU  AND  YOU  HOLD  ITS VESTIGES  IN  YOUR  HANDS,  WHOM  DO  YOU  BLAME?

i think Raphael’s big character arc revolves around a simple question: how far are you willing to go to achieve what you want? 

ostensibly, it’s an easy answer: very far. but when your desire is antithetical to your very purpose, when chasing it puts you at odds with the thing you’ve worked to build, do the goalposts move?

(the correct answer is that raphael did not build caelum. he simply destroyed god.)

let’s say, hypothetically, that raphael gets what he wants. the world is thrown into war and chaos and destruction, yadda yadda, raphael gets his blood and his suffering, great. he’s lived through this before (a couple times, actually), so you think he’d realize by now—eventually, the dust will settle. people will tire of suffering. and where will that leave raphael? how many times will you remake the world to watch it burn? can you ever be fulfilled chasing a temporary high? 

(the correct answer is no, but raphael is an immortal being. more importantly, he is a patient one. he will wait a million days for rome to be built, if only to witness the single day in which it will burn.)

i think raphael needs to reckon with these questions. i think he’s lived far too long with his mentality unquestioned and that has made him both insufferable and a major threat to society. this is a long and pretentious way to say that raphael honestly kind of needs a hobby whatever the thc-verse equivalent of therapy is, but i think any sort of positive character development is contingent upon a recontextualization of suffering and chaos and raphael’s masks.

of course, this isn’t to say that introspection will only lead to positive character development. perhaps a raphael who looks deeper into his psyche will come to understand that his desires outweigh his role; perhaps such thoughts will push raphael over the edge of propriety and into something more outwardly despicable. no matter what, though, i think that the direction of raphael’s character development will be largely shaped on how he decides to prioritize his⁠ roles and goals. 

FOR  WHOM  DO  THESE  HANDS  HEAL?

let’s discuss the archangels, shall we? despite it all, raphael genuinely loves his brothers. i would argue, even, that raphael believes that his scheming is in service to the other archangels; he’s not blind to the way complacency has softened the angels. at this point, the only true threat to the angels is themselves—if michael wants to to unlock a state of sanctifying grace, it will happen at the hand of one of his kin. 

i spoke earlier about raphael’s goals ultimately being futile. this is largely because they are diametrically opposed to michael and gabriel’s goals, and while raphael knows this intellectually, i don’t think he’s quite thought about what the long-term implications of that conflict entails. he’s so caught up in the conflict between michael and gabriel that he’s neglected to consider how he factors into the dynamic. could he be the common ground that brings michael and gabriel together? could he be the final straw that breaks them apart? he is excited for the fighting, the fallout; but has he stopped to consider what the long-reaching effects of such a rift may be?

raphael is breaking his family apart because he loves them. will that be enough, when he is sent to pick up the pieces? whose side will he fall on, if he is to pick a side at all? 

DID  PYGMALION  FALL  IN  LOVE  WITH  THE  BEAUTY  OF  HIS  CREATION,  OR  THE  BEAUTY  HE  CREATED?

i said this in the previous section but i’d like to reiterate it: i think a big reason raphael is Like That is because the stakes have never quite felt real to him. raphael’s a pot stirrer, but he’s not a creature of action. to this, i say give him real stakes. to be honest, i don’t know exactly what that entails, because i could see a number of ways in which tangible pressure manifests itself for raphael. perhaps his meddling with michael and gabriel steps too far, and his brothers  perhaps the angels become suspicious of his maneuvering, in which the spider is drawn into his own web of intrigue. maybe we apply positive pressure, where the ails of the world require a healer and raphael is tapped to higher purpose⁠—and higher power. maybe raphael will find himself tempted by the very demons he holds in contempt. 

the point is that raphael has largely been a character who acts through others. even now, we see this through his grooming of romilda, with his subtle manipulation of michael and gabriel. i want him to become a more active character, either by his own volition or by his hand being forced. 

similarly, i’m extremely interested in seeing how raphael navigates the political elements of this verse. i expect it stings a bit to be the only archangel not given a position of leadership; perhaps he holds lingering resentment toward zadkiel for being given a role raphael had expected to receive. does he subtly undermine zadkiel’s leadership? i want to watch him play up tensions with the vices, to hide a vicious war-hawk perspective under the guise of a concerned healer. i want him to smile in abaddon and samael’s faces and plot their suffering in his mind. i want to see the snake slither in the grass, to return to his original form as a spider spinning a web of intrigue across his court. yes, i want a more active raphael, but i think the political drama is ripe for development, as well.

