#second time my life again changed but for the worse and it culminated in leaving home | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hoe-kkotsu · 4 years

Text

No Promises Inumaki x Reader

Premise: Reader goes out of their way to get Inumaki to speak by annoying him to the ends of the earth

Genre: Smut, Kinda fluffy end

Word Count: 6k oops

Warnings: none

a/n: smut is about halfway through if you wanna skip, also feel free to notify me if you notice any issues !!

“Get fucked” was the first thing you ever heard him say. At least the first normal thing you heard him say. The silence that fell through the room as everyone stared in disbelief was terrifying. Inumaki’s scowl perfectly juxtaposed your own expression, sweet with victory.

“Does that count as a curse?”

Since your family was involved with the school you had grown up near it and were well acquainted with both students and staff. A blonde boy caught your eye during his second year, barely any older than you but you were too scared to introduce yourself anyway. It was his third year when you were finally forced into interacting with him and you quickly became confused by the way he spoke. “Cat got your tongue?” you asked.

“tuna.”

“Oh my bad, tuna got your tongue then?” he didn’t respond. You knew him to be a nice guy from your interactions with his schoolmates but they failed to mention his speaking quirk.

You learned from your dear friend Maki that his name was Inumaki and that was just the way he spoke, “Don’t let it bother you,” she advised, “you’ll get used to it, he’s a nice kid.” You tried, but the more you were faced with him in the next months the more it bothered you.

While you were hanging around Maki’s room late one night he somehow came up in the conversation “He has his reasons why does it still bother you?” Maki asked from her bed while you sat facing her on her floor

“Everyone says he used to speak! I just wanna hear him say something normal” you whined.

“What do you like him or something?” maki sarcastically snickered. It wasn’t the first time she suggested it. You stood up.

“Absolutely not! It just feels like some sort of game I have to beat,” you knew how awkward you sounded but still you defended yourself.

“I know, I know calm down” she laughed.

You decide it’s best to change the subject, “Whatever. It’s getting cold can you turn the heat on?” Even in the cold season, you’d still wear a tank top and shorts to sleep, you weren’t going to change that just because you were sleeping at Maki’s for the night.

“Nah the AC is broken, go borrow some pajamas from Megumi or something” Your friendship with Maki led you to being well acquainted with Fushiguro so even though you preferred not to bother him you felt comfortable enough asking him this favor.

You left Maki’s room and tip-toed down the corridor so as not to wake anyone, but as fate would have it you encountered Sir Riceball himself, donning nothing but grey sweatpants and towel-drying his hair. This was the first time you’d ever seen him without that ridiculous uniform collar covering half his face, and most certainly the first time you’d seen this much skin from him. The blood ran straight to your face and in your surprise you tripped and fell to the floor, quickly alerting him to your presence.

He helped you up without a second thought.

“Thanks” was all you could manage to say while avoiding his eyes.

“Shake shake” he responded. You could feel his eyes scan you and it felt like you were ten times more exposed than you were already. He let go of your hand and motioned to a clock with an inquisitive look on his face.

You tried to guess what he was asking, “What time is it?” he shook his head no and pointed to you then to the window revealing the night sky. “Why am I here so late?” you continued your attempt to decipher what he was trying to say and luckily he nodded to signal you were correct. “I was helping Maki with something and it got pretty late so I figured I’d crash on her floor tonight,” he tilted his head, “Oh! I got cold and her heats busted so I was gonna go ask Fushiguro to lend me some pajamas!” he cracked a small smile, of course you were cold dressed like that, it’s freezing out. But for some reason, your answer bothered him. He didn’t want Megumi to see you like that- the way the shorts hugged your hips and the cold breeze caused your nipples to peek through the tank top- yeah that wasn’t gonna happen.

He muttered something about bonito flakes and grabbed your hand to pull you towards his room. His actions surprised you but you had no reason not to trust him so you complied. In his room he fished out some fuzzy pants and a big t-shirt and tossed them to you, “Wait can I borrow these?” you asked and he rolled his eyes. Why would he have thrown them to you if not for you to borrow?

“Shake shake,” he nodded and you smiled at him causing him to blush ever so slightly. He turned his head before you could notice. What he did not expect you to do was to turn around and start changing in front of him. Just the sight of your bare back caused him to strain in his sweatpants. The shirt was big enough that it covered your ass when you pulled your shorts off, he wasn’t sure if he should thank god or curse him for blocking the view.

Once you were dressed you turned around to thank him again. You hugged his side without thinking and offered your thanks. He looked surprised but only momentarily. He looked like he was about to say something before offering just another “Shake shake” and you frowned.

“Just one word? Cant, you just say one word to me?” your tone bordered on begging but he shook his head and you sighed. “Whatever man, goodnight I guess.” left his room to head back to Maki’s.

He would be upset at the way you left if he wasn’t preoccupied with the thought of you in such little clothes, the way your midriff peaked out, and the way your chest perked in the cold. Not to mention the sight of your thighs could cure diseases and the curve of your back changing into his shirt drove him mad. The thing that truly set him off though was how your chest pressed against him while you quickly hugged him. His hand was in his pants less than a minute after you shut the door. He thanked the universe that you had not made it to Megumi, he got angry just thinking about his friend seeing you like that instead of him. Why did that have to bother him so much?

You pointedly avoided him whenever you were at the school for the next three or so months. After you made Maki return his clothes for you he knew something was up but he never got the chance to talk to you about it, after all, it’s not like he would even really talk. Were you that mad about him not speaking normally to you?

No, you were embarrassed, you couldn’t look at him without seeing the barely dressed version of himself from that night and you were not willing to risk going red in the face just by being near him. Not a chance.

It felt like years before you were comfortable being close to him again but considering the frequency at which you were around the school, it’s not like you could avoid him forever. You would only ever dare be near him in a group setting though.

——

One night after a particularly calm week you, Maki, and some school mates were hanging around in Yuuji’s room. The atmosphere had been tense ever since Inumaki showed up but eventually lightened up. Though, when he responded to one of Yuuji’s jokes with a simple “Salmon Roe” you got ticked off.

“Dude just fuckin talk for once,” you snapped, and the tension was once again as thick as could be. No one ever asked but people noticed the way you were suddenly avoidant of Inumaki and they were all too curious to see the culmination of it.

Inumaki rolled his eyes and offered no response which only served to irk you more.

“You’re gonna fuckin talk. I don’t care what it takes I’m gonna make you somehow” you stared at him before scanning the room around you. You huffed, realizing you made it horrible awkward, and left the room without another word.

It took two weeks for you to even dare show up at their school again.

——

When you return it became Inumaki’s personal hell. You used any and every tactic to try to make him talk and spared him no mercy. He refused to budge though, dead set on winning this unofficial competition that you’re both locked in.

It went on like that for months, you got under his skin and he did everything in his power to keep his cool. Eventually, they were in their fourth year, which you constantly teased them for even having. How many schools in Japan have an extra year? Hilarious.

You knew Inumaki was getting tired though, on top of his already ridiculously stressful life as a sorcerer he had to deal with you acting like a child constantly just because you wanted to hear him talk. It would’ve been easy to just give you a simple word and you’d be happy and leave him alone but he is far too stubborn and you were in far too deep.

Tonight, somehow, his room is the center of gathering, and of course, as his luck would have it, Maki has you in tow. You know you’re being weird in this situation but he’s not doing any better, its been almost a year now since you’ve been in his room and you hope he doesn’t remember the circumstance. What you don’t know was that it is WAY worse for him than for you. He can’t even meet your eyes.

Ever since that encounter he’s thought about you nearly every night, the way the tiny clothes barely covered you. He thinks about taking you on every possible surface in that room and he thinks about laying with you afterwards and gazing into your eyes. He’s truly fucked. And now you're HERE? in HIS room? AGAIN? The universe definitely has it out for him.

Of course the torment never stops though, you pull trick after trick to see him crack and tonight is no different, you’re on your A-game.

“Dude you know she’d shut up if you just said one thing,” Yuuji voices what everyone is thinking.

“Nah he secretly likes getting all of (Y/N)‘s attention” Maki adds.

He stands up immediately to defend himself, mouth open as if to speak, he catches himself and mutters some regular old sushi crap and sits down while shaking his head but you still noticed the slight break. You have a positively brilliant idea. Instead of being hurt by how vehemently he denied liking you, you decide you can use it to your advantage. His disdain will be the mother of his downfall.

All eyes are on you as you make your way over to his bad and sit next to him, “C’mon man just admit it you’re obsessed with me.” Your presence makes him shift uncomfortably.

You lean up even closer, “If not me, then who? You’re a man, right? there’s gotta be someone you fancy.” He glares at you. Bingo. Though the thought of him having feelings for someone else hurts, it isn’t important right now.

“Oh? Right on the nose?” you put your weight on his shoulder “Is it Maki? Though you can’t have her I saw her first.” The giggles that fill the room are a stark contrast to the animosity in the way he looks at you.

“Or is it Kugisaki hmm? Didn’t know you had a thing for younger girls, Inumaki.”

“Or maybe our dear silent prince has a secret girlfriend outside of school?” you sure hope not.

“Get fucked” he says lowly.

shit. shit shit shit shit shit. wait.

Your face lights up. You actually did it. You won.

“Does that count as a curse?” you chuckle while your friends stare in disbelief. Your victory is short-lived as Maki stands up to announce that she’s leaving before things go even more sour and everyone else files out behind her. You attempt to weasel out with them but when you’re halfway out the door he pulls you back in the room and locks the door.

“You and I need to talk” he crosses his arms.

You can’t help but roll your eyes, “wow so after how many years we’re finally on speaking terms?”

“What the hell is your problem?” his agitation is unsettling but your defiance is unwavering.

“Hey, everyone said you were nice when you used to talk whatever happened to that.” It dawns on you that you fucked up. You really fucked up.

“I don’t exactly have a desire to be nice to you right now” he unzips the jacket covering his face and for a moment your eyes are stuck taking in his all-too-often covered beauty. He points to the bed to tell you to go sit down but your head. “Fine. Be that way. Go sit” and you find yourself obeying his command because of his cursed speech. You realize should’ve thought that one through.

Once seated on the bed you peer up at him, “great I’m here now what?”

“Now what? Now you’re gonna tell me where you get off on being a giant thorn in my side every minute of every day.”

“I just wanted to hear-“

“No. This is about more than the speaking issue now. Why the hell do you feel the need to tease me about crushes when you already know how I feel about you.” you are absolutely dumbfounded.

“What do you mean ‘How you feel about me’?” you quickly ask.

“Don’t play dumb I know you avoided me after that night because you knew I liked you” He feels like a child, arguing over something like a crush.

“I was avoiding you because-“ you don’t finish your sentence and instead wonder how you ended like this. Are you stupid or is he? Maybe both of you are just fart too oblivious.

“Because? C’mon spit it out”

You don’t have a choice but to speak because of his cursed speech, “I was avoiding you because all I could think about was kissing you whenever I saw you and I didn’t want to embarrass myself” you choke out against your will. Inumaki pauses in shock and then smirks to himself. The situation is finally turning to favor him.

“Oh? and how did you go from wanting to kiss me to wanting to make my life hell?” he peers down at you and walks closer to your spot on the edge of his bed.

You avoid his gaze and retreat farther into his bed. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive...” you trail off. He is loving this.

“I’m sorry what was that?” he leans over you and puts his hand to his ear.

“Oh fuck off already” you whine and then he immediately has you pinned to the bed.

“Babe, I think you forgot I get to give the commands here.” Why did he have to be so hot? You wriggle under him, struggling pointlessly against his grip, and finally meet his eyes. You instinctively tighten your thighs together and your face grows hot when you realized his proximity. Your actions don’t go unnoticed.

“Say, (Y/N), do you remember the last time you were in my room?” you nod and swallow, remembering the way he looked with his hair wet and barely anything covering him. “Good, good,” he continues, “so you remember the skimpy little excuse of an outfit you were trouncing around in,” he leans closer and you can feel his breath as he speaks “or how you tore it off without a thought even though I was right there.” His gaze instills both fear and lust and each feeling intensifies as he removes one of his hands from its position holding you down and places it under your shirt to touch your side.

The cold touch of his hand makes you shiver and he heavily considers stopping before he understands the extent to which you’re enjoying this. The realization makes him strain against his pants. “Did you think you would be safe because it was in front of me? Do you not take me seriously, (Y/N)?” He licks a stripe up your neck causing you to shudder and he proceeds to mock you with your earlier quip “I am a man you know” he trails his hand down ever so slightly and laughs when you whimper.

“Why are you doing this?” your desire for the man on top of you is almost too much to bear, every word of his goes right to your and every touch sets your skin ablaze. The slick between your legs is already becoming a bother and he has barely put a hand on you. You’re aching for him to touch you.

“Well you have been making my life hell for a long damn time now I think it’s only fair that I get to teach you a lesson” his voice is as soft as usual and smooth as butter. You swallow thickly as he lowers his hand again until he reaches your hip bone, messing up your shorts a bit.

“You said you thought about kissing me, right?”, you shift in his grasp again, embarrassed by your admission, but he goes on, “you wanna know what I’ve been thinking about?” you stare up at him inquisitively, silently begging an answer. He smiles and whispers “I’ve been thinking about fucking you on every surface in this room” The whine you let out is nothing short of embarrassing.

“Would you like that, (Y/N)?” he stares down at you. You know what he’s really asking and the weight of your response, and despite how much you want this, your self-consciousness forces you to avert your eyes and keep silent. “Ah? answer me.”

You fall victim to his cursed speech again and quickly answer a soft, “yes.” He has you now. You hide your face in sheer embarrassment as he cockily smiles down at you.

“That’s what I thought. But somebody decided to be an insufferable bother instead of being a good girl and asking nicely for what she wanted. It’s a shame isn’t it?” he sighs.

You try to defend yourself, “I asked you to speak!” his hand squeezes your hip before rising up to grip your chin.

“We both know that’s not what I was talking about.”

He nips at your neck, “the only person you can blame for this predicament is yourself” when he reaches the juncture between your neck and shoulder he bites down hard causing you to gasp.

“I think I liked you better when you spoke in fish talk” It’s an obvious lie.

“Awe but princess whose fault is it that I had to break that.” He isn’t wrong and that makes it so much worse. He switches up and starts bombarding the other side of your neck. The hand holding your chin is left to explore your body, while the other hand is still holding yours down above you. It isn’t enough though, you need more of him.

“Inu-“ you try to beg but he cuts you off.

“Toge” Your heart would jump at him wanting you to call him by his first name if you weren’t going crazy under him.

“Toge, please”

“Please what?”

“Please hurry!” he snickers at your desperation. Bastard.

“I think I’ll pass, doesn’t seem like you’ve learned your lesson.” He punctuates the sentence with a bite by your collarbone. You hate yourself for being turned on by this.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry and I promise it won’t happen again! Please!”

“God, fine,” he relents and moves his hand from your arms down to support himself but you didn’t dare move them even now that they’re free. ‘Cute’ Toge thinks to himself. Once he’s propped up he moves his other hand finally down below your shorts to your underwear, first feeling the wet spot on the outside and then moving them aside to dip two fingers into your heat. “You're soaked,” he says quietly, more to himself than to you.

“Shut up asshole, whose fault do you think it is?” you immediately regret your words.

He removes his hands and you whine at the loss, “Asshole? I wouldn’t complain when I’m giving you exactly what you asked for. Besides,” he moves from his position above you to the floor so he that he’s kneeling by your shorts, “I can be a lot more of an ‘asshole’ than this”. You finally move your arms down to support yourself so that you can see what he was doing and fall back down almost immediately as he sinks his teeth into your thigh.

He’s an ass alright, he licks and nips and pokes and prods everywhere except where you need it for what feels like entire centuries. You’re practically shaking with both frustration and anticipation. “This would be a lot easier if you didn’t move so fucking much” he hisses.

“Well it would be a lot easier to stay still if you stopped teasing me and just fucked me already” he rolls his eyes at your response. You’re not getting what you want that easily.