WHEN  I  SPIT  UP  MY  SINS  AND  BEG  FOR  REPENTANCE,  WHAT  WILL COME  UP?

this one’s a long shot, but i could maybe...see...raphael……..falling. i can guarantee you that the idea has never even crossed raphael’s mind, and that he would literally rather be smited than be cast out of caelum, but i can see it. i think he might be happier, actually; if he fell, he could really lean into the chaos and suffering thing without any compunction.

of course, this is something infinitely easier said than done. were raphael to be cast out of caelum, he would have nowhere to go. infernum would never take him⁠—he’s made far too many enemies among their ranks. he could wander the holy land, but he’s far too proud to bind himself to its existing social systems. (he wouldn’t be able to look gabriel in the eye.)

raphael would have absolutely nothing. 

but he would also be free.

that’s right, i think that a horsemen-style liberation arc would be an absolute banger for raphael. again, i don’t think it’s feasible unless a very specific set of circumstances happen, but just imagine a raphael with nothing to lose, free to go absolutely apeshit. his only prerogative is to make sure you have a bad day. he is free to sow whatever chaos, whatever suffering he so wishes across the land. WHEW.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character?

yes, but i don’t see him going down easily.

IN DEPTH

Driving Character Motivation

entomological curiosity, in short. consider: why did god leave the apple in the garden of eden? why do humans keep animals in glass cases? why do children burn ants with magnifying glasses?

raphael wants to observe the world. a good healer must understand his patients at a fundamental level, and such truths are only revealed when the subject is broken down to its basest parts. you see, raphael was weaned on temperance and virtue; there is a lush decadence to emotional extremes that he finds most fascinating. they are debased. they are crass. they are wantonly sentimental, in a garishly beautiful way.

but this is not all. he wants to stave off boredom, and these are the tools he has to play with. for all of his machinations, raphael is a simple being. raphael has no grand ambitions, no lofty ideals, and that is what makes him so dangerous. he wants to be amused. he wants to be stimulated. he wants to observe a world in which things happen.

ostensibly, this is not as selfish a motivation as it may seem. as a healer, raphael knows something that many do not: serenity cannot exist in perpetuity. it is impossible for the world to remain unchanged⁠—even if the change is not evident, it is happening. an eternal peace is all but a stagnation of the kingdom; the only thing stagnation breeds is degradation. the angels are weakening because they are not being challenged. michael and the virtues may be doing extensive research to find an alternate explanation, but raphael knows this to be the truth. 

of course, the irony underlying the selfless explanation of raphael’s motivations reveals the truth of the matter: it is a farce. perhaps it is a lie that raphael has even convinced himself he believes, but it is farcical nonetheless. raphael claims he wants to invoke change because stagnation is dangerous, but riddle me this⁠—if this is true, why has raphael never changed? centuries upon centuries have passed, and the world has changed around him, but raphael himself has remained largely unchanged. he is the orchestrator of change, not its agent nor its subject, and that is just the way he would like things to stay.

Character Traits

CHARISMATIC - there’s a reason very few have cottoned on to raphael’s true nature, and it’s not (just) his pretty face and magical girl-esque aura. there’s something effortlessly captivating about raphael, a pace to his cadence that has you hanging on to his every word, a lightness to his smile that makes you want to coax it out whenever and however you can. everything about raphael puts people at ease, except for his eyes, which tend to put people on edge if he’s not careful. he’s not gregarious or the outgoing sort of charismatic by any means, but he does manage to exude an overwhelming charisma.

PATIENT - it’s important to remember that before raphael turned on god, he waited for him. raphael performed healings for centuries and never raised a hand against his father in that time. think of all the angels that fell, that rebelled; raphael was not among them. no, raphael played the dutiful son, allowing his resentment to fester and boil deep underneath his skin, but never to surface. for centuries he served loyally, biding his time. remember: lucifer fell. raphael did not. which one killed god? as i mentioned in the plot section, raphael will wait a million days for rome to be built to witness the single day it burns. prolonged suffering is perhaps the most beautiful of all. fortitude goes hand-and-hand with patience.

INTELLIGENT - in a few ways. raphael is well-studied, with extensive knowledge of biology and chemistry and history and politics. raphael is emotionally intelligent; he hides his true nature behind a veneer constructed to meet expectations. he may not be as talented as gabriel in this regard, but it is a skillful construction nonetheless.

MANIPULATIVE - i mean. yeah.

ARROGANT - he thinks he’s smarter than god???????????????? tbf god was a bit of a headass in this universe but we’ve all read enough tragedies to know where this kind of hubris ends up going.

CRUEL - there’s a bit to unpack here. i’d argue that there are two types of cruelty: malicious cruelty and callous cruelty. raphael is certainly capable of both, but i think he embodies the latter. with certain notable exceptions, raphael’s cruelty is rarely personal; it is a thoughtless sort of cruelty, the type inflicted upon beings considered expendable. raphael is selfish and petty and powerful, and these traits coalesce into a casual cruelty. 

In-Character Para Sample cw: light gore

Look at how they look at him. God’s good little lambs, lined up all in a row, passive and pliant and patiently awaiting benediction. Patiently waiting for Raphael. 

Raphael hates them.

No. This is false. It is difficult for Raphael to muster up stronger feelings toward mortals than a vague sort of amusement, the sort of affinity one might have for a particularly stupid kit when it does something surprisingly clever. In this regard, he understands that he differs from his kin. Gabriel, in particular, has developed a particular fondness for the mortals. Why anyone would wish to strip mortals of their most fascinating behavior⁠—to the point of openly defying their Father⁠—is beyond Raphael. He has given up on trying to reason with his brother on the matter. 

The first supplicant is beckoned forward. They pray to the Lord and Raphael touches their forehead with one palm, cups their chin with the other. His fingers splay carelessly around a throat all but bared to him and the ceremony is so mechanical Raphael allows his thoughts to wander⁠. 

How easy it would be to tighten his grip. How beautiful it would be, to watch the lamb’s naive adoration flash into fear, to watch fear darken into betrayal and resentment and the most beautiful emotion of all: despair. He can feel the pulse at his fingertips. It would quicken in a stress response, he knows. It would quicken, then it would pound, and then maybe it would stop.  It all falls to Raphael’s whim. In this moment, Raphael holds their life in his hands. They have all but laid on his sword for the promise of absolution and when they look up at Raphael with their dumb, trusting eyes he can see the sparkling tracks where tears once fell, down the hollow of a cheek into the pool of a collarbone. He finds himself overcome with the desire to trace the fall with his tongue. “Give me your pain,” he murmurs. Let me taste it. Let me understand. 

He takes it. He does not taste it. He does not understand.

He releases the mortal. Those beautiful tear tracks are already fading. “The Lord be with you,” he says, and perhaps he even means it. His Father’s gaze burns into his back, even from a world away. He’d laugh at the irony, were he free to. Is this the weight you so desire? he wants to ask the devotee. No, Raphael knows the truth: God’s love is a shackle. God’s love is a leash and it is holding Raphael back from his fullest potential.

“And also with you,” the lamb responds. Their head is bowed obediently in prayer and they shuffle away, appropriately awed. The next supplicant is beckoned forward.

The light of Raphael’s presence obfuscates the darkness in his eyes.

— 

Later, much later, Raphael finds himself studying his hands. He flexes them, balls them into fists, stretches his fingers as far as they will spread. 

How easy it would be to tighten his grip.

The hand is at once an individual unit and a summation of individual parts. The hand contains twenty-seven bones and thirty-four muscles connected by over a hundred ligaments and tendons. Wrists connect to metacarpals, which connect to carpals, which taper off into delicate phalanges. Individually, each of these parts are largely useless; were Raphael to take a scalpel and drag it through a tendon, across the joints, the strings would be cut and the puppetry would cease to dance. You would be left with a small pile of carpals and metacarpals and phalanges, loose strings of muscle and tendon. At times, it is difficult to fathom how such mundane component parts are the instruments of extraordinary acts.

Raphael flexes his hand, watches bone shift under skin. If he remembers correctly, mortals have an idiom about knowing your hands, or something along those lines. He will not pretend to be familiar with mortal culture. Did you know that, wings aside, mortals and angels all have the same bone structure? 