You jump when he leaves a particularly hard bite on your thigh. “Don’t move,” he commands and as his stupid ability would have it, you can’t move a muscle. You don’t miss the way he smiles to himself when he resumes his work tormenting you.

When he at long last decides he’s done you inwardly jump for joy. Your celebration is short-lived though, “You're not off the hook yet,” he reminds you.

“Can I at least move now?” you beg and he considers for a few seconds before speaking.

“You can move now.” Thank god. If he didn’t release you who knows what might’ve happened. Probably not much since you couldn’t move but it definitely would’ve sucked. “Next time don’t make me use a curse to hold you still.” Next time? The thought of a next time fills you with both euphoria and anxiety. How would you deal with all of this again? Not to mention the main event hasn’t even begun yet.

You’re stirred from your thoughts by him crawling up to finally meet your lips in a kiss. Generally, you kiss someone before you leave them a dripping mess but you’ll chastise him for that later. You’d prefer to savor this.

His lips are soft against yours and you’re pretty sure you can feel the cursed energy radiating off his mouth because of his ability. At first it’s soft and sweet, making you almost forget the nature of your situation, but it quickly grows aggressive with both of you wanting as much of the other as you could have. It’s messy and it’s grabby but it’s exactly what you need and you find yourself moaning into him. He pulls away to free himself of his jacket and t-shirt and you shamelessly ogle his toned torso.

“Take a picture it’ll last you longer” he smirks at you from above.

“Not longer than this is taking Ill bet”

“Patience is a virtue, love, and this is still a punishment.” His words send shivers down your spine.

He crawls back on top of you. “You know, you’re always beautiful but seeing you desperate and panting is a special treat for the eyes.” you blush hard at his remark and try to squirm away before he holds you still. “Not so fast, princess, I thought you wanted this?” He runs his hand down your abdomen into your shorts and finally slips his fingers back into you. You mewl at the feeling and buck your hips unintentionally into his hand.

It's practically bliss after all of the teasing he put you through. You lace your fingers in his hair and pull him in for another sloppy kiss while he finger fucks you. You’re in heaven.

The boy knocks you out of your thoughts to whisper into your ear, “You know, babe, cursed aren’t the only thing my mouth is good for,” he slowly makes his way back down again between your legs.

“Yeah I get it please don’t start back up with the teasing.” You try to shut your legs in a strange attempt to deter him from resuming his earlier attack.

“Relax, I’m being nice, now arms up” he uses his power to command your arms back up above your head and finally pulls your shorts off of you. He pulls your underwear aside with his right hand and resumes his previous ministrations with his left, two fingers expertly stroking inside your most intimate area while you settle back into bliss. He smiles to himself and gently kisses your thigh before deciding to dive right into his next meal. You jump when you feel his tongue prod at your clit but you shudder with content when he finds his rhythm. Perhaps the gods actually are looking out for both of you.

He eats you like a five-star meal, savoring every moan and whimper that falls from your lips, he’s good and he knows it. You can’t even be sure if he’s doing this for you or for him. You’re so close and you desperately want him to finish you, “Toge, pleeeease” you moan and he quirks an eyebrow. Maybe it’s been a while but this certainly isn’t his first rodeo, he knows exactly what you're getting at.

“What’s that? You wanna cum?”

“God! Yes! Please!” you whine and he chuckles. Your orgasm is so close that you could reach out and grab it until he pulls his fingers out and you almost cry at the loss of contact.

The shaman laughs at you, “Did you forget you were bad? If you want to redeem yourself you’re gonna have to cum on my cock.” The way he speaks to you now is nothing like the normal Inumaki you know and the contrast would be frightening if it wasn’t so arousing. He stands up from his position kneeling in front of you and grabs your hips to pull you to the edge of the bed. “If I release you will you be good and stay there?” you nod furiously and he smiled, “you’re free” he whispers and you immediately use your arms to grab his neck and pull him in for another kiss.

Once he pulls away he grinds against you a few times. You lean into the contact. You’re so needy it feels like your skin is on fire and only his touches could put it out. He moves his hand to finally strip you of your underwear and discard it on the floor.

You sit up to reach for his pants but he pushes you back into the mattress “What did I say?” you remember your promise not to move and stay down. He leans down to lock your lips in another deep kiss and runs his hands down your sides to reassure you. You’re sure he can feel your heart pounding.

He pulls away so that he can reach and pull down his sweats and allow his erection to spring free. You’re surprised at the size he presents, considering how soft Toge’s presence generally is you wouldn’t have thought his dick would be so,,, imposing. But there you are practically salivating at it. He chuckles and you realize you’re staring.

He pulls you even closer and spreads your legs, you quickly move to cover yourself but he stops you, “Awe c’mon baby, pretty girls shouldn’t hide.” he coos and leans over to kiss your forehead.

He grabs himself and strokes against you to collect the slick still building between your thighs and you whine every time he passed over your swollen clit. It feels like you’re going to burst but you don’t want to disobey him and risk prolonging the torture so you keep as quiet as possible.

When he decides he’s ready he puts his hands over your hips and slowly pushes in. He lets out a sultry groan that makes you clench. He lets his head hang back as he eases into his rhythm. You're sure you’ve never known such bliss. He fills every bit of you perfectly. His thrusts are steady and deliberate like everything else about him. He moves his hand just below your navel and grunts. When you look up to question him he takes your hand to rest it in the the same position and you’re shocked at what you find; he’s so big you can feel him from the outside.

He could go on forever and you would be happy. It’s a perfect scene until his thrusts become frantic and then come to a halt. You whine and try to rock your hips into his but he holds you down.

“What’s wrong?” you ask him.

“Do you like me?” he quietly responds.

“What?”

“Do you like me?”

“Are you serious?”

“Do you want me to fuck you?” You nod your head aggressively to his question. “Then, Do you like me?” You’re surprised he’s asking you about your feelings right now like they aren’t obvious. It's especially evident that he was avoiding using his cursed speech to get you to respond. He wants you to say it of your own volition. He wants you to mean it.

“....yes”

“like you mean it”

“Yes. I like you! Since the first time I saw you walking the grounds. I like you a whole fucking lot,” you confess sincerely, “now please get back to fucking me!”

Like a new man, he bends down and kisses you before grabbing your hips up off his bed to pull you into him while he thrusts into you. It’s a slight difference but the new angle is twice as he’s and thrice as deep. Your moans grow loud but you can’t bring yourself to care anymore.

You reach down to touch yourself but he quickly swats your hand away, “You can touch when I say so,” he huffs, “Only I get to touch you right now.”

You plead with him, but your words came out in stutters because of his hard thrusts, “But..... wanna cum...... feels good.”

He tries to stifle a laugh at your desperation, “Baby, I don’t see what you’re not getting, you can cum when I say so.” You look up at him with pure need. “Do you think you deserve to cum?” you nod your head quite enthusiastically. He looks over you to take in your flushed face and the way your hair clings to the sweat on your neck, it's the most beautiful sight that has ever graced his eyes. “Are you sure?” he asks and you nodded again. He grins mischievously and leans towards your ear, “then cum.”

He doesn’t even need to touch you for you to see stars. His cursed speech makes the knot in your stomach snap immediately. He continues pumping in and out of you while you writhe and spasm under him from the intensity of your orgasm. He adores the fact that it was him making you feel this way. He adores the way that tears prick your eyes from the overwhelming sensation. He adores the way you fumble for words. Mostly he adores you. Fuck. He’s close.

You find yourself already quickly approaching another high, “Toge-“ he cuts you off.

“Shh, gettin close,” he says, “Can you manage another one for me? Wanna come together.” you nod to him and he smiled, “Atta girl, where do you want it?”

It’s a considerate question but you’re embarrassed to answer, you don’t want to keep him waiting though.

“.. Inside.... please,” you say it so softly he barely hears it. Once he registers your words he groans at the thought of you wanting him to coat your insides. This is his dream come true.

He gives everything he had in his last thrusts, fucking into you like his life depends on it. “Are you ready?”

“Ah- fuck- yes,” you moan out, “please, Toge.” Were you trying to kill him?

With the way you say his name he knows he can’t hang on much longer. He takes a deep breath in and leans down to whisper in your ear, “cum for me.” His cursed words flowed through your body as you come undone around him. As soon as Toge feels you contract around him he grunts, his thrusts become sloppy as he finishes inside of you and the heat emanating from it only intensifies your orgasm. He kisses you again while you both calm down. This one is softer than any other so far, it’s loving and reverent. It suits the calm and quiet Inumaki you fell in love with. He pulls away for air, taking a few deep breaths before he pulls out of you with a sigh. He wipes his length with the shirt he discarded on the floor earlier, tucks himself into his underwear, and pulls his sweats back up to his hips.

“Oh my god, how am I supposed to walk to the showers without anyone seeing me?” you panic.

“You just have to ruin the moment don’t you?” he sighs while walking over to his dresser and fishing for something. He pulls out a towel and heads back over to a water bottle on his nightstand, he offers you a sip before dumping some of it on the towel to dampen it. He pats the part of the bed closest to him so you crawl over. He uses the soft towel to gently but thoroughly wipe you off before doing the same to himself.

“I guess that works,” He doesn’t respond to you but instead walks back over to his drawers to grab a pair of underwear and a large t-shirt to throw in your direction. “I am not wearing your underwear,” you protest.

“I don’t think you want yours,” he responds and you look at your underwear on the floor, wet and wrinkly. He isn’t wrong.

You step into the underwear he offered you and throw off your sweaty shirt in favor of his clean one, “Thanks,” you mumble awkwardly, not sure how to tread after what just happened.

The shaman grabs you and plopped back into his bed, holding you to his chest, “So you like me huh?” he says quietly and you turn red.

“I guess I might’ve said that” you avoid his gaze but he turns you around to look at him.

He kisses you on the forehead, “You’re finally mine,” he said softly, not possessive loving.

“I don’t recall agree-” you try to add but he cuts you off.

“Would you say no?”

“Well no but-”

“Then don’t complain” he kisses your cheek and you sigh. He gets out of the bed to go look for something and comes back with his cell phone, “here.” He hands it to you to put your number in.

“I can’t help but feel like we’re doing things backwards,” you snort.

“I can’t keep talking, at least this way we can write.” You set your contact name and put a little heart at the end, which he smiles at, and send yourself a text. Upon hearing the ding on your cellphone you go into the messages save his contact.

He hops back into the bed with you and holds you close to him. He kisses your forehead again and pulls back to send you a text.

——-

NEW UNREAD MESSAGE

FROM: Toge️ <3

does this mean you’ve learned your lesson?

——-

You giggle at the message and peck him on the lips. You type out your response and he rolls his eyes when he receives it.

——-

TO: Toge️ <3

i make no promises

——-

He smiles and shakes his head as he turns off the lamp beside his bed and he pulls you in tight as you both drift off to sleep.

#inumaki x reader #this is the first thing ive literally ever written or posted ik it sucks dont kill me #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut #inumaki smut #inumaki toge smut #idk how to tag #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut #anime smut #inumaki x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk fluff #tw smut #smut #inumaki toge x reader #toge inumaki x reader

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spencers-renaissance · 3 years

Text

let him be soft (and let him be mine) p2

Summary: After Derek pulls another self-sacrificing stunt at the culmination of their most recent case, Spencer runs out of their apartment as he desperately grapples with how it makes him feel

or; Derek's self-sacrificing tendencies meet Spencer's abandonment issues. It gets messy before it gets better

Tags: hurt/comfort, crying, abandonment issues, injured!derek, hurt!spencer, miscommunication, angst with a happy ending, fluff, protective!derek

TW: abadonment issues, allusions to grief/loss, some religious imagery (a catholic church and a priest have a small role in the plot)

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 2.1k Total Word Count: 4.5k

Part One // Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Emily's Edit 1 2 3

Emily (@criminalmindsvibez) and I have worked together on a project based on this poem. Her edits and my fic go hand in hand, so go and check hers out! She posted part two yesterday and just posted part three! It's been so fun to work together, so please go and reblog her beautiful edit <3

Spencer smiles, feeling a little bit lighter after getting everything off his chest. “Thank you.”

As he watches the priest walk out of the nave and into what Spencer suspects is the Sanctuary, he hears something that simultaneously warms his heart and twists his stomach in anxiety.

Derek, calling his name.

“Oh, God,” Derek cries as soon as he’s rushed over to sit next to Spencer, wrapping him up in a tight hug, “baby, I was so worried. I was trying to give you the benefit of the doubt and let you come back to me but I just couldn’t do it. I had to get Pen to track your phone in the end.”

“I’m sorry, Der,” Spencer says, pulling away and blinking tearily at the anxiety mixed with relief written across his boyfriend’s face. Guilt floods his stomach as he thinks about the terror he’s just put Derek through: the exact same feeling he’s been lamenting over Derek inflicting upon him. How is he any better? If anything, he’s only worse; Derek does what he does to serve others, Spencer’s been nothing but selfish all evening.

“No, baby,” Derek protests, lifting a hand to his face and brushing away a falling tear, “you don’t need to apologise, just… talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

Spencer doesn’t waste any time in agreeing. It’s the least his boyfriend deserves. “Can we go home? I want to eat that Thai food in bed while I tell you. I’ve already cried one too many times in a church for the day”

Derek chuckles at that. “Of course, pretty boy. Come on. Let’s get you home.” He takes Spencer’s hand gently and leads him towards the exit, and when Spencer turns back briefly before walking out of the building, he doesn’t miss the smiling priest lingering near the altar.

⭐️

Derek doesn’t let go of his hand the whole drive home, clinging tightly even on the elevator up to their apartment, and it only serves to make Spencer feel guiltier. How had this not clicked earlier? He never stopped to think about the worry his boyfriend was going through back home, only prioritising himself and his own selfish feelings.

He starts to wonder whether he should actually tell Derek after all. His boyfriend is so endlessly kind and selfless and wonderful and Spencer wants to point out his one flaw? After he’s left him panicked and concerned for his well being all evening?

He anxiously gnaws on his bottom lip as Derek tucks him into bed, seemingly oblivious to his distress as he kisses his head gently before making light work of reheating the take out he’d ordered earlier. Spencer’s stomach spins and turns with anxiety as he burrows himself under the covers, desperate to hide from all that’s to come, unable to escape the helter-skelter of emotions consuming his mind.

Soon enough, Derek makes his way into the bedroom, turning off the main light in favour of their various cosy lamps and flicks on the TV, setting it on reruns of Fawlty Towers with the volume turned down before arranging the takeout on trays before finally slipping under the duvet himself.

“Baby, I know that for whatever reason you don’t want to tell me what’s really going on,” Derek says softly, turning Spencer’s chin to face him and gazing imploringly into his eyes, “that poor lip of yours will be bitten off by the morning. But I want you to know you can trust me with whatever this is. I promise that there is no problem, no issue, no stressor that we couldn’t overcome together. Me and you, we’re a dream team, aren’t we? We can solve this, but not if you’re not completely honest with me.”

Damn it, now Spencer’s going to feel guilty no matter what path he chooses. He either lies and breaks Derek’s trust, or he tells the truth and breaks his heart.

But the priest’s words from earlier flash through his mind, and he takes a deep breath, knowing what he has to do. “I’m scared,” he admits, tentatively. It feels like a good place to start.

“Okay,” Derek replies soothingly, eyebrows knitted in concern as his thumb traces the side of Spencer’s face. “What are you scared of, Spence?”

“I’m scared… I’m scared of losing you,” he whispers, casting his eyes downward.

He feels Derek tense next to him, but he doesn’t know whether it’s because he’s confused or something worse. “Baby boy, you have to understand that you’re it for me, I’m never going anywhere—”

“No,” Spencer interrupts, meeting his boyfriend’s eyes again, “not like that. I know you love me, I’ve never doubted that for a second. I’m scared of losing you to something worse than another person. I’m scared of losing you to a gunshot, a stab wound, a bomb blast. I’m scared of losing you to the job, Derek.”

“Oh.” His thumb falters in its soothing movements against Spencer’s cheek before it retracts completely.

“You’re a hero, Der,” he says tearily, not bothering to try and fight them this time, “you’re an inspiration. You’re strong and powerful and the kindest, most selfless man I’ve ever met, but I— I’m gonna need you to start being a little more selfish.”

“I don’t… What do you mean?”

“Remember back in 2007 when that woman was trapped in her car with a bomb under her seat? You stayed right next to her the whole time, even though you knew that if that bomb went off, it was taking you with it. Because in that moment, looking after that woman was all that mattered.”

Derek nods hesitantly, his brows knit even tighter.

“Well, I could deal with that. I accepted it. We were newly in a relationship, and I knew the kind of man you were when I started dating you. I didn’t think you’d give that up for me so soon. But, Derek, it’s been seven years now. We’ve been together for almost a decade, and you’re still the same man. You run headlong into danger with no regard for how it will affect you. And I love your selflessness and generosity, I really do, but I need you to know how that makes me feel.

“It makes me feel like I’m not important to you, Der.”

“Oh, baby, no,” Derek says, distraught as he wraps Spencer in a tight, urgent hug, hand flying to run his fingers through his curls.

“But, no, it does, Derek. Because it feels like one of these days, you won’t be as lucky as you always have been, and I’ll be alone again. You’re all I have, and I can’t lose you, I just can’t.” The tears are joined by heaving, desperate sobs as he cries into Derek’s shoulder, both of them holding onto one another with clawing fingers, impossibly close as emotions fill the room.

When Spencer finally calms down enough, he pulls away to find Derek’s eyes red and his cheeks wet, too. “I— I had no idea you felt like this, baby boy,” he says earnestly, looking deeply into his eyes as his devastated emotions play across his open expression. “I’m sorry that I ever made you feel like you were anything less than the most important person in the whole world to me, because you are, Spencer.”

“It’s okay,” Spencer whispers sadly. “You didn’t know.”

“No, but I do now. I never stopped to think how this was affecting you, and I’m so deeply sorry for that.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence as they fall against one another, both accepting that the Thai is going to go cold again and they’ll probably end up with a greasy 2am pizza instead.

“It’s because of my dad,” Derek admits eventually, breaking the silence. “When I watched him bleed out in front of me, I swore I would never let that happen to another person. I would never let another person die on my watch, not unless I was going down with them. And that was an easy principle to live by when I was a cop, it translated well to the FBI, and it worked great when I was single. But now… I have you. And you’re more important than a promise I made to myself when I was ten.

“The thing is, though, that I don’t know how to override an instinct that I’ve built and enforced for my entire career. Spencer, you’re everything to me, and you’re more important than this, but I… I don’t know how to change.”

Another tear slides down Spencer’s tired, puffy face at Derek’s words, mostly because they were exactly what he was expecting. The only reason he’s kept this to himself for so long is because he knew that no possible resolution could make this okay.

“It’s okay, Der,” he says sadly, “I get it—”

“I think I should leave the BAU.”

Spencer sits bolt upright at that, turning to his boyfriend with shock written in every line of his face. “What?”

“Listen, I’m 43. I’ve been on the job for twenty-one years, and I’m getting tired, Spencer. I was planning to bring this up at a much better moment, but I’ve just finished that house on the Mount Pleasant border, and I think we should move in there. I’m ready for a quieter life, Spencer. I want to do things that make me happy, focus on the future of our family, me, you, and Clooney — kids, too, if we decide that’s the way we want to go — and leave this life revolving around death and crime and the bad in the world behind.”

“You’re serious?” Spencer asks, completely in disbelief as he stares at Derek like he’s grown an extra head. This was never a possibility he considered. Not even a little bit.

“I am,” Derek promises. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and this just seals the deal, really. I don’t want you to be feeling this scared all the time, especially not if it’s set off even by a couple of bruised ribs. Diving in front of a bullet when wearing a vest is hardly the most dangerous thing I’ve done.”

Derek chuckles but Spencer just smiles sadly at just how true that statement is. “No, it isn’t.”

“I’d love to focus on the property business full time, renovate more houses and really make a career out of it. Build a proper business, live in the suburbs, be happy and safe and alive with the love of my life for as long as possible,” Derek says, eyes warm and serious as he brushes his hand against Spencer’s face again. “I’m so in love with you it hurts.”

Spencer’s heart melts and he presses into Derek’s side, burying in as close as he can get. The tears that leak from his eyes this time are at least happy ones. “If you leave,” he says, after considering it for a moment, “I think I want to leave, too.”

“Really? You don’t have to, Spencer. You can stay at the BAU if you want to.”

“I know. But I’ve given over a third of my life to this job, and it’s given me all it can, I think. Before Gideon recruited me, I always thought I’d end up teaching, and I always knew I’d love it. Researching and teaching others what I’ve found out for a living sounds like a dream, and the thought of coming home to you, knowing that you’re safe every night as we sit down for dinner and chat about our normal, civilian lives… well, it’s everything I didn’t know I’d been longing for.”

A kind of peace that Spencer hasn’t felt in years settles over his chest as he basks in the thought of a safe and happy future with Derek, one not plagued by the trauma they’ve faced willingly for far too vast proportions of their lives, and he knows it’s the right decision.

“Wow,” Derek says, and woven in with the shock in his voice is relief, clear as day, “we’re leaving the BAU.”

“We’re leaving the BAU.”

Spencer eventually packs the Thai away and orders an extra large pepperoni pizza for delivery, letting Derek rest in bed as he takes over the beavering around. Fawlty Towers continues to play across the TV screen throughout the course of the night, Spencer resting his head on the top of Derek’s chest, careful to avoid his injuries. In that moment, with his favourite TV show playing, and an empty pizza box on the floor of their bedroom, cuddled up safely with the man he knows he’s going to spend forever with, Spencer thanks a God he’s not sure he believes in that Derek, right now, is soft, happy, and most importantly, his.

Let him be soft, and let him be mine.

— Please, let him be happy.

If you haven't already - check out Emily's post, and give some love to the original poem source here!

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @doctorenby @suburban--gothic@strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @livrere-blue @hotchseyebrows @jellejareau @reidology @i-like-buttons @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @hotchedyke @tobias-hankel @goobzoop @marsjareau @garcias-bitch (taglist form)

#criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds writing #cm fic #moreid #moreid angst #moreid fluff #moreid fic #derek morgan #jennifer jareau #derek morgan/spencer reid #derek morgan x spencer reid #spencer reid x derek morgan #spencer reid/derek morgan #my writing

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otonymous · 4 years

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Kissed By The Baddest CEO (MLQC Victor x KBTBB - NSFW)

Description: Old flames and prospective lovers threaten to derail your budding romance with Victor before it even begins. How will you extricate yourselves from a web of misunderstandings?

Warnings:

NSFW/18+: Explicit/graphic language — reader discretion is advised. Potential Trigger Warnings: profanity, jealousy, angst, exes, mentions of alcohol, bone fetishes, rough sex, 69 sex position (oral sex), mirror sex, vaginal intercourse, swallowing, size kink

Mild spoilers for Victor’s family history (MLQC); slight bending of MLQC & KBTBB canon universes via creation of original side character

Word Count: ~10K words (please set aside a good chunk of time for some fluff, angst and smut 🤣)

Author’s Notes:

First of all, a GIANT thank you to the super gracious @lin-ful for commissioning this Victor piece from me. You are an absolute joy to work with and I really appreciate the fact that you gave me carte blanche to basically do whatever I wanted 🤣 I really hope you enjoy the read! (P.S. I would never be so sadistic as to ever make you choose between Victor and Eisuke, so please rest easy 😆)

This story is especially significant to me as a writer because it represents the culmination of a number of milestones: the first time I’ve created an original character, my first attempt at writing a crossover story, the first time I’ve written in both first- and second-person perspectives. It is also the longest single piece I’ve ever written. That being said, please note the warnings listed above and happy reading! 😊

Nb. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1: Hello Diana

“Really Vic, I thought you were beyond name calling by now.”

Her voice is sultry and low, smooth in your ears like the whiskey in her tumbler. Completely at ease in a couture Givenchy pantsuit that likely cost more than one of your production budgets, she sat with her legs elegantly crossed in a leather armchair, tipping her glass to vermillion lips. And as the flames danced in the imposing marble fireplace of one of Shanghai’s oldest and most exclusive supper clubs, they reflected off an enormous ruby ring gracing her middle finger.

Victor scoffs, taking a sip of his own whisky and glancing at you as you follow suit with the virgin cocktail he ordered on your behalf while you were in the restroom.

He was so infuriating at times, but at least it wasn’t warmed milk.

“First of all, you weren’t meant to hear that. Secondly, I hardly consider ‘dummy’ name calling. Far worse exists when it comes to options, as I'm sure you can attest to, Diana. You’ve used quite a few in your day.”

Amusement spreads across her fine features as she throws her head back in laughter, the sound enticing even as it disrupts the low chatter in the room. However, none of the men looking her way seemed to mind. She was brimming with so much joie de vivre that even you weren’t immune to her charms, smiling despite the anxiety that sat heavy in your chest from the very moment Victor introduced you to Diana Shum that evening.

You didn’t quite know why you felt ill at ease, especially towards someone who was doing you a favour by brokering a major deal on behalf of your company. Well, more like doing Victor a favour, since he was the one who made the request. Perhaps this was how all men felt in the presence of such a woman: elegantly confident and unapologetically vivacious, drawing attention everywhere she went.

“Are you still dredging up stories from our Oxford days, Victor? Not very gentlemanly of you. How do you put up with him?” Diana turns to wink at you and the spotlight of her attention makes you feel like the only other person in the room. “Let me assure you those boys deserved every insult in the book; one-track minds and transparent to boot. They should consider themselves lucky I even acknowledged their sad existence.”

“Di, you made the Prime Minister’s son cry. You should’ve seen those puffy eyes the next morning at the swim meet against Cambridge."

Victor raises his brows, subtle amusement colouring his expression. And simple though it was, the sight of his handsome face so transformed by the faint smile on his lips made your heart race.

No, there’s no way. It’s probably just the fatigue catching up to you. The flight to Shanghai from Loveland City must’ve been more taxing than you initially thought, even though Victor had graciously offered to let you hitch a ride on his private jet. You place a hand on your chest, trying to calm the frenzied rhythm of your heart. The gesture goes unnoticed by Diana but Victor throws a worried glance in your direction. You smile to ease his concerns. He furrows his brows.

“Oh please, I should’ve ripped him a new one with the way he tried to get frisky on our date. He’s lucky I didn’t call Soryu to deal with him and his wandering hands.”

A sudden change seeps into Victor’s eyes, dark irises softening as if focused on something miles away. “Soryu. How is your cousin doing, by the way?”

Diana leans back, taking another sip of her drink. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough. I take it you are accompanying this lovely producer to Tokyo to meet with Eisuke and wherever the Ichinomiya heir is, Soryu isn’t far behind. In all honesty though, Vic, surely you would know better than I. Weren’t the three of you thick as thieves during prep school?”

You perk up at the topic of Victor’s childhood. It was a rare chance to learn about the formative years of this stone-faced man before he became the slave driver of Loveland Financial Group.

“I was only there for a year and a half with Soryu and Eisuke before…before my mother passed. My father sent for me shortly afterwards. I haven't seen them since.”

Deep voice trailing off, Victor’s gaze shifts to the fireplace where it remains, as if hypnotized by the flicker of orange flames. And as the silence stretches on, you become disconcerted to see him so uncharacteristically lost in his thoughts. You reach out to touch him but Diana beats you to it, laying a delicate hand on top of his much larger one as it rests on the leather armrest.

The gesture is ridiculously small for how much it blindsides you — the sight of her hand on Victor’s dazzling like the light reflecting off her ruby ring.

He blinks at the touch, long lashes fluttering in the split-second it takes for him to compose himself and suddenly, the unflappable CEO is back again.

“I’m sorry, it’s been a long day and we should probably call it a night. But you have my thanks, Diana, for setting up this meeting with the Ichinomiya Group.”

It was Diana’s turn to scoff. “Can we please dispense with the formalities, Victor? Soryu mentioned Eisuke was having difficulty finding the right people to make this documentary on the anniversary of his Tres Spades Tokyo hotel, so it was serendipity that we bumped into each while on business in London. It’s a win-win situation. Meant to be.”

Meant to be.

There is a spark of something in Diana’s eyes when she makes that last statement. It stays with you long after you part ways with Victor for the night, lying awake in your hotel room as you wondered whether the LFG CEO was already asleep in his.

Chapter 2: SOS

“You’re awfully quiet. Should I take this to mean that you already know everything about Eisuke Ichinomiya and his chain of luxury hotels?"

Victor speaks without raising his head, leafing through the documents on his lap and stopping periodically to leave his signature with the same gold pen that marked up your reports. Its barrel glowed warm, reflecting the soft lights of the cabin of his private jet, en route to Tokyo from Shanghai.

Letting out a shaky breath, you try to steel yourself despite the rising heat in your cheeks. Because after a night spent tossing and turning in your hotel room, you arrived at a conclusion so absurd it could only be true:

You were in love with Victor Li.

Against all odds, the bane of your life had become your biggest ally and mentor. All the pieces of the square puzzle that was the LFG CEO had fallen into place to form one coherent and beautiful picture:

His exacting demands transformed into standards of excellence, his workaholism a paragon of commitment and dedication.

And though you were loathe to admit it, each soft utterance of “dummy” leaving his lips made the corners of yours turn up in the goofiest of grins.

Oh god, how did it ever come to this?! Where and when along the rocky path of your working relationship with the slave driver did you fall in love with him? But that wasn’t even the worst of it. If your intuition about the previous night’s events served you well, the beautiful Diana Shum was also enamoured of him.

You turn to Victor, meaning to inform him with utmost confidence that you had already conducted extensive research on the Ichinomiya Group’s charismatic CEO and his chain of casino hotels. You even thought to throw in a snarky reminder that he himself had been marginally impressed with the presentation you gave on the topic back in Loveland City.

“Are you close to Diana Shum?”

Was NOT what had you meant to ask. Especially in a voice that cracked like a 12 year old pubescent boy’s. And if there was a way by which you could’ve drowned in a bottle of water, you would’ve gladly done so. Instead, you settle for gulping it down, trying to keep your stupid mouth from spewing more nonsense in front of the man who was your de facto boss.

“Ahem.” Victor clears his throat, long legs uncrossing as he shifts in his seat. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the muscles of that chiseled jaw settling firm.

“I-I’m so sorry. It’s none of my business. You don’t have to answer-"

“I’ve known her for a while, if that’s what you’re asking. She’s a classmate from university and also a cousin of a friend of mine from prep school, as you’ve probably gathered from yesterday’s conversation. Since graduation, she’s taken over her father’s role as CEO of Shum Property Developments and we’ve partnered periodically on various business ventures…”

He continues and you nod at the appropriate times, half listening as a million thoughts filtered through your head: your surprise at how unusually verbose Victor was being, the relief you felt to see that he was as determined to avoid your gaze as you were his. Because the truth was that the longer he went on about Diana — so beautiful, polished and charming that you couldn’t find it in yourself to hate her even if you tried — the harder it was to keep the clouds from darkening your face. And when Victor says,

“Not like it has any bearing on anything now, but we also dated for a short period of time…”

…It hurts to breathe.

Finally turning in your direction, Victor fixes you with a scrutinizing gaze. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, um, I just…wanted to know a bit more about the person who helped me and my company. So I can better thank her later.”

You speak without meeting his eyes, hoping to placate him with a quick smile as you pretend to rummage through your purse. Thankfully, he drops the topic, returning to his documents. And though the rest of the plane ride is spent in near silence, the thoughts in your head have never been so loud.