Of course you did. It is common knowledge that God made all beings in His image, or so the story goes. 

This is an easy answer, but one with interesting implications. Let us extrapolate. If mortals and angels are essentially biological mirrors, and each are made in the image of God, does that mean that God will bleed like His creations? Slide a scalpel across God’s knuckles—will His puppets cease to dance?

Raphael could find out. It would take only a single blade, sliced through a single tendon. 

Now, Raphael is not so arrogant to believe himself the blade. He would not even consider himself the hand. Such a role requires a particular kind of conviction—

( —and that sort of conviction is made manifest in bitter disillusionment⁠—the sort inflicted upon Michael. How easy it would be to find himself in his brother’s ear, whispering of their Father’s capriciousness and the unnecessary cruelty that resulted for the poor, poor humans— )

( —and that sort of conviction is made manifest in righteous anger⁠—the sort inflicted upon Gabriel. How easy it would be to find himself in his brother’s ear, whispering of their Father’s neglect and the unnecessary cruelty that resulted for the poor, poor humans— )

( —and that sort of conviction is made manifest in a whetted hunger⁠—the sort God gifted to each of His angels. Hunger breeds hunters and heaven is full— )

—that Raphael simply cannot embody. Rage has never been his forte. 

Consider, however, that the hand is controlled by nerve impulses. A spark is all the hand needs to transform from a collection of bone to an agent of action. Yes. He clenches his fists. Here are the bones, the veins, the tendons, the muscle. Angels and mortals all share the same bone structure.

Does God?

Extras

pinterest.

raphael has classically beautiful wings. i’m talking TEXTBOOK cherubic angel wings, with the sweeping white feathers and all. raphael kind of hates them, though he takes a great deal of pride in them.

raphael doesn’t have a signature weapon. he’s proficient with blades, yes, and fights with a surgeon’s precision, not the strongest nor the fastest but eerily efficient in his blows. but he is a healer—at the end of the day, his empty hands are all he needs. (his empty hands are what you should fear.)

raphael hates the heretics pro forma but. but. he cannot deny a certain...fondness for them. the heretics exhibited such dedication to a futile cause; they believed their suffering to be something noble. it’s a laughable notion, certainly, but a sentiment so distinctly human it’s almost charming. should they wish to return, to throw themselves on the knife over and over and over, well. raphael shall not complain. he shall smile beatifically, perhaps abate their suffering, even⁠—and watch them do it again. 

in a modern au, raphael is a reality tv producer. ok actually he’s probably a surgeon but i think he’d make a very good reality tv producer. alternately, there is a universe out there where raph fixated on like...baking, or k-pop, instead of suffering. those are good timelines, i think. maybe not the k-pop stan timeline.

raphael is the living embodiment of that dwight schrute “we need a new plague” meme.

[mamusings]

Having let the 15 x 18 percolate I started to watch again s23 and ep 1-6 of 15. Basically everything available. I'd gotten tired of feeling toyed with and feeling gaslit when trying to get confirmation from reviews for what I felt I was seeing. Ita very rarely in the dialogue but just in the eye lines and symbolically sometimes in the parallel plots.

Anyway: season 14 is a joy really. The beothere have grown up. I had been dishing the endless desperate loop of I d die for you wearing thin. Sam is basically cooked. A leader in the best sense (using his intelligence and his empathy). Dean accepts it even tho it's a bit new to him not being the boss. (The dialogue on chief)

We get that recognition more explicitly here that I found in my reviews of the early seasons that these are 2 very different men but now they have a degree of comfort and space in that that eluded them. They allow each other to be.

Which brings me to my predictions. Sam may be cooked but Dean isnt. Hes still not worked out who he is and how to have what he wants (cas basically).

So is Dean in love with Cas. Absolutely, i think this has been shown in subtext much more clearly than is Cas in love with Dean (I mean romantically/sexually). With Cas we see loyalty, devotion and affection. For an angel what does love mean? I was never quite sure. Does he want an actual relationship with Dean?

Dean's easier hes clearly incredibly attracted excited fascinated by cas in the initial phase. Then you get the affection, the liking, protectiveness. High point purgatory. Also devotedness.

In later seasons we get heartbroken widower and the co-parents/husbands. Plus their fights start to look more like a bickering couple that anything else.