Chapter 3: Sexy Bones [Victor]

She wore that dress today. The same one she had on when she impudently stormed my office to insist that I give her company a final chance before pulling funding:

Fitted to conform to every curve, yet formal enough to be professional. Beautifully sensual in her usual understated way. My favourite shade of red.

“It’s my go-to outfit when I need a confidence boost,” she told me once in between bites of pudding at Souvenir. “It makes me feel like a queen, like I can do no wrong. Perfect for business meetings I just have to nail, you know?”

“Dummy,” I had said then, feigning dismissiveness so she wouldn’t pick up on the way my eyes kept drifting towards her lips, so soft and plush I couldn’t help but wonder if her kisses would carry a hint of caramel sweetness.

It was true that the girl could be incredibly dense at times, playing at being queen when she already ruled my heart. Or how oblivious she was to the fact that the British doctor was completely smitten with her during today’s meeting at the Tres Spades Tokyo hotel.

Dr. Luke Foster.

Completely absorbed in reading through what looked to be like a stack of medical journals, Dr. Foster had largely ignored us while Eisuke and Soryu made quick work of introducing the eclectic mix of other associates in the room:

Ota Kisaki, the so-called “Angelic Artist” whose work I was well-acquainted with, having previously spent a small fortune on his painting, Koro of My Kokoro.

Baba Mitsunari, a charming man whose handsome features were made all the more striking by the black fedora and red suit he wore. The girl pointed out that he bore an uncanny resemblance to the cashier we saw at a convenience store earlier that day and I had to agree.

They glossed over a man named Mamoru Kishi, apparently sound asleep in one corner of the room with his face covered by a newspaper and a full ashtray by his side.

Finally, they came to Luke Foster, a blond-haired man with the air of an English gentleman. Eisuke explained that Dr. Foster was the hotel’s on-site physician as well as a fellow alumnus of our prep school, apparently having left for reasons no one wanted to articulate the year before I transferred in.

And when the doctor finally looked up at us from his readings, his eyes took on an almost maniacal quality to see the girl standing by my side.

“Those proportions, those angles….perfect…absolutely perfect!” He exclaimed as if in a daze, standing up suddenly and causing the reading materials to spill from his lap in the process.

He looked completely unhinged, almost like a zombie as he reached out a pale hand towards her collarbones of all places. I stepped in front of her on reflex, only to have the doctor fix me with a piercing gaze as if he had just become aware of my existence and found it thoroughly offensive.

“Annnnd there he goes again,” Ota’s tone was one of exasperation, but there was no mistaking the amusement in the smirk that spread wide across his face.

“Ooh, Lu’s got a new victim! Maybe now he can finally stop staring at the Boss’s girl every time she comes in to clean the penthouse!” Baba chimes in, fingers stroking at his chin as if hatching some mischievous plan.

“Will the lot of ya shaddup!? I’m tryin’ to sleep over here…zzz…” The man with the papers over his head gave a muffled shout before promptly rolling over onto his side.

Soryu just sighed, running a hand over his face. And just when I began to worry that the girl was scared out of her wits, having wandered into this strange den of wolves, she surprised me by chuckling under her breath.

Did the dummy find this funny?

“Tch, ignore them, Victor. Let’s just get on with the presentation,” Eisuke said as he took his seat at the head of a long table. The girl straightened up and immediately got to work, transforming into the consummate professional she always was when it came down to business. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride as I watched her nail her pitch.

Taking a surreptitious glance around at her rapt audience, I stopped at Luke. The intensity of the doctor's stare made me uneasy, the way those blue-grey eyes hovered above the scooped neckline of her red dress, tracing along her collarbones as if he were caressing them with his gaze alone. I mentally berated myself for not putting my suit jacket over her shoulders before she got up there.

And though it was spoken under his breath, Dr. Foster’s murmur of “sexy bones” rang loud and clear in my ears.

Chapter 4: In A (Traffic) Jam [Victor]

“Victor, you won’t believe my luck! Not only did we cinch the Ichinomiya account, I also found the perfect candidate to appear on our Mystery Finder show!”

The girl was practically breathless on the other end of the line, words jumbling together as they came a mile a minute. And though her enthusiasm is as infectious as it is adorable, I remind myself to play it cool. “Really. And who might that be?”

“Dr. Foster!”

HONK!

I swerve back into my lane on reflex, narrowly avoiding an accident as the driver next to me flips me the bird before speeding away. My heart raced, beating fiercely against the cage of my chest, but it had little to do with my near brush with death.

At this moment, I was more concerned with a man who looked like Death himself.

“Oh my god, Victor, what was that? Are you okay?” The concern in her voice is palpable and it makes me think of how kind and tenderhearted she is, of how easily someone could exploit that to their advantage. “This is a bad time, isn’t it? I’m so sorry, I’ll call you ba-”

“Don’t worry about it, just some idiot not paying attention on the road. And what's this about, ahem, Dr. Foster?" The name itself was unsavoury, sticking in my throat until I spat it out. I hoped the vitriol escaped her notice.

“Okay Victor, get this: it’s like the man has X-ray vision!”

She whispers for dramatic effect, and my grip tightens on the steering wheel as I picture those slate grey eyes sweeping over the curves of her body, a lewd expression falling over the doctor’s features. He was a handsome enough man, that much was true; intelligent and a first-rate surgeon according to Eisuke and Soryu. Goldman confirmed as much when I had him dig up all available information on Luke Foster. On that basis alone, many women would find him to be an extremely attractive suitor and ludicrous though it is, I can’t help but think the worst. Luke had been quite open in his admiration of her, especially her collarbones. What if she returned the sentiment?

In retrospect, it was a horrible idea to leave her to her work (and that wolf) in Tokyo while I returned to mine in Loveland City. While she had the company of her coworkers, clearly none of them sensed the danger in Luke Foster that I did. I no longer had the right to call her a dummy when I was obviously the idiot here.

“I’m telling you Victor, he can just look at somebody and tell you everything about their bone structure. It’s too accurate to just be guesswork! Apparently, he can remember anyone he's ever laid eyes on based on their bones. It’s incredible. I’d love for Professor Lucien to meet him. If only he had the time to fly out to Tokyo…”

The girl continues and I catch sight of my furrowed brows in the rear-view mirror, deepening the longer she goes on and on about men who weren’t me.

“…He’s already agreed to be a guest on the show! But…he did make a rather strange request."

For a moment, I can barely breathe. The skin over my knuckles blanches as it stretches tight, my grip on the wheel growing harder as I brace for unwelcome news. God knows what she would’ve agreed to in my absence. Filled with a sense of dread, I had to know all the same. “Which was?…”

She pauses, the hitch in her breath subtle but speaking volumes nonetheless.

“Just say it, dummy.” I soften my tone in encouragement though my mind was already racing, thinking of all the ways my legal team could dissolve a contract should the girl have already signed papers.

“Well, he…he asked if he could examine my body in lieu of payment for appearing on the show. You should’ve seen him! He was so desperate he was practically begging and I…I just couldn't say no."

MOTHERFUCK!

Chapter 5: Role Model

“STUPID VICTOR LI!”

You had meant to throw the rolled-up magazine in dramatic rock star fashion, sending it flying across your suite at the Tres Spades Tokyo hotel to give at least a resounding smack as it hits the wall. Instead, it flutters to the carpeted floor, barely a few feet from where you lay sprawled out on a bed much too large for a single person.

And from the surface of that glossy cover, Victor’s handsome face — all sharp eyes and chiseled jaw - staring up at you from beneath a headline that read: "Man On Top: How Victor Li Conquered The Business World.”

Man on top. What a tease if there ever was one — especially since you’ve developed the recent habit of falling asleep to the fantasy of having the broad expanse of Victor’s muscular chest hovering over you.

“The only thing he should be on top of is ME!”

Your voice echoes in the room, empty save for you. Even still, your cheeks burned from embarrassment over the absurdity of your current situation. Victor Li didn’t belong to you. Not when he had someone like Diana in his life.

Victor and Diana. Diana and Victor. A perfect match regardless of how the pieces fit. And for an instant, your anger flares to remember the nonchalance in Victor’s voice when he told you that their past history as lovers had no bearing on the present, as if they didn’t look like they belonged together when you saw them just now in the lobby of the hotel, moments after you purchased the magazine with Victor’s face gracing the cover from one of the shops.

Practically ecstatic in your surprise to see him there at the Tres Spades, you were just about to call out to him when his name died in your throat, choked by the sight of the woman at his side. Victor was escorting Diana to a limo waiting just beyond the revolving doors. And the last thing you saw before the chauffeur pulled away was the two of them slipping into the vehicle together.

He hadn’t even told you he was coming to Tokyo.

It was only after you became aware of the fact that you were blocking the entrance to the shop that you recovered from the shock, murmuring apologies as you pulled yourself together just enough to make your way back to the safety of your hotel room.

Rising up off the bed, your feet sink into the lush carpeting as you pad over to where the magazine lay. You pick it up and smooth out the crinkles, fingers tracing the outline of Victor’s profile as you do — gentle, as if you were touching the man himself. And when your nose begins to tingle, you know it won’t be long before you feel the familiar sting of tears behind your eyes.

“Think you could stop being so nice to me, Victor? You’ll give a girl the wrong impression.”

Heaving a sigh, you slip the magazine beneath a pillow on the bed. A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table told you it was almost time for your dinner date with Dr. Foster. Sitting around moping wasn’t an option, at least not tonight. Lightly slapping your cheeks, you push the image of Victor and Diana out of your head and get ready to step into the shower.

Chapter 6: Hard To Swallow [Victor]

“I’m glad you remembered that you owe me a dinner, Victor Li. And though I practically had to drag you to this restaurant, I guess the means don’t really matter if the end result is the same. But still, what a lucky coincidence that we bumped into each other again at the Tres Spades of all places. Now that’s something to drink to.”

Diana holds up her glass, Cabernet Sauvignon swirling as it meets mine with a delicate clink. Under the table, the tip of her stiletto pushes against my oxfords before sliding past my ankle, inching its way up my leg. I pull away, watching those red lips spread into a smile as I do.

“You might be the first man who’s ever been able to resist me. Has anyone ever told you you’re one stubborn asshole?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She laughs at that, taking another sip of her wine before setting it down. “So, tell me about her.”

“Her?” I focus on cutting into my Kobe beef, already aware that Diana will see through my bluff. She always did.

“Surely there must be another woman if you keep turning me down over and over again, Victor. A girl has her pride too, you know.”

“We are not getting back together, Diana.”

“Tsk, you’re no fun, Vic. All work and no play, all the time. I’ll have to remind myself of that the next time I start entertaining thoughts of calling you up again.”

She pouts, but it isn’t long before her eyes take on that familiar spark of mischief as she continues.

“But seriously, tell me about your cute little producer. That is the girl you keep rejecting me for, I presume. I need to know about the woman who’s finally managed to infiltrate the entirety of Victor Li’s notoriously impenetrable heart. She must be quite the lover if she’s got you wrapped around her little finger like that, pulling strings with all your friends left, right and centre.”

It annoys me to no end that the mere mention of the girl is enough to reduce me to a swooning idiot. I fight to keep the smile off my face.

“You’ve got the wrong idea. She’s not my lover.”

Diana begins to protest, but her words are lost on me because I’ve stopped listening. In fact, the only thing I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears, propelled by the adrenaline racing through my veins to see him enter the restaurant.

Dr. Luke Foster.

WITH MY DUMMY, NO LESS.

And my dummy looks…absolutely gorgeous. Her hair is done up, leaving her graceful neck and collarbones exposed in a little black dress I’ve never seen her wear before, I realize with not an insignificant amount of jealousy.

But wait…collarbones?!

Sure enough, that surgeon is staring at her clavicle like some kind of pervert. The sight alone incites the beginnings of a dull throbbing in my temples, no doubt exacerbated by the vice-like clench of my jaws.

I follow them with my gaze as they are led to a table for two; fixate on Luke’s face even as the sommelier arrives to make his recommendations to the pair. The doctor stares at my girl like he couldn’t care less about the meal, as if the only thing he hungered for was precisely what I myself had desired for so long: the woman. And she—

Just looked my way.

Surprise etches itself onto her beautiful features — the brows I had dreamt of one day lightly running a fingertip over while she sleeps lifting into a delicate arch. And why shouldn’t she be surprised? I had given her no indication that I had rushed over to Tokyo from Loveland City as soon as I heard what Luke had requested of her.

But there is no nod of acknowledgement, no smile in greeting. Just her, looking away as if she hadn’t seen me at all, her smile apologetic when she retrains her attention on the doctor. And while it was only for a fraction of a second, I could have sworn her eyes carried a hint of sorrow.

Or perhaps I’m projecting.

Because her obvious avoidance feels like a rebuff, a sucker punch to the gut. She’s never blatantly ignored me like that, no matter how wound up she was even during those times when I verbally tore her sub-par proposals to shreds. The feeling of rejection sits heavy on my chest, the tie around my neck much too tight.

“Victor, are you all right?”

Diana’s voice cuts through my thoughts. She is looking at me curiously. I reach for my glass of wine, suddenly feeling like I was on the verge of choking. “Of course, what could possibly be wrong?”

“ ‘What’s wrong’ is the fact that you haven’t listened to a single word I’ve said for the past ten minutes. Even if there’s no chance we’ll ever get back together again as you so adamantly insist, the least you could do is pay attention to the person you’re sharing a meal with.”

I take a deep breath, more than a little disconcerted by the girl’s ability to affect me. “Of course. My apologies, you’re absolutely right. Please, continue.”

Across the candlelit table, I look Diana in the eye, resolved to keep up at least the pretence of being interested in what she had to say when all I wanted to do was storm the table where Luke sat with my girl. With each sideways glance in their direction, my grip tightened on my utensils to see them chatting, seemingly engrossed in the world’s most interesting conversation.

And when she hands over a manila envelope to the doctor, my heart skips a beat.

Could it be…marriage documents?!

One tiny corner of my brain berates me for how ridiculous I am being but when it comes to her, I simply can’t help it, and the fantasy in which I casually stroll over, flip the table onto Luke Foster and steal my girl away in a bridal carry becomes so vivid in my mind’s eye, it almost seems like a good idea.

Diana excuses herself to use the restroom and I pounce on the opportunity to send the dummy a text:

“MEET ME AT THE BAR IN THE TRES SPADES HOTEL IN AN HOUR. DON’T BE LATE.”

Chapter 7: Choked Up

“Is there something wrong, Dr. Foster? You haven’t touched your meal.”

You do your best to school your expression into one of polite neutrality as you take in the strange sight of the pale, blond-haired man shaking out an alarming number of pills onto the palm of his hand, tapping loudly on a bottle seemingly produced out of nowhere. He pops them all into his mouth at once and you pray you won’t have to perform the Heimlich maneuver as he chases them down with a few gulps of water.

A smile spreads across the doctor’s lips as his eyes fall upon your collarbones once more. You were used to feeling like a third wheel by now, even when alone with Luke Foster, given his penchant for carrying on conversations while staring intently at your bones. But you took no offence at his behaviour, especially after Baba’s attempts to give you insight into Luke’s peculiar mannerisms:

“Try not to take it personal, Miss. Lu will look at anyone who’s got beautiful collarbones. It’s a well-known fact that he’s obsessed with the boss’s - he's even framed the X-ray films of Eisuke’s bones. He likely just wants yours to add to his collection.”

Strange though it was, the request that Luke be allowed to have X-rays films of your collarbones in exchange for appearing on Miracle Finder was innocent enough. Certainly nothing that warranted the stony silence you received on the other end of the line when you called Victor the other day to tell him that Dr. Foster wanted to examine you. After a brusque “I have to go,” he had hung up. No goodbyes, not even a mutter of “dummy.”

But Luke Foster had been nothing short of a perfect gentleman, never once laying a hand on you. Moreover, he even insisted on paying for tonight’s meal despite the fact that you had invited him as thanks for appearing on the show.

“Please, just call me Luke. Vitamins and water are all I need to survive. I only ordered because Eisuke said it might be awkward if you seemed to be the only one dining.”