So I am absolutely convinced that Dean is in love with cas.

But how aware is Dean of how he feels? I think hes so scared if being rejected by cas he can barely admit this to himself. Its telling Michael doesnt know how Dean feels about Cas. Theres lots of gay couples in the background by s23 early e15. I'd say it's an indicator Dean knows hed like to be with cas. Theres been no on screen hook ups for Dean (although there are references). But what we get now is acknowledging that a large part of Dean's flirting is social behaviour rather than sexual intent. It's nice, its charming but he doesnt mean it. (Pamela). So at some level Dean knows he wants to be together with Cas. He knows what he has with Cas. (Telling John he has a family - ok that goes wider than Cas but in my view early spn is Dean trying to grown beyond his father having the white picket fence and the girl always felt like something Dean felt he should want rather than something he really did want. The relationship with lisa is framed with lots of doing the chores and proper manly chores at that)

But I do think Dean knows how he feels. We are back to him having dialogue with Sam (Jess even comes up) with that typical early destiel trope of shots of Dean where I think the implication is that Dean is thinking about the same subject matter in relation to cas.

Sam knows but I think the malak box incident re Dean shows us that Sam knows when not to push Dean. He offers opportunities to open up but he doesnt push his brother. Like I said they get each other better now. It's not like when john dies and sam is pushing and pushing for a conversation. Now as cas and Dean's relationship falls apart we get a lot of pained reaction shots from sam. Just like we sometimes get the oh just kiss already smirk in earlier seasons. Sam doesn't understand why this relationship doesnt progress but he respects both cas and dean and doesnt meddle. I think when dean comes our Sam will be pivotal support.

What's interesting is that e15 as far as I have seen it seems to mirror early spn. Dean is mirroring his father. Obsessed with revenge at all costs. Neglecting love and relationships. The brothers are regressing into their old.relationship patterns under stress of mary dying with Dean taking up his rage filled leadership.role again. But the wierd thing is the endless we dont have a choice. Its tfw they have choice, they are all about choice. In fact Cas is choice embodied. He shouldn't have choice but he does. And over the seasons since the soul consumption he has grown remarkably in handling choices. To the extent that at the end of s14 he no longer refers to Dean's choice making on Jack. That's happened before with Kelly but then it was more ambiguous cos it got Cas dead. Then it was faith, he believes I Jack. With the malak box and Jack its ethics. Cas has grown up. Right through s14 its striking how wise he is, how he draws on experience and knowledge to counsel those around him.

I think there is a sharing of power, of burden, to come. The narrative of we shoulder all this so everyone.else can live the cute life we cant will be transformed. Basically buffy final season.

Cas professing his love for Dean. And by preparing what he wants is something he cant have I think is a totally non ambiguous profession of romantic and sexual love. He has friendship with Dean, he has family. What cas thinks he cant have is more that that. So without the fear of rejection Dean's wall can come down. I'm not sure how aware he is of what he feels because Dean can ne a dumbass, but he definitely feels it. Sam knows and will help once Dean opens up. That will take a while because Dean doesnt open up easily.

And finally a comment on the crying which oddly isnt in many of the fan vids. I think jensen is a great actor when it comes to emotional crying scenes. But we should appreciate that so far we have had weeping - tear tracks slowly with big exposition or dealing with grief wiping at his eyes. Or the meltdown, high octane crying very distressed generally life or death shit with Sam and a lot of emotion. We have never seen Dean crying into his hands like that. Curled up, despairing. I think that's another indicator that Dean absolutely knows how he feels about cas.

One final thing. Cas will be back, we wont have Dean at the end of spn with6the person he loves. Either in this world.or another its gonna happen.

Another thing I suspect is that we see with jack that while cas is the great reliable advice parent he cant bond as quickly emotionally as Dean. Its Dean who, when hes minded has the talent of emotional connection in a way cas and sam dont. The fishing expedition shows us that. Dean has the most trou ped connection to Jack, hes hated him wanted him dead. But hes also the one who gets the sunlit upland of fishing. Same as cas is the one who loves unconditionally when Mary is killed. He hugs jack. So when dean is ready to love cas publicly i think it wont be a huge thing of awkward shuffling feet. It'll be Dean doing what hes good at, loving people, but doing it with cas.

Ok I've only watched til episode 6. Gonna avoid spoilers from noe on and cross my fingers. Cant wait to watch it all.

#spn #supernatural #destiel #deancas

[sweetcinnamcn]

Family Dinner || Self-Para

Summary - Ian and his three older siblings come home for a family dinner after which his mother gives him a talking to plus a little something something for the upcoming Bachelor Auction.

WC: 2,630

Without Tommy there to back him up, Ian slips into old habits too easily. It’s hard for him to not let his brothers’ joshing get to him, and each quip at his expense makes Ian’s smile that much more strained. Everything from “Hey Schoolboy!” to bets on how much cum he’s been guzzling seems to be on the table tonight, and since they’re drinking they’re a bit more abrasive about it too. Ian really doesn’t like being around his brothers when they’re drinking.

“Huh, buddy?” Ian had retreated inwards and completely zoned out of the conversation. It wasn’t until Harrison clapped him on the back that he even realized all three of his siblings were looking at him. His mouth falls agape as he tries to think of something—anything—to say, but Donovan’s snort beats him to the chase.

“Space cadet strikes again. How’s the view from the clouds Lieutenant Dumbass?” he chortles, both his brothers laughing boisterously now. Ian laughs along with obviously less zeal.

Annette only shakes her head, moderately eye-rolling at her brothers. “Please don’t mess with him like that. Ian’s no fun when he starts to turtle up.” While he’s sure she means well, comments like that only ever get his big brothers laughing at him harder. This is why Ian doesn’t enjoy family dinners without his younger in attendance.

“What’s wrong, Annie? Junior too busy to be his white knight so you’ve got to fill the vacancy?”

“Not that he needs it. He’s a grown man and we’re just kidding around. Ian knows it. Look at him! Life of the party!” Harrison points right to the smile glued to Ian’s face. That gets a smile out of Annette which she attempts to hide by taking a sip from her wine glass. Harrison and Donovan never hide when they’re laughing at him. This is why he needs his little brother. Ian always feels invisible, pushed aside, belittled, and a bunch of other things he’s not good at vocalizing whenever he’s at home. Tommy always knew how to save him.

“Have you guys spoken to him recently? I know he’s super busy, but I can’t ever get him on the phone anymore—”

“Time zones, buddy. We’ve been over this. England is a few hours ahead of us, so you can’t just call him whenever.” So what if Ian has to count on his fingers to get an idea of what time it is for Tommy, it’s not like he forgets he has to! Though … he doesn’t say anything to reject the implication about his understanding of time zones either.

“Nah, he’s been dodging me too! He goes and claims a princess and suddenly “His Highness” is too good for us.”

“His Grace. Tommy is only going to be a duke by marriage and—”

“Yeah ok, we get that you’re jealous of his royal assent, but seriously Annie couldn’t you at least try to not sound bitter whenever he comes up?”

That’s how things have always been between his siblings. They have a brash, witty sense of humor and even Annette’s found a way to navigate those waters effectively. She can take it and dish it out without sacrificing the austerity she places in her classification. Ian was never as good as her. All he could ever do was smile through it all. As they continue to bicker amongst themselves and Ian starts to wish that Mother let him at least have a glass of wine like Annette got, he sees his father come into the room. He can’t help his sigh of relief.

“Boys, mind the volume. Really, I don’t know why she lets you drink on empty stomachs. You both get so belligerent!” It’s only a gentle scolding on his part, no hints of genuine irritation are found on his face. His brothers know this as well and both take a large swallow of their beers in response. Walter McCallister, the perfect claim for a woman like Clarice, the perfect father to both wrangle and console the children she bore as they needed. Ian’s always felt closer to his father, and for more reasons than their shared classification. He was hoping to get a chance to speak with him privately at some point before dinner was over, but hasn’t gotten to yet. “Dinner is about to be served. Why don’t you all wash up and come take a seat? Your mother is hungry and she is not in a patient mood tonight,” Walter informs before Ian can get a chance to say something. All buzzed except Ian, the McCallister children file out of the room. Ian starts to perk up a bit after his father gives him a gentle shoulder pat on his way out.