“I-I see.” You smile, taking another bite of wagyu. And for a moment, you are too wrapped up in the blissful way it seemed to melt on your tongue to be disconcerted by the strange events of the evening.

You weren’t, however, too distracted to continue throwing surreptitious glances in Victor’s direction, fighting to keep composed each time Diana’s laughter carried over to your table. What were the chances that you’d find yourselves at the same restaurant in all of Tokyo? You know that he knows you are here; even Chik couldn’t put on a performance convincing enough for the LFG CEO to believe for a second that you didn’t see him.

With your dismal acting skills, you definitely didn’t stand a chance.

“You’re in love with him.”

COUGH, COUGH!

You clear the steak lodged in the back of your throat with a few hacking coughs, half of your face hidden behind your napkin as you tried to be as discreet as possible, the words “Death by Wagyu” flashing through your mind. After soothing your throat with a sip of wine, you ask:

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re in love with that man sitting just over there with the woman dressed in red. That Victor fellow who accompanied you to that first meeting with Eisuke.”

For someone who seemed to pay very little attention to matters that didn’t concern bones, Luke Foster was surprisingly perceptive. Or maybe you weren’t as discrete as you thought you were and it was obvious to all but yourself that you were staring at the golden couple.

“I…how did you...what makes you—”

“Please pass this message on to him for me. If he doesn’t treat your collarbones with the respect they deserve, he can’t blame me for swooping in to take his place.”

Then, for the very first time that night, Luke Foster looks you in the eye, the intensity in blue-grey irises making your breath hitch when he says: “Until then, I hope you find happiness with him, Sexy Bones — especially since he also seems to be exceedingly fond of you. Quite the annoyance, really.”

And for the very first time that night, you smile freely, naturally, at Luke, blushing hard as you contemplate his words. Suddenly bashful, you drop your gaze only to catch sight of the manila envelope you brought with you. You pass it across the table to him.

“Here. Your payment for agreeing to appear on Miracle Finder.”

The expression on Luke’s face can best be described as euphoric when he takes the films from you, momentarily excusing himself from the table as he murmurs something about requiring brighter lighting to examine them.

That is when you hear the buzz of your phone from inside your purse. And when you finally fish it out, you see a single text from Victor, commanding as always:

“MEET ME AT THE BAR IN THE TRES SPADES HOTEL IN AN HOUR. DON’T BE LATE.”

Chapter 8: Green-Eyed Monsters [Victor]

“Another whiskey on the rocks for you, Sir?”

I nod to the bartender, watching as he chips away at a block of ice to produce a perfect crystalline sphere — still spinning in the glass when he pours the amber spirit over it like a libation. It almost takes my mind off the fact that the girl is late. By exactly ten minutes, according to my watch. And for a moment, I’m gripped by a sense of panic when I consider the possibility that she might not come.

She never did answer my text though I knew she saw it — having witnessed her reaching into her purse to pull out her phone seconds after I sent the message. And while the logical part of my brain is telling me I’m being an absolute idiot, worst-case scenarios are already running through my head: the girl is side-swiped by a car while crossing the street, or somehow managed to fall into an open manhole and is currently standing knee-deep in sewage.

Or maybe she is pinned to the wall in a dark corner somewhere, hemmed in on either side by the gifted hands of a world-class surgeon by the name of Luke Foster.

I lift the glass to my lips, too impatient to even savour the smooth burn of the drink as I reach for my phone to send her another text. That is when I see her:

Cheeks flushed and chest gently heaving as if she had rushed to get here. An errant lock of hair falling from her up-do, framing that beautiful face like I had dreamt so many times of doing with the palm of my hand.

She makes her way towards me in that dimly lit bar, and though I’m aware of the faint ticking of the second hand of my watch, time may as well have stood still. Because I could have lived in that moment forever, gazing upon the light in her eyes as if they held every last star in the sky, as if those heavenly bodies had fallen just for her in precisely the same way I had: deeply, irrevocably.

And I know there is no turning back.

“Victor, sorry I’m late! What are you doing here in Tok—”

“Why did you ignore me?” My voice comes out stern, even to my ears, and I curse myself for losing my cool around her yet again. The girl furrows her brows, eyes dropping from my face to the half-empty glass of whiskey sitting on the counter. And when she looks up again, something in her countenance has changed — soft surprise giving way to a hardened expression.

“If it’s the text you’re referring to, I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

She looks away, refusing to meet my gaze as she perches on the stool beside me. “Surely you wouldn’t have wanted me to interrupt your dinner date, especially when you and Ms. Shum seemed so intimate.”

Intimate?

The bartender approaches, interrupting our conversation before I get the chance to formulate a reply. “What can I get for you, Miss?”

“She’ll have a glass of warmed milk—”

“Whiskey. On the rocks, please.”

She speaks over me, turning slightly in my direction as she does. I ignore the murmur of “Ladies’ choice” from the bartender as well as the smirk on his face as he begins preparing her drink. The thinly veiled challenge in the girl’s expression — elbow propped up on the counter with her chin resting atop a loose fist — only serves to highlight how incredibly alluring it is when she pushes back.

“Hmm. Bold. Since when did you start drinking whiskey? I don’t think you need me to remind you of your non-existent alcohol tolerance. Besides, didn’t you already have enough to drink at dinner?”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, Victor Li,” she says, reaching for the glass the bartender sets down before her. She takes a moment, staring at the rich, golden hues before finally taking a sip. I fight to keep the smile off my face when hers pulls into a grimace from the sting of the alcohol she clearly wasn’t familiar with. Dummy.

“I’m surprised you even noticed me at all, not with the lovely Diana there. But I guess old wounds really do have difficulty closing, no matter how much we say they’ve healed.”

“You’d have to ask for the expert opinion of your overly friendly doctor about that.”

“Excuse me?” She sets her drink down a bit harder than likely intended, sending the liquid sloshing about the glass to kiss the pink of her lipstick imprinted on its edge.

I don’t like where this conversation is going, the ill-disguised barbs only serving to increase the tension between us. It was foolish to have what should’ve been a very private discussion in a public space but, as always, the thought of her and Luke together is enough to make me forget my place and position, throwing caution to the wind and behaving with reckless abandon.

And still, the heat beneath my collar goads me on.

“Luke Foster. The one you’re so enthralled with that your manners seem to have been completely swept from memory. I presume that’s the reason why you didn’t acknowledge my existence when you saw me in the restaurant.”

Her eyes widen in disbelief as she leans in close, voice dripping with sarcasm: “Just like how you didn’t remember to tell me you were coming to Tokyo? Or maybe you weren’t planning on telling me at all, since it clearly looked like you weren’t here on business. But then again, I guess your business is none of mine.”

I don’t know whether I want to push back or kiss her senseless.

Instead, I settle for a deep breath, trying to keep my frustration in check. Having a heated argument with her was not how I had intended my evening to go. In fact, my entire day had not proceeded as planned, and if I hadn’t been accosted by Diana as soon as I stepped foot in the Tres Spades hotel, I would have been having dinner with the woman who occupied all my thoughts, all the time. At the very least, I could’ve saved her from the clutches of a pervert doctor.

I glance in her direction, study the beautiful melancholy of her silent profile as she watches the ball of ice slowly melt into her drink. Then I take another sip of mine, steeling myself for reparations I desperately needed to make.

“I am only going to say this once, so listen closely. Diana Shum and I dated shortly after graduation for all of two months before we decided to part ways on amicable terms. We make for much better business partners than we ever did romantically, and while she has expressed occasional interest in rekindling our relationship, I have never been of the same mind. I can assure you this will never change.

“The reason I came to Tokyo is not because of her — professional or otherwise — but because I was in a rush to prevent a certain dummy from doing anything she’d regret later on. But…”

I knock back the rest of my whiskey, emptying the glass.

“…I’m afraid I’m too late.”

She looks at me now, eyes wide as if she were still processing the words. Her next question comes on a whisper: “Why would you be too late?”

And it is my turn to look away.

“Well, you seemed to be pretty intimate yourself with Dr. Foster during your dinner date. I can only presume that…”

The girl moves closer and I can’t help the way my eyes are drawn to her mouth — the tremble of her lower lip, full and pink and lush. Without thought, I allow my gaze to trace along the graceful column of her neck, settling at the delicate notch between her collarbones and in that instant, I come to a visceral understanding of the extent of Luke Foster’s obsession, for mine was magnified a million times over:

I yearned for the entirety of this woman before me — needed her for myself, now and forever.

“Presume what?” Her voice is low, shaking.

“I can only presume that you’ve already allowed him to…examine your body.”

There is a moment of silence — each torturous second seeming to stretch into eternity to smother the last embers of hope.

“I have…”

Oh god.

“…given him X-ray films of my collarbones as he requested. That is all. He’s never touched me, not even once. I took him out to dinner tonight so I could give them to him as thanks for appearing on the show.”

Petty. Sheepish. I felt all these things, but none so powerful as the staggering sense of relief that washes over me to hear her say these words. Closing my eyes, I let the revelation sink in, finally feeling like I can breathe for the very first time that night.

Chapter 9: The Big Bang

You don’t quite know what made you do it.

The ambience of the bar, perhaps: sultry jazz and flickering candles purposefully placed to create just enough shadows for a veil of privacy.

Or maybe it was the crestfallen uncertainty that painted the handsome features of Victor Li’s face, his sudden display of vulnerability both novel and endearing.

Most likely however, it was the way in which his downcast expression morphed into one of ecstatic relief when you told him that Luke Foster had not laid a single finger on you.

Because when Victor tilts his head back, eyes closed and sighing deeply as if some unfathomable burden had been lifted, you cannot help but bring your lips to the Adam’s apple bobbing along the length of that strong, thick neck.

Cedar wood and pine.

The notes of his cologne are so familiar you didn’t realize how much you missed his scent until you literally came face to face with it. Victor is warm, so very warm beneath the skin of your lips. And under your touch, you become vaguely aware of the fact that the rise and fall of his chest has stilled.

At any other time, you would’ve questioned your sanity for how boldly you were behaving, especially towards someone who was your boss. You had never been one to put yourself out there when it came to matters of the heart. Something about the moment however, about Victor, made you feel like the one thing you could not do was let this chance pass you by.

So when you hear that shuddering breath, feel the faint scratch of his five o’clock shadow when he nuzzles against you in return, you know you’ve made the right gamble. Being with Victor Li feels right. And the surreal sense of belonging you find within the embrace of his muscular arms gives you the courage to say, “You must really believe I’m a dummy if you think I’d let any man other than you touch me.”

He slides a finger beneath your chin, gently lifting until all you can see are those jet black eyes, swimming with heat and emotion. The sudden silence of your surroundings sinks in: no more music, no idle chatter. Not even the rustle of limbs moving about in the dimly lit bar. And there, in the strange privacy of suspended time…

...Victor kisses you.

* * *

“Are you sure…this is…what you want?”

The deep timbre of Victor’s voice sends a thrill vibrating along the surface of your skin as he questions you between kisses — laid on your mouth, the line of your jaw, the pulse of your neck. His firm body presses you into a corner of the elevator, empty save for the two of you writhing in unison against a mirrored wall.

Each movement of his soft lips against yours is purposeful, imbued with meaning: longing in the gentle teeth that nibbled on your lower lip before drawing it into his mouth, in the sensual slide of the tongue that sought yours. Affection obvious in the hands that rose to cup your face, thumbs tracing circles on the apples of reddened cheeks to tell you in no uncertain terms that Victor Li belonged to you as much as you yearned to belong to him.

So you had no qualms about answering in the affirmative, nodding your head because the press of Victor’s muscular thigh between your legs already left you breathless and wondering whether he could feel your wet heat seeping through your panties.

And all he really did was kiss you.

Ding.

The elevator stops at your floor and even before the doors slide open, Victor has hoisted you up, wrapping your legs tightly about his tapered waist and whispering into your ear, “Which room?”

You knew Victor was fit, had seen him move fast and effortlessly through the waters of his Olympic-sized swimming pool that one time he had you deliver a report to his mansion on a Sunday. And yet, you could not help but admire the sheer perfection of his physique — the bulk of his biceps, flexed beneath strained layers of clothing; the ease with which he carries you all the way to your suite.

And when he sits you down upon the king-sized bed, you wonder if it is, in fact, too small for all the things you cared to do with him.

The LFG CEO shrugs off his suit jacket, loosening his tie just enough to pull it over his head before dropping to kneel at your feet. You watch him reach for you, shiver when he caresses the sensitive skin behind your knee with a light graze of gentle fingertips. Large hands trail down your calf — touch barely there and teasing — until his palm finally cups the heel of your stiletto to slide it off your foot.

He looks up at you then, the intensity in ebony irises rendering you still and mute as you patiently await his next move despite the frenzied pounding in your chest. There is a stroke of something almost feral in the dark depths of the gaze that falls heavy upon you — searching your eyes, lingering on your lips…tracing the neckline of your dress.

“I’ve never seen you wear this dress before.” Victor says, taking the same amount of care to remove the shoe from your other foot.

And if you were able to think straight under the influence of his touch — the hands that pushed back the hem of your dress as they roamed higher and higher up your thighs towards your heat — you might have found it strange that Victor was choosing now, of all times, to comment on your wardrobe choices. As it was, you answered without second thought: “It’s new. I bought it especially for tonight’s dinner.”

Victor stills and when he speaks again, there is a faint tremble in that voice, as if fighting to contain some unfathomable emotion.

“The doctor couldn’t stop staring at you. I know because I was the same way. I couldn’t look away from the moment you stepped foot in that restaurant.”

The revelation leaves you silent, waiting with bated breath for Victor to continue.

“Forgive me…”

Fingers entwine with fabric, gripping tight.

“…but I can’t stand the thought of you looking so beautiful for anyone else.”

RRRIIIIPPPP!

You fall back, wincing at the sound even as you feel your body respond to the sudden shock of having your dress torn right down the middle. Victor’s display of brute strength was so at odds with the façade of composure he was synonymous with and yet, there was no denying that you were incredibly aroused by this show of power — by the fact that he was now straddling you on all fours like some wild beast, tearing away the rest of your undergarments to leave you completely bare.

You’ve never been so desperate to feel him inside you, deep and rough and untamed. The thought throws you into a frenzy of lust.

Digging your fingers into the front of his dress shirt, you yank it open to send buttons flying in haphazard directions, but the only thing that concerned you was the sight of that broad chest and muscular torso, so impressive it actually elicits a moan from your lips and a smile from his in return.

Propping yourself up onto your knees, you press against him, flesh to flesh — one hand running over the burning surface of his skin even as the other tugs at the buckle of his leather belt, impatiently moving to palm him when his dress pants fall and gasping to finally see and feel the full extent of the LFG CEO:

Victor Li is rock hard and intimidatingly large.

And the sight makes your mouth water.

Sinking onto your heels, you trail your lips along Victor’s chiseled body, tongue teasing at his nipples as you do and relishing the catch of his breath in his throat.

But just as you begin to lay kisses along the deep V of his abdomen with the intent of tracing lower and lower, Victor stops you, puling you up for a kiss before laying back on the bed and positioning you above him…

…with his face between your legs.

“This way,” he says, voice muffled, and you might have commented on his inability to relinquish control even in the bedroom were it not for the sensation of his flattened tongue sweeping hot and wet along the seam of your already dripping pussy, teasing from end to end.

The sensation is so intense it’s almost unbearable. You throw your head back, mouth dropping in a silent scream as you sink onto Victor’s face, fighting the instinct to grinder lower onto that talented tongue despite the encouraging grip of Victor’s hands, strong on your hips and thighs.

“I’ve wanted to taste you…for so long,” he murmurs, sucking the swell of your clit into his mouth and humming in approval against moist flesh to hear you moan above him. “Your flavour is absolutely exquisite.”

Gathering your wits, you fold forward — intent on giving just as much pleasure as you were receiving. Victor twitches once within your grip, not quite contained by the circumference of your palm and fingers, running up and down the sizeable length of his cock, hot in your hand like his breath on your slit. And after placing a few wet kisses on the smooth, hard head, you open your mouth to taste him.

The tepid salt of his arousal. The groans originating from deep within Victor’s chest each time your lip brushed past the tender underside of his cock. The subtle rhythm of his pelvis, lifting in time to your mouth swallowing more of that solid shaft, quickly becoming slick with your saliva.

And then you catch sight of your reflection in the mirrored closet. See the bulge of Victor’s bicep as he grips your hip, the flex in the muscles of his neck when he lifts to bury his face deeper into your folds. See yourself: hair disheveled and eyes half-lidded, drunk on sex. Observe the messy smear of your lipstick as your mouth stretches to accommodate more and more of your boss’s cock. And when the tip of Victor’s tongue begins its relentless tease of your clit, you watch as a most debauched expression falls over your features, the tension in your body breaking as you find release on his lips.

You are still shaking when he enters you, sensitized by an orgasm that left tiny sparks of electricity running along every nerve, priming you for second helpings. A true paragon of patience, Victor Li takes his time, deliberately slow as he pushes — savouring the sensation of drenched, swollen flesh parting just for him.

It was almost unfathomable that you could experience such extreme pleasure, each powerful swing of Victor’s hips driving him deeper into your body — hitting just the right angles until your very senses were extracted along with your second release of the night, running slick between your legs to ease the slippery slide of your bodies.

It draws out Victor’s own, your lover moving to pull out moments before you surprise him by taking him once more into your mouth — gaze locked onto those dark eyes from below as you taste him on your tongue, euphoric to see him bite his lips when your lick yours to swallow every last drop.

Chapter 10: Pillow Talk

Beep Beep Beep Beep.

You roll over, eyes still closed as you reach out to hit the snooze button on the alarm clock.

Except your palm comes down on warm flesh with a resounding smack, echoing throughout your hotel room and accompanied by a deep voice that says, “Are you finally awake, Dummy?”

Your eyes shoot open to see Victor lying naked in bed next to you, a splotch of red blooming on his chest where he had been attacked. He sets his phone down to hand you a glass of water from the bedside table, and even though memories of the previous night come rushing back to burn your cheeks, you cannot help but notice how glorious he looks bathed in morning light. You hope he doesn’t see the way your hand shakes when you accept the glass from him with a meek “Thanks.”

Victor clears his throat, waiting for you to finish drinking before he says, “That was the fourth time you slept through the alarm. I’ve already informed your colleagues you’ll be taking the day off. We didn’t get much sleep last night and I think you’ll need some time to…recover.”

You bite your lip, turning sideways to feign a sudden interest in the curtains so he wouldn’t see the giant smile spreading onto your face. It was almost surreal that Victor Li was your lover, and if it weren’t for the exquisite soreness you felt between your legs, you would’ve been hard pressed to believe it for yourself.

The sheets rustle and before you know it, Victor has his chest pressed up against your bare back, laying a soft kiss on your shoulder before he rests his chin on it.

“How are you feeling?” He asks.

“Okay. Pretty good, actually.” It was too early in the game to tell him you were already doing cartwheels in your mind.

“Good. I’m glad to hear that because I found this under your pillow…”

He places something in your hands. Your eyes widen when you recognize the magazine with his face on the cover.

“…And this ‘man on top’ wants to know what it feels like to have this woman on top of him for the rest of the day.”

You’ve made it to the end! 🤩 Thank you so much for reading! Check out more of my work here! 📚

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blackxkatt · 3 years

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I need this out and I don’t know where else to put it because if I put it anywhere where people might see, I’m giving more ammunition to the idea that I’m just some monster or something, and I'm tired of having to hedge every bit of opening up about this with, "I know I fucked up, too". It's time for me to be able to tell my story without diminishing my own experiences.

I used to vent to the void on tumblr a lot so I figure this is a good place to do so. Writing out stuff like this is a good therapy technique, and I don’t hurt anyone this way. Okay here goes

My relationship with Becky was awful. In hindsight, I should have ended it so much sooner than I did, but I kept trying to force it because I wanted it to work. We were awful for each other. We made each other worse people. It needed to end.

I did everything I could thing of to make the break up smooth for her. I avoided Easter so that I wasn’t marring a holiday. I asked Tanner to cancel D&D for the day (little did I know, I was canceling that game forever) so that she’d have a week until we had to exist in the same space again, even virtually. I drove to her house, so she wouldn't have to deal with a drive before or after. I knew she had therapy the next day, so that she’d have time to process and professional help soon. I didn’t bring up anything either of us did and didn’t bring up any blame. I said we were just incompatible, because we were. I told her I understood if she didn’t want to be friends -- she said she did. I said if that changes, just let me know. I held her while she cried, walked her dog with her, and went home.

Over the next week, she began to escalate attacks towards me with no warning. On the morning of our D&D game, 2 hours before we had to coexist in front of our friends, she sent me a list of grievances during our relationship and demanded an apology for them, to help her healing. I wanted to be done with this, I had thought that the break up meant we could finally be done with it. I apologized regardless, because I knew I wasn’t perfect and had admitted when I’d fucked up before in the relationship, but not for all of it because some of it plainly wasn’t true. I asked if I could respond and ask for an apology for my own healing. She said no, she didn’t care, and that she wouldn’t let me make it all about myself.

She demanded Tanner message her practically every second of every day, elsewise she’d melt down that he was spending time with me instead of her, when we live together. She literally got pissed off that I visited his Animal Crossing island before her. Tanner couldn’t even mention me neutrally without her going on a tirade about how awful I am and how he shouldn’t defend me, let alone mention that I was hurt, too.

Eventually, she blocked me. I had spent the entire time keeping the door open and trying to maintain a friendship, both because I didn’t want to lose that, and for Tanner’s sake, and meanwhile she was nuking the bridge. I couldn’t handle it anymore. I couldn’t see myself being metamours with someone who so clearly and actively hated me.

Tanner, on advice from a counselor, sat us both down to talk about our abusive tendencies and how this was affecting him. The first thing she did was give me the most disgusted look when she walked in. She nodded vigorously during the entire bit where Tanner raised his issues with my behavior.

Almost all of what Tanner talked to me about were things we’d worked on in the past, that I’d been fine on, that I’d backslid on since dating Becky. Others we’d discussed before and he’d been fine with, but had changed since. The rest, he later apologized for, because he realized he was being abusive in those expectations and hadn’t been concerned with fairness at the time. Almost all of what he brought up wasn't new, because Tanner and I have checked in with each other and worked on our relationship for almost 7 years.

Meanwhile, Becky continued to be abusive to him, in the same ways she had been to me, amped up to 1000. And I had to sit and let it happen. I left my own house for hours at a time for them to have dates. I canceled or moved my own plans for her. I had a festering wound I was hoping would heal, because Becky continued to insist to me that we’d forgive each other some day, but I was the only one working towards it, while she cursed me at every opportunity.

This all culminated in her calling Tanner one day, during our date, to demand that he choose between us. To try to convince him to be monogamous with her. To tell him how awful I am and that she can’t believe he would choose me. To guilt him for daring to do so, even though she’d forced the choice.

I beat myself up, like I was the reason for the break up. But I wasn’t. Even if I wasn’t in the picture, she was abusive and had continued to be without pause. It was her own jealousy and refusal to heal that ended their relationship. I know that now. But it took awhile for my anger to set in. It did once I found out she messaged him more times after that to try to convince him, once again, to leave me, and once again getting upset with him when he wouldn’t.

I waited for a while before asking Tanner if he was alright with me cutting Becky out, since after those instances, I didn’t see our relationship being positive again, at least not for quite awhile, and I’d spent months swallowing my pain for the sake of their relationship and couldn’t do it anymore. That was when I found out, from him, that Becky had already cut me out with no intention to recover. She had remained in all of our group chats, so that was news to me. It was power I was not willing to let her hold over me any longer, pretending she was the bigger person for being silent in the chats but not leaving them. I won’t be made into a monster for defining and defending my boundaries for the first time since the break up. It was unfair of her to remain in every single chat when she’d made it clear she was cutting us, or at least me, out, forcing me to face that trigger every day, giving me almost to reprieve or space to vent about my own pain. I asked friends to remove her from those shared chats, and they did, and I refuse to be made into a villain for being the one to cut the last of the bridge she’d torched. The last one is the d&d game that wasn’t destroyed with our relationship, and it’s the last thorn in my wound keeping me from healing, but Tanner and I are both scared that group will fall apart, too, if she’s removed, due to reactions in another chat she was removed from. So, I have to continue to swallow that, for who knows how long.

Now that that story is out, I’m going to list what I can about my and Becky’s relationship -- her abuse, her gaslighting, making sense of it all and getting out what she never let me.

-A lot of our problems stemmed from the fact that I didn’t react how she wanted. She would be abusive or demanding, and instead of reacting like Tanner, who would submit for the sake of keeping the peace, I would push back, either calmly or not so calmly due to it triggering me. Both elicited negative responses. We triggered each other this way often.

-She was racist to me. She weaponized the exact racism I told her I had experienced from almost every white person I’d ever known, even my loved ones. She promised she never would and then did exactly it, armed with the knowledge of how to shut me down. She told me I *was* aggressive, actually, that she’d surveyed my friends and they all agreed that I was aggressive, and by insisting that I wasn’t, by defending myself, I was gaslighting her. Oh, and she only used the word aggressive because that was the word I’d used, not that she actually thought I was aggressive. Why did I think she thought I was aggressive? That was my own fault. I constantly made myself smaller for her, like I had for so many racist people in my life. I could no longer be all of me anymore.

-She insisted I was incapable of calm discussion (see the racism above), that I deserved her anger and brought it upon myself because it was the only way I listened. Never once in our relationship did she ever say, “can we talk about this?” or anything along those lines, which I would have responded to (and have in other relationships). It was always blowing up out of nowhere because I said the slight wrong thing or didn’t say the right thing or because she’d misunderstood me.

-On misunderstanding, she admitted that she constantly misread me and misunderstood my words due to her past trauma and expectation of negativity. Once upon a time, she told me that if she took what I said in the most positive light, she understood me finally. Yet, later in our relationship, she started insisting that every misunderstanding was my fault, that all poor communication was on me, that I was an anomaly, that I somehow experienced less emotions than other people. When I would refuse any of these accusations or point out what I had actually said, she told me I lacked critical thinking or was gaslighting her.

-Tanner said something that made so many of our problems click: Becky didn’t want a relationship, she wanted codependence. Something she admitted she struggled with, something her family struggles with, and yet I never put it together. She wanted all of our attention, all of the time. Every triad date we had was centered on her. My healthy independence was a threat to her. She insisted I was lying if I didn’t have some deep issue to discuss with her every day. She insisted I was lying when I promised her I wasn’t hiding my life from her, that I just sincerely didn’t have any crisis or something to discuss. My refusal to enable any of her bad habits or abusive behaviors upset her. When we broke up, and she could no longer guarantee all emotional energy was given to her, she spiraled.

-Of many things we’d previously discussed and she said she understood, group chats take less energy for me to participate in, and I was always happy to interact with her in group chats if I couldn’t handle a 1 on 1 chat. Eventually, I was scared to interact in group chats, post online, show any presence that I wasn’t busy or asleep, because she would become upset with me for not messaging her individually.

-The biggest red flag I ignored, one that terrified me so much I told no one about it until I was considering the break up, was when she asked me to choose between herself and my best friend. When I told her I couldn’t do that and was uncomfortable that she’d even asked, she got upset, and I ended up comforting her instead of addressing it any further. And without even realizing it, I began to feel anxious and guilty whenever I interacted with Dan. I would fear even mentioning them to her, because it inevitably resulted in her jealousy. I began to interact with them less (notice a pattern? Interacting with my best friend less, interacting with my group chats less, interacting online in general less...)

-Every concern I brought up ended the same way: she’d say I was gaslighting her, or she’d get upset and I would have to comfort her.

-She was never polyamorous; this is obvious in hindsight. She was a monogamous person who happened to form a crush on two polyamorous people. She would consistently try to persuade me away from polyamory and into maintaining a closed triad, and would get upset with me when I expressed that wasn’t what I wanted. She’d often remind me that she’d be extremely jealous of anyone I ever dated and that they couldn’t be as important as her.

-She said she understood it would take Tanner and I time to feel as close to her as we do with each other. Yet, she was constantly jealous of us and became more and more angry as time went on. She seemed to expect a timescale of months to level out a 7 year relationship with a 7 month one, when it would have taken years.

-Along with codependence, she was looking for a therapist in her SOs. She would have a new breakdown to discuss daily, and a myriad of untreated phobias and illnesses. She’d consistently complain about her therapist; when I made suggestions to tell her therapists her concerns or get a new one, she’d brush it off or insist it wasn’t that bad. If Tanner or I didn’t enable her phobias, she’d get upset with us. We could neither make plans for just us two(though she hates being left out) nor bring her (she hates crowds and spontaneous plans). She’d say she’d come, we’d just have to deal with her crying the whole time. I’d express that we want her to have fun, not suffer, and she’d say she’d suffer either way. We were guilted out of most plans.

-Most of the end of our relationship, that finally made me realize we needed to break up, was a slow change that I’m not sure how it happened. At some point, Becky stopped seeing me; she only saw what fit her preconceived notions of me. She made assumptions about me, my thoughts, my character, who I was. She made up situations in her head and got angry at me for them out of nowhere, with no communication, and the one time she did listen that she'd made up the situation (because Tanner told her), she spiraled into self-hatred, not an apology. She twisted everything I said into some kind of attack against her and insisted every clarification, explanation, or evidence was an excuse. When I would point any of this out, that some of what she said was just plain untrue, she’d once again insist I was gaslighting her. I was trapped. She refused to see the changes I made for her, and was coming up with her own reality of our relationship. Nothing I did mattered anymore; even Tanner told me he saw it. He told me that I had done a lot of work but he didn’t see the same improvement on her end, and that she needed to meet me in the middle if we were going to work. But she only saw the monster she’d made me. I couldn’t continue to date someone who was so committed to misunderstanding me. This is why I only apologized for most of what she said in her list of grievances -- because some was simply untrue. I never lied to her, I never gave her half-apologies -- never in my life have I given anyone an “I’m sorry you feel that way” apology. I apologized for things that didn’t even merit apology. I regressed and backslid on so much healing I had done. She mentally sent me back to high school, convinced me I was who I was as a child, when that was completely untrue. So much of the relationship had become this perfect trap -- where it was damned if I do, damned if I don’t. I ended it because I couldn’t live like that anymore, and I wanted our friendship back. We were awful romantic partners, but such good friends. Not anymore, I guess.

-Every trauma I ever did confide in her, she eventually weaponized against me. She'd recreate every one, or bring them up to silence me. She'd use every moment of vulnerability to further convince me I was an inherently awful person and push me to back slide and regress into trauma I'd grown beyond. Any questioning was met with, yup, I'm gaslighting her or lack introspection.

-She said I never showed interest in her, and I still don't know where that came from. We'd talk about life goals, the world, our ideas. I told her I loved seeing her creative projects and that progress. I read her fan fiction and bragged about it. I don't know when she stopped seeing it, when she stopped seeing me. I introduced her to all of my friends, integrated her into all of my friend groups, because I thought I was building a future with her. But now I'm the villain because she wanted to hold my social life and the friends I'd introduced her to hostage.

-One comment that stuck with me was that she said we weren't even dating, just friends who kissed. She said it again in our last argument before we broke up. I literally didn't know what to do to prove to her that I cared about her, to make her believe me when I said she was my girlfriend. I even came out to my parents about her to try to prove it and it wasn't enough. I got to the point where I almost finally had sex with her just because she wanted it, just to see if that would finally be enough for her to believe me. I'm very glad I didn't.

-She was consistently passive aggressive. She would always say something was fine, then clearly be upset when I'd do it. I'd have to press for there to be any chance of her admitting she didn't like it. There were clear "correct" answers to all of her questions and suggestions, and whenever I refused to acquiesce, it would become an argument.