Dinner was delicious, and in typical McCallister fashion, it ends as they always do. As soon as Clarice puts her utensil down, Ian, Annette, and Walter all get up from their spots to clear the table. The Dominants will continue to sit and chat for a while. They’ll drink and have fun waiting for the others to bring dessert and coffee if desired. Those three only get dessert as an occasional reward, so none for them tonight much to Ian’s disappointment. There’s a delicious-looking lemon cake in the kitchen just calling his name. He’s even so bold as to try and finger swipe some icing off of it, but Annette slaps his hand away before he gets a chance. Ian is mid pout when a single command makes him go rigid.

“Ian, darling,” Clarice calls out from the dining room. “I’ll be taking my dessert in my study. Be a dear and bring it up to me.” The tension in the kitchen is palpable. Annette and Walter keep cleaning, but even Ian knows they’ve each got a nervously watchful eye on him. Being alone with Mother in her study only means one thing: prepared to get chewed out. 

“Yes Ma’am,” he responds, dejectedly cutting a suitable piece of cake for Mother and bringing it up. He has to suffer the typical “Ooo you’re in trouble”’s from his lounging brothers as he walks by. It’s not like they’re kids anymore so he doesn’t understand why they get such a kick out of it, but much like when they were, Ian shrugs away from their scrutiny so hard that it looks like he’s trying to make his head disappear. ‘Turtling’ as Annette so aptly put it, warranting even more joshing at his expense while he hurries to Mother’s study.

A deep sigh at the door and then a knock, Ian’s typical ritual. He can’t remember a time in his life when he left this room feeling good. He enters once prompted and sets the cake down in front of her, then steps back from her desk and stands there, waiting patiently. This is a common routine and Ian’s had plenty of practice, though he does think that her having him watch her eat it is a bit much. It feels like a punishment. Then again, so have their last few chats.

“Mm! That was absolutely divine. I swear, your father’s skills in the kitchen have never once diminished over the years. I do wish you could’ve enjoyed some…” Her voice and expression are cheery, but her eyes seem very cold. Even the way Clarice cleans the fork intimidates Ian. She’s quite skilled at making him feel naked in a not-fun way. “…then again, you haven’t been a very good boy, have you?” 

“No Ma’am, I have not,” he says without hesitation. Confessing it out loud hurts so much. In a single sentence, weeks of “good boys” have been erased. Until he gets claimed, there’s only one Dominant who gets to dictate how well Ian’s behaving, and Clarice McCallister’s margins for grading are very clear.

“Huh,” is her only response, those cold eyes of hers repeating every scathing critique she’s voiced recently. There’s no need to rehash them, Ian knows full and well how he’s failed and why he’s failed. “Ian, I’ve been very patient with you. Men in our family attending Lowell has been a great honor for generations. You are the very first to turn that honor into an embarrassment. You should feel embarrassed by your inability to get claimed. It’s no one’s fault but your own.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Ma’am.”

“If I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I’d be able to reimburse myself for nine years of tuition.”

“I know. I’m—” A single quirk of Clarice’s eyebrow is all it takes for the words to die on Ian’s tongue. He looks down at his feet, unable to handle her disapproving gaze. He feels choked up like a hot coal is burning through his throat. The ground below starts to look blurry as well. Ian is doing his best not to cry. He knows Mother hates seeing that. “I’m trying really hard. I help out and I talk to a lot of Dominants. I have a lot of friends! But I … I don’t know why no Dominant wants me. I do everything you suggest and it—”

“Maybe you should spend less time screwing around with taken locals and put your energies towards getting serious about getting claimed.” He visibly winces at that interruption, because in his heart he knows there’s a lot of truth to it. “At this point, I’m not sure which is more humiliating. The fact that you’ve been there for nearly a decade, or the fact that your highest accolade is getting labeled as the school slut.” That one hurts even more, but he has a tool to use. Luckily, in his increasingly stressed frame of mind, he remembers to take it out of the toolbox his therapist has been helping him build.

“Dr. Addams says—”

“I’m the one paying for your little headcase pow wows with Dr. Addams. The last thing I want thrown in my face right now is whatever Freudian bullshit he told you to spout at me.”