-Intentions don't matter and all that, but they do. They do, because that's shorthand. She'd constantly use that as a shield, telling me my intentions didn't matter, when at a certain point, she had to be responsible for refusing to hear me. And while intentions don't matter, I never intentionally hurt her, but she intentionally hurt me several times, almost never apologized for it, and in fact insisted to me that I deserved it and had brought it upon myself.

-And I defended her. I continued to defend her for so long, from so many people. I knew she had trauma, and I knew she was in an environment that wasn’t suited to her healing. I convinced myself that I just had to endure until post-pandemic, or until she moved out, or until she got medication she could take, or, or ,or-- and Dan gave me the wake up call that if I was walking on eggshells with her, the environment we were in would only change where I was walking on eggshells with her. Tanner gave me the wake up call that we aren’t even sure she *wants* to leave that house with her family, because of that toxic codependence.

-I’m still terrified of how quickly she turned on me. How quickly she made me a monster. Our break up didn’t have any villains; break ups don’t always need villains. But like a light switch flipping, she turned hatred upon me. She told me that she doesn’t feel empathy and only performs goodness because of a moral code she made for herself, but I never considered what it would be like if she designated me an enemy in that moral code.

Some of this I realized towards the end of our relationship. Some of this I realized after. I’ll add to this post whenever I need to as I parse out more, or remember what I’ve forgotten to add.

I’m not the monster she made me in her story. I’m not responsible for her version of me anymore. I won’t be made to feel guilty or like a villain for finally enforcing my boundaries. I’m still angry that I can’t be open about all of this without continuing to fall into this trap she’s made, of me being awful and hateful instead of abused and rightfully angry. But Tanner and I are the happiest we’ve been in a year. I deeply regret that relationship, but I’m so happy now that I’m out of it, even if it didn’t end how I’d hoped. And I think that says I made the right decision.

#blah blah

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samsoleil · 3 years

Text

you can now read the homeschooled au on ao3! or you can keep reading here. in this installment, the boys go to a mall for the first time and have an Experience™

(cw for sensory overload, if that's something that doesn't quite butter your bread roll)

One day, Sam realised that their dad was just a person.

He can’t remember the conversation, if it could be called that, in its entirety. But what he does remember with a surreal vividness is seeing Dad’s face, cold and hard with rage and frustration, and thinking, I don’t understand. Real life doesn’t have those scenes where the camera cuts to the perfect moment to explain the characters’ motivations. Dad had a whole life before Sam and lives most of his existence separate from Sam, with his own ideas and interpretations and some sort of equation that added one dead wife and two kids and came up with the mess that’s been Sam’s life so far. This experience of the world, a mark of being human.

And that thought was like a spotlight had been shone on Sam’s little corner of the world, this glaring thing, an unavoidable truth. It isn’t always there but, when it is, it’s inescapable. If Sam’s honest, it’s fuelled the fire in more than one of his arguments with their dad. Sam wonders if this is how Eve felt after biting into the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge, cursed with a realisation that can’t ever be unlearned.

But Dean’s different. Dean’s life isn’t this impossible, untouchable thing like Dad’s is; it’s Sam’s life, too, this thing they share, and Dean lives life more than anyone else Sam's met. Admittedly, Sam can name the amount of people he's actually met, beyond the handful of cashiers he's made uncomfortable eye contact with, on one hand. But he can't imagine that anyone who's ever spoken to Dean has left the conversation thinking, Well, he doesn't experience life as much as I do.

That’s not the point. The point is, Sam’s become accustomed to the concept that people in the real world have thoughts and feelings and lives that Sam will never know. But he and Dean had wanted to try going to a mall for lunch, instead of their usual cafés, and Sam had no idea that you could find this many people in a single place.

"Wow," he says, standing with Dean in the doorway.

There really are just so many of them. Parents with their kids, old couples, gaggles of teenagers laughing and shouting. Sam sees a group of girls around Dean's age in bright colours, hair falling in a sheet around their shoulders. He sees two young parents with their baby, jostling them up and down as they wail, drawing dirty looks from a couple of older women chatting over coffee. Everything is fluorescent bulbs and colour and sound. It's wonderful. It's horrible. There are so many of them and Sam has no idea who any of them are. It’s the Tree of Knowledge again, if biting into fruit was comparable to plummeting off a cliff, and he doesn't think he’d be able to handle feeling like this all the time. It's almost too much, to think that everyone here is just as alive as Sam and Dean.

Sam reaches out slightly to tangle his fingers between Dean's. Dean's hand relaxes easily, less soft and larger than Sam's, and grips him reassuringly after Sam's fingers are threaded with his. He feels better, after that. He watches the small family as the baby suddenly stops crying, their mother pressing a pacifier into their mouth and receiving a gummy smile. Genetically, a person's DNA is half their mother and half their father. Sam has a matching theory about himself as a whole. Half of Sam is characters from books, TV shows, movies, and half of Sam is Dean.

He follows after Dean as they move out of the doorway, away from Sam's sudden movie moment, and they melt into the crowd. It's even worse once they get in there, and Sam keeps overhearing snippets of conversation, fragments of this bustling chaos of lives.

"-working Friday, and I don't know if-"

There's a girl with an ear full of piercings, silver and solid, wearing all black with ripped jeans and a leather jacket-

"-assignment? I haven't-"

-and the sun streaming in through one of the windows flashes off the glass of one of the stores, momentarily turning Sam's vision white, and it's enough to make his eyes sting-

"-Sarah, Katy, wai-"

-while the air is filled with the scent of a hundred different foods, sweet as spun sugar one second and then the smoky thickness of meat, and Sam's head turns to follow the smell of flowers carried by the curls of a dark-skinned man in jeans-

"-long black, two sugars. Do you ha-"

-who greets an older woman with greying hair, and Sam turns back to face the direction they're heading and sees a crowd of people too thick to move through.

"-believe, I mean, it was so-"

He squeezes Dean's hand. Dean squeezes back. Sam squeezes again, and they have a back and forth for a minute or so as they wait for a space to open up in the crowd ahead of them. Sam knows what the person at the counter is ordering and what the people at the table behind them did for their weekend and what Donnie did to Amy, did you hear?

I heard, Sam thinks viciously, Everyone in a ten mile radius heard, can you shut up?

And then he feels bad, because it's not their fault it's so loud in here. He can barely hear himself think. He can't even hear himself breathe, can just feel his lungs inhaling and exhaling in his chest. The functional unit of the lungs are small sacs called alveoli that have walls one cell thin, and the culmination of Sam's can usually run a five minute mile but today, now, they're barely keeping him standing.

"-diagnosis, it all happened so fast-"

It's been a minute since he last squeezed Dean's hand, so he squeezes again. And Dean squeezes back, hard, and that seems to help the frantic energy building in Sam's body, so when Dean starts to relax his hand Sam squeezes again and he doesn't let go.

"-don't know what I'd do-"

And Dean looks back, and something must show in Sam's face, because then they're moving, the crowd be damned. Someone brushes against Sam and he feels every part of it, too aware of the fabric of their shirt brushing against Sam's flannel. Someone else steps on the side of his shoe and he wants to step on them back, wants them to finish the job, wants to break out of his body. Dean's squeezing Sam's hand hard enough that he feels the bones in his hand shift, but it's all he has, right now. The rest of him is too busy paying attention to everything else.

"-rotten leaf in my salad, I want-"

There's a group of children laughing and stumbling over their feet, their mothers following behind with gentle smiles and chattering conversation, and Sam feels this tug of want-

"-failed my midterms, so I just-"

-and there's someone in a bright, multicoloured jacket holding hands with a girl dressed in all denim, laughing as they reach up to gently grasp her chin and lean in-

"-loud in here, do you want-"

-so Sam looks away, and no matter where he looks there's another person, another family, another store, another thing bright and beautiful and he can't take it, okay, it's just too much-

"-I said, that's crazy, no way-"

-for him to handle right now, the everything of it all, the thought that, all this time, the entire world has existed just outside of their motel room and he's barely a part of it.

"-beautiful, Mary-"

Sam's heart jolts in his chest.

I can't do this, he thinks desperately, still moving with Dean, pulled along by him, his hand encompassed by Dean's. He tamps down the visceral urge to just lie down here, press himself into the tile and be consumed. He sidesteps a puddle of someone's chocolate thickshake, his stomach turning over. He can feel the slick of his sweat between Dean's large, warm hand and his own. Part of him wants to tug away to dry his palm on his jeans, but he feels like he might fall apart if he does.

Dean leads him into a store and the temperature change shocks him, sending shivers cascading down his spine, and Sam feels suddenly unwell, like when he has the flu. But it's quieter in here, the cacophony of the mall muted by the racks of clothing. The fluorescents take all the red away, leaving Dean wearing an ugly brown flannel, and that sick feeling grows stronger. Sam closes his eyes, letting Dean guide him. He flinches at the clatter as Dean pulls something off the rack, the hanger tapping plastic against metal railing, and lets himself be swept along, around a corner and into a changing room, Dean pulling the curtains closed.

Sam bypasses the bench to sit down on the floor, gaze fixed on where the curtain brushes against the faux wood linoleum. He can still hear the chatter in the store, muffled as if underwater.

Dean crouches down in front of him, breaking his line of sight, but Sam can't move. He can't stay still. He's going to fall apart. He's going to turn to stone. He wants to run, run, out through the mall and back home, he wants to crawl into Dean's chest and stay there forever and never go outside again. Fuck outside. Outside is overrated. Outside is filled with people who couldn't give less of a shit about Sam, going about their days while he falls apart in the middle of a food court. Outside is filled with people who aren't Sam and Dean, living TV lives while they spin out on some highway in Nowhere, America.

"Sammy?" Dean says, and it's so loud, what the hell, Dean.

Sam untangles himself from his little ball of limbs to silently shoosh him, and he watches as the tense line of Dean's shoulders relax infinitesimally from where they were hitched up around his ears, all worry. Dean bats his hands away gently, fine, fine, he'll be quiet.

What happened? asks the moue of Dean's mouth, the furrow between his brows.

Sam shrugs.

That's not an answer.

And Sam knows it's not, but how is he meant to explain it when even he doesn't know what happened? It was just everything, all at once, and it crept under Sam's skin and into his head and he couldn't escape it. He looks up at Dean, helpless, and Dean's hands come up to cradle his face and it's alright. It'll be okay. Sam tips his head into the warmth of Dean's skin, lets his eyes fall closed.

Someone laughs from in the store and Sam flinches, then feels Dean's hands move to cover his ears instead. Sam sighs and leans into Dean's chest. He expects to hate it, being touched, worries that he'll want to shed his skin in a heap at the feeling of it, but it's Dean. Sam presses his forehead into Dean's ribs firm enough to bruise, and Dean pulls him along as he reshuffles on the floor so that Sam is between his legs, wrapped in warmth, anchored to the world. He moves his hands away from Sam's ears and Sam, with a bitter-sick feeling of betrayal, clamps his own over them, pressing hard. But Dean puts his hands on Sam's back instead, rubbing soothingly, and that's better than anything else.

A few moments pass, quietly, just the two of them. Sam’s still stuck in his head, which is tuned into the world like a radio turned up too high, but he does his best to focus on the smooth movements of Dean’s hands up and down his back, fingers running over the knobs of his spine. They’re called spinous processes, and they lengthen throughout the cervical spine but are mostly the same size in the thoracic spine. Sam checked. Dean kicked up only a little bit of a fuss. And when Sam realises that he’s playing that memory in his head, eyelids heavy, he notices that he’s feeling a little better.

As if reading his mind, Dean moves his hands to rest on Sam’s arms, and Sam settles back. He takes his hands away from his ears, blinking hard. His chest feels a bit tight, but he’s okay. He conveys as much to Dean, who looks over him, expression doubtful. But when he sees Sam watching his face he plasters on a grin, rubbing Sam’s arms quickly through his shirt before he moves back, too.

Dean signs for Baby. They don’t have to stay.

Part of Sam wants to leave, but it feels like giving up. And he wants to try the mall, was excited until he became overwhelmed and, if he tries, he can make the adrenaline feel more like anticipation.

“I want to stay." He accompanies the words with their signs. “Can we get pizza?”

Dean kept bringing it up in the car, subtle as a truck, and Sam saw some slices of a vegetarian pizza through the glass of one of the counters. It’s an easy choice to make. Sam doesn’t really feel like pizza, but he knows that Dean will try to cheer him up the same way he cheers himself up. And it works, for the most part. Dean just hasn’t quite realised that the main reason why is because Sam likes seeing Dean happy.

And, fine. Sam knows Dean needs him to be happy, too, and maybe that plays a bigger part in it all than Sam would care to admit. He knows that if he asked to leave, they would be as good as gone. It's enough to make him feel lightheaded, sometimes, the things that Dean would do for him. And it's not even because he has to. He chose Sam, over their dad, over hunting, over the chance to be free from Sam's drama forever. So they'll stay, and they'll get pizza, and they'll buy jackets and underwear and Dean's paraphernalia, and then they'll be gone. Sam just needs to hold on for a few more hours.

Dean beams and Sam feels his cheeks flush in response. Dean's so, so proud of him. He circles Sam's heart through his shirt and Sam feels something bright and beautiful settle in him. It’s contagious.

"That's my boy," Dean says, ruffling Sam's hair.

Sam pushes him away gently, reaching up to fix his hair, and Dean rocks back, still wearing that easy smile. Sam has to look away, eyes settling on the amulet sitting on Dean's chest and shining dully in the crappy change room lighting. Sam doesn't know how he does it. Sam knows better than anyone that life isn't always sunshine and roses but, even with Sam losing his grip over and over, Dean's still here. Maybe it's selfish, but Sam can't help but be desperately grateful. He wouldn't trade where they are now for anything. They're alive now in a way they weren't before, and Dean seems to be genuinely enjoying it. Sam wants to love existing that much.

Dean stands and offers him his hand.

One day, maybe I will, Sam thinks, and he reaches out.

#spn #spn hssd au #spn fic #supernatural #stanfordsweaters #still tagging you in these!#spn sam #spn dean #kael.txt #YALL I AM STILL LOSING IT OVER THIS AU..... i will not recover i will not improve that is a promise #if anyone is reading this and wants to see something. please please let me know.

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dramaticviolincrescendo · 4 years

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The thing is, Ian was right. Mickey doesn't know any better, the writers on the show made sure of that, because for them the only important thing about Mickey is his devotion to Ian. But we're a bit more realistic about it and can analyze Ian's actions without being limited by someone's poor imagination.

There’s a lot to address here, so please forgive me for the lengthy response, anon! 🙂 I’ll preface all of it by saying this: my general opinion is that if Mickey has what makes him happy, we should support that regardless of how we feel about the other party (with obvious exceptions like physical abuse, etc.). If Byron was what made him happy, I would support him even if I couldn’t stand the guy. The same goes for any other character in any other franchise, at least for me. Now, onto your points:

I’m not sure which scene you mean when you mention Ian saying he doesn’t know any better, but I’m definitely with you on our ability to analyze Ian’s actions. The problem here is that analyzing will always be colored by perspective and implicit bias. If your fave is Mickey, anything that hurts him will look a whole lot worse than what he does that hurts Ian and perhaps lead to conducting a less than thorough analysis or rejecting sensible arguments about Ian’s character. Based on the number of posts I see about how Mickey is the only good thing on the show, I’d argue that that is a very real danger in many of the takes on Ian as well as everyone else. I’ve seen some pretty heavy demonizing of characters who hurt Mickey’s feelings or aren’t actively sweet to him, which is a bit unrealistic since that’s life and Mickey certainly never seems to mind or let it keep him down for long.