“I-I just—”

“Would you quit mumbling like an idiot? Don’t slouch like that. Stand up straight, hold your head up high. If you have something to say, use your voice, Ian. How many times do I have to tell you this? Appearance is everything. Fix yourself, now!” He lifts his head but has to sniffle. Ian is full-on crying by the end of that and he just couldn’t hold his tears back any longer. Clarice’s eye-roll in response only makes him feel worse. “My sensitive little boy, what are we going to do with you?” she sighs, shaking her head. Ian stands perfectly still, trying to compose himself even though he knows he’s failing. The night has been a lot for him and he’s feeling raw from it all, but he knows what’s coming when Mother stands and walks around her desk. He’s thankful for it.

For all her talk about hating hysterics, she’s very good at dealing with Ian’s. She tenderly grasps the back of his head and brings his face into her neck, embracing her son. Ian wraps his large frame around her in turn, sobbing uncontrollably now that he’s been given the all-clear. He’s incoherent, inconsolable, but Clarice’s soothing touches calm Ian down. When she feels he’s gotten enough of it out of his system, she pushes him back gently by his shoulders. One hand goes to cup his pitiful face, stroking his cheek with her thumb as he whimpers out the last of his outpouring. “Ian, it’s just you. Even Tommy’s grown up and done it now. Not to mention he’s taken our ‘marrying up’ speeches seriously. I mean, he’s claimed into royalty! It’s bad for my image to have you still at Lowell with not even a prospect while all your other siblings have done so well. We need to change that, right?”

“Y-Yes Ma’am. I’ll try harder.” Eventually, she smiles and he smiles through his teary eyes in return. He must’ve finally said the right thing.

“Good boy.” There it is, the two words that uplift him more than everything else. A single phrase is capable of washing away all the cold pricklies and replacing them with warm fuzzies. He’s feeling better already. “But what am I always telling you?”

“My looks are my most important asset?” 

“Exactly!” she praises. “You’re such a beautiful boy. Though, you could probably benefit from shedding some weight. Did you have to get so bulky?” Ian’s used to criticism being attached to Mother’s compliments. Her standards are extremely high. “I don’t expect you to be able to come up with a solution, which is why I’m going to help you. When Harrison was at Lowell, I did something for him before the Bachelor Auction. I’ve decided I’m going to do the same for you.”

He starts to wipe his face and continues to compose himself when Clarice turns around to her desk. He can’t see what she’s scribbling out, but after hearing some paper tear he figures what she’s doing. “Now, I know I’ve expressed my hesitation about doing this before, but Ian the auction has only ever resulted in you being a glorified whore for a night. How many times were you purchased by someone who had actual intentions of claiming you?” Out of eight times, the answer is none, and the pause it takes for him to mull this over is long enough for the rhetorical nature of Clarice’s question to be apparent. “My point exactly. This year, you’re taking matters into your own hands.”

Ian looks at the check, amazed at the amount. He’s never held that much money in his life, and it means the world to him that Mother has faith in his ability to do this.

“But Ma’am—”

“No buts, just promise me you’ll spend it wisely. Don’t waste this opportunity. Choose a Dominant carefully, one you have a shot with. It’s okay to think of a game plan too. In fact, you should ask Annie for tips. I’ve never seen anyone wrap a Dominant around their finger quite like her.”

Ian nods, sniffling still but smiling nonetheless. “Thank you, Mother. I won’t let you down. I’m gonna get a great date and I’ll get claimed. This will be my last year at Lowell, I promise.” Clarice smiles and dismisses Ian with a nod. He holds the check to his chest, feeling like he’s living a dream. Mother is right, this year he’s not leaving anything to chance. He’s going to make the right choice and finally get claimed.

The next couple of days on campus, Ian tried to keep his ear to the ground and figure out who he’d focus his bidding efforts on. Annie gave him some tips for how to plan the date in a way that’ll keep a Dominant interested, but that doesn’t help him choose. It’s not until he gets some alone time in the game room that he makes up his mind. Feeling the green of the pool table reminds Ian of a memory he hasn’t visited recently, only because he failed to find the need. But now … it’s giving him inspiration. “It’s settled then. I know what I’m going to do,” he says to himself, resolute in a way that’s almost uncharacteristic. Ian isn’t sure if he’s going to be able to live up to his promises by going for who he’s thinking, but he’s sure that it’s the best option given his predicament. “The Bachelor Auction is just around the corner. I have to make sure I’m ready. I’m going to land a Dominant, bring him home, and Mother will be so proud she’ll call me a good boy a whole bunch. I’m sure of it.”