As far as him not knowing better, on the whole, I don’t think that gives Mickey much credit at all. Actually, it doesn’t really give him any credit, which is sort of surprising given how vehemently people defend his IQ, academically and emotionally, against what amounted to a joke. Mickey knows that Ian messes up and does things that are questionable at best and hurtful at worst. He’s not an innocent, pure character who endures heartache after heartache to throw himself at the brick wall of earning Ian’s attention. He gives as good as he gets and has hurt Ian too. They’re human and written very realistically in that regard. Their love for one another allows them to forgive transgressions and move on, not hold grudges or “not know any better” with regards to what they deserve. Love isn’t about what we deserve, and I think it’s important to remember that a relationship won’t last if it’s based on an arbitrary numerical score of who has done more harm than the other. Things happen. Poor decisions are made. They can allow that to break them or work through it. Mickey has actively chosen to work through it because at the end of the day, he loves Ian more than he is interested in finding something else. In earlier seasons, Ian similarly chose to work through it with someone who might never be in a position to come out and begin the full relationship that he so desperately wanted. That’s beautiful to me, not contemptible.

As far as the only important thing about Mickey being his devotion to Ian, we’ll also have to agree to disagree. 🙂 In the early seasons, while Ian was certainly the catalyst for it, Mickey’s story was about coming out more than his devotion to Ian. That’s why we have the scenes where he taunted Kash (focus: keeping his secret), purposely got sent back to juvie (focus: hiding from Terry if he found out), and got married (focus: self-preservation). We do absolutely see a rising devotion for Ian during this period, of course, and there’s no argument that his character was written expressly to be Ian’s love interest. The writers still made him a well-developed one with his own motives, fears, and desires outside of Ian in a way that later love interests didn’t get. (My own belief is that they didn’t intend for the later relationships to last like they did Mickey, but regardless of the validity there, Mickey was written as a character with more depth from the very beginning and existed before anything with Ian ever happened.)

The first half of s4 shows Mickey on his own merits. He’s handling his new position as a patriarch of the family, running the business while Terry is fairly hands-off and watches. He decides to help the Russian girls and ends up going into business with Kev. We learn a lot about Mickey’s character outside of Ian during that time. In fact, there are only a couple of scenes that really focus on him missing Ian until finding him becomes Mickey’s task: asking Kev if anyone has heard from him, the bathroom scene, and the later Alibi scene. Otherwise, the early s4 writers showed us a Mickey who was compassionate, ambitious, utilitarian, entrepreneurial, and collaborative—all without tying it back to Ian. Kev and V are renowned friends of the Gallaghers, but Mickey doesn’t grow closer to Kev in an attempt to learn more about what happened to Ian. He doesn’t help the girls because he thinks Ian would want him to. In fact, with the exception of those scenes I mentioned, we have no reason to believe that Ian is on Mickey’s mind at all while he’s doing these other things. He has a life outside of Ian just like the opposite is true, and s4 went to great lengths to show us that.

The second half of s4 is, once again, about keeping his secret until he decides to come out. (Read: decides to, is not forced to. More on that in a moment.) Yes, his devotion to Ian is once again the catalyst for some of his decisions, but there’s much more to it than that. Once again, we still see scenes with Mickey operating on his own for his own purposes. He doesn’t leave home entirely because he wants to be with Ian—he also wants to escape from his wife and pretend that things are the way they used to be. He doesn’t scam money from the rich guy or take more than his cut from the register at the Alibi to protect Ian—he does it for self-preservation so that Svetlana won’t get him killed. He doesn’t go to the baptism to keep up appearances and protect Ian—he does it to keep up appearances for himself and because...well, like it or not, that’s his son. The lattermost is something Ian specifically does not want him to do, and if he does, he wants to be there. Mickey goes against his wishes because it’s about protecting himself (and perhaps, by extension, their relationship), and rightfully so. Coming out at the Alibi does once again tie to Ian as a catalyst for change in Mickey’s life, but it didn’t have to happen. Mickey could have grabbed his coat, told everyone goodnight, and left with Ian. At no time did Ian tell him that he would leave if Mickey didn’t come out to everyone or admit they’re a couple, even if he did make reference to the fact that Mickey was hiding and not free. All Ian wanted was for Mickey not to treat him like a mistress or expect him to stick around if he did. Instead, it was a logical culmination of Mickey’s written development to come out. He’s stronger and more independent than he used to be. He’s capable of taking care of himself and surviving in the world without relying on Terry. He’s in a position where yes, he’s still justifiably terrified of coming out and what it’ll mean where Terry is concerned, but he’s able to do it. Ian is a catalyst for it, but being devoted to him isn’t Mickey’s only reason.

In s5, a lot of Mickey’s story does revolve around his devotion to Ian, but not any more than Ian’s revolves around devotion to him in the second half of s3. We still see Mickey doing business and running the family, but having Ian be his more central concern makes sense because Ian is sick and the writers have already told us that his health is a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. In denial or not, Mickey knows this. And so we see his story center around Ian because, to an extent, it has to. Ian is mentally and physically sick. He’s adjusting not only to meds, but to a label that makes him feel ashamed and afraid. Mickey is devoted to him, and so Mickey does everything he can to take care of him. But here’s the thing: that scares Ian too. He’s seen what happens to the people who try to take care of Monica. He knows how it felt to try only to be ignored or betrayed or abandoned. The breakup isn’t about anger at being coddled or, by my interpretation and Ian’s own words, him being selfish. It’s about him seeing that Mickey’s devotion is going to keep him from living his life and ultimately (in his opinion) hurt him beyond repair, and so he sets Mickey free. It hurts him, yes, but it does work.

Because even though we don’t see it happen on-screen, s6 through s9 can’t possibly be Mickey sitting in a prison cell pining over Ian. If that was going to happen, we’d have seen it in s4. By this point, we know who Mickey is outside of Ian and can assume that he’s operating in much the same way on the inside until he figures out what he wants to do. We know he and Svetlana had a business arrangement where they took out contracts for work he could do in prison. We know that he makes a business acquaintanceship with Damon, which means he was probably involved in dealing or smuggling while there. Neither of these things can possibly revolve around devotion to Ian because they could conceivably keep him from Ian longer. His sentence is fifteen years, and if he’s counting on being out in eight to be with Ian, he needs to be on his best behavior. He’s not. He’s unapologetically not when he sees Ian again and talks about what Damon is. Ian looks less than comfortable with it, but that’s not why they ditch him—it’s because he might get Mickey caught with his behavior. Even breaking out happened once he was able to solidify an opportunity working for a cartel, so while Ian may have been another catalyst (besides the obvious desire to get out of prison), the decision wasn’t about devotion to him. The only decision that was about that was the one he made at the border to let Ian go without making him feel worse about it. He’s devoted to Ian, so he knows that dragging him along on the run into the unknown won’t be good for him. He needs stability and a support system and medication, none of which Mickey can provide if they cross that border together. So, out of his devotion, he lets Ian go. They have a heartfelt goodbye and separate for what they think is the last time.

Does Mickey’s devotion lead him to turning himself in? Absolutely. But not before spending another long stint living his own life. The writers make sure we know that he had a life without Ian playing a role in it, once again conducting business and operating successfully on his own merits. They’re limited in what they can show because Noel wasn’t available, which made logistics important, but they didn’t leave him high and dry or insinuate that he was waiting around in Mexico for an excuse to return to Ian. He was once again a successful businessman in the illicit economy. When he returns in s10, his storyline does then appear to revolve around devotion to Ian more—but it doesn’t. Mickey has people he hangs out with in prison separate from Ian and with no ties to him. With the Byron situation, it wasn’t about proving devotion for Ian when he thought Ian questioned it—it was about hurting Ian because of what happened at the courthouse, even after he found out what Ian was really afraid of. If the writers were only interested in showing his devotion to Ian, he would have ditched Byron the second Ian told him that he was scared of his disorder and ruining them. He doesn’t. He sticks it out because Mickey is so much more than his relationship with Ian: he’s independent, vengeful, hot-headed, impulsive, and stubborn. These are traits that have been set up by the writers throughout the series both with and without ties to their relationship, and he very adamantly adheres to his revenge-plot-turned-catalyst-for-Ian-pulling-his-head-out-of-his-ass because he isn’t all about devotion to Ian.

I completely respect your opinion on the matter and appreciate the opportunity to discuss it at length! Ultimately, it boils down to this for me: the writers get a lot off flack for some of the narrative decisions and, of course, they won’t always be to our liking. Opinions and preferences assure us of that. I don’t think it’s about us being more realistic or more capable of analyzing a character, though. Everything above was written. It wasn’t spelled out and handed to us, no, but the writers put it there so that we could then analyze it. There’s no analyzing a blank slate or someone whose only narrative is devotion to Ian. The writers have given us a wealth of things to consider when it comes to all the characters, Mickey included, and we wouldn’t be able to have this conversation if they didn’t. Mickey is intelligent, thoughtful, insightful, and more than capable of standing on his own two feet as both a fictional person and a character. If he chose Ian, then it’s because he has weighed all these things and found them to be nothing in the grand scheme of their love for one another. Again, though, we can agree to disagree. Thank you for this ask—I find myself writing more about Ian, so I had a lot of fun thinking back over the series to answer it! 😃🧡

#shameless #meta #Mickey milkovich #Ian gallagher #gallavich #I probably shouldn’t tag this because it’s inviting vitriol #but it’ll get shared anyway #so please be kind folks #this is just my opinion #and ultimately defends Mickey

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xiverni · 4 years

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Redemption and “Consequences”

A lot of talk has been had recently as of chapter 284 of both Endeavor and Bakugo’s “redemptions”, and how they seem to be leading up to some grand consequences for their actions, a final karmic retribution of sorts. People often talk about how these two characters have never had to “pay” for their actions, and that they have never had to face any real consequences.

Of course, this notion is flawed from the surface all the way to the foundation. Not only have these two characters suffered quite a lot throughout their stay in the story, but the very notion that characters have to “face retribution” in order to become redeemed is an odd, troubling, and frankly reactionary idea that should be discarded as childish nonsense.

To begin with the idea that Bakugo and Endeavor have not suffered due to the consequences of their actions, even a cursory glance at the story can immediately dispel these arguments. Bakugo, due to his abrasive nature and inferiority complex, spent much of the series losing over and over again. From the initial school training arc to the school festival, Bakugo’s flaws have resulted in him failing at his goals, whether they are beating Deku or fighting Todoroki at his full strength. His anger issues and “villainous” outward appearance even led to a terrorist organization kidnapping him, leading to a situation in which Bakugo spent a good length of time wracked in guilt and trauma over his actions, which he believed contributed to All Might’s fall. This all culminates in his failure in the Provisional License Exams, in which Bakugo’s failings again prevent him from reaching his ambitions.

It is after his second confrontation with Deku that Bakugo’s development starts picking up real speed, with the next arc that centers around him showing that Bakugo is learning that looking down on those weaker than you will only lead to worse outcomes for yourself. Additionally, it is from here that we begin seeing Bakugo both act more cooperatively with his teammates and (occasionally) prioritize saving people over winning. This is shown when he acts as a cooperative unit with his teammates in the Joint Training Arc, and he is seen saving civilians in the Meta Liberation Arc and the Endeavor Internship Arc.

When it comes to Endeavor, he is a character that is definitely a lot more contentious than Bakugo, for a number of reasons. For one, Bakugo is an “attractive” character to many of those who read this story, thus he is able to get a lot of leeway as compared to other characters. Additionally, he is a literal child, thus he is treated with a lighter moral weight by the “fandom”. The idea that being under the age of 18 somehow makes you less morally responsible for your actions than anyone arbitrary older than that age has always rubbed me the wrong way. Yes, younger people have a less complete and mature perception of the world, thus it is generally fairer to treat them lighter. However, there are countless adults who suffer from the same immaturity problems and developmental issues as young people do. That said, this is a bit of a tangent already.

From the moment All Might retires, Endeavor has already begun suffering for his actions. He has finally reached the position of number one hero... In the worst way possible : by default. The public is at best ambivalent about his position, and his tenure as the head hero has overseen a sharp rise in crime and disorder in society. What’s worse, as soon as Endeavor finally realizes the horrible things he’s done to his family, it becomes apparent that it’s far too little too late, as Natsuo literally can’t bear being in the same room as Endeavor and Shoto is consistently coldly professional to him. Fuyumi and Rei, the two that are more receptive to Endeavor, are a) doing it out a sense of longing for a “true family” and not particularly out of a sentimental attachment for Endeavor as a person or father, and b) in the case of Rei, not even wanting to see Endeavor. Can you imagine the impact of finally growing and learning from your horrific past mistakes, only to find out that these mistakes will never be able to be moved on from? Can you imagine resolving your pride and selfish desires, choosing to leave behind the family you want to rebuild, all so that they can live comfortably and in peace? Endeavor has almost constantly been suffering since the day All Might retired, and even though it absolutely cannot be said that he doesn’t deserve his suffering, it is in fact still suffering that is being dealt to him.

There is also another argument that centers around legal repercussions for actions committed by these characters, which is something that I both concede has not occurred and simultaneously state is literally of no narrative significance. If these were in fact real people in the real world, there would be a compelling argument that Endeavor deserves to serve time in prison for his abusive behavior. However, appropriate legal punishments are not equivalent to self improvement by the method of narrative punishments. How the fuck would a jail sentence improve Endeavor’s moral character any more than it already has improved? For those who are actually making the claim that these characters should have in universe been given legal repercussions for their actions (as well as those who, hilariously, use Endeavor’s lack of legal consequences as proof that the heroes are bad), Endeavor’s actions are literally unknown to the general public. Additionally, bullying among students is pretty standard in Japan, while it is certainly not a good thing. Furthermore, I really don’t see the point in arguing about “physical violence” in terms of characters in a superhero story throwing around explosions like nothing (I am talking about Bakugo’s more abrasive nature, not Endeavor’s actual physical violence against his children, the latter of which is meant narratively to hold actual weight). People in this universe are obviously a lot more durable than people in our universe. Accept that this is a fictional story with unrealistic aspects, and that in order to critically examine it, you need to accept its basic premises at face value without assuming things using the outside world.

Now to move to my actual argument, I see so many people obsessed with the idea of “bad” characters having to go through some sort of “trial” or “punishment” in order to become redeemed - as if that’s the way people work. While this may come as a surprise to some, bad people are in fact capable of becoming better human beings without experiencing any sort of karmic retribution. In fact, I would say that the resolve to become better, even without some outside force pushing upon you, is a far harder and meaningful journey than one in which you’re simply pummeled and punished into waving a white flag. It reminds me of the trope “defeat means friendship”, in which the protagonists defeat (typically physically) an enemy, thus converting that enemy into an ally or friend of sorts.

Think about it like this: would you be more willing to forgive someone who committed a terrible crime, served no time in prison for it, but nonetheless learned from their mistakes and genuinely became a better person.... or someone who committed a terrible crime, served decades in prison, and then came out none the wiser to their own actions?

What makes this situation even funnier is that many of the people demanding karmic retribution for these characters’ actions would, in real life, be advocating for justice reforms that lean towards “rehabilitation” rather than “retribution”. In fact, it has pretty much been proven that rehabilitation is almost universally more effective at actually changing the mindsets of people as opposed to retribution.

In conclusion, the characters people say haven’t been given consequences have been given consequences, and the prison system should be reformed. Tune in next time for more wacky and unexpected topics like societal collapse and the technological decline of human civilization in BNHA.

#bnha #bnha spoilers #enji todoroki #endeavor #bakugo katsuki #narrative exploration #meta #mha #mha spoilers #bnha 284

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georgiaswarr · 4 years

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jimmy kaga-ricci part 1 (part 2 / part 3)

beautiful faces - declan mckenna

if there ever was a screen adaptation of iwbft i can 100% imagine this song playing while the boys are walking the red carpet at the wcmas, when jimmy is surrounded by stardom and “beautiful faces”. however, even though he has great ambitions, he is also pretty disillusioned by the world of fame, the power games, the fake friends and the stress - deep down he’d rather just stay inside and, for once, relax

i say a little prayer - aretha franklin

i like to imagine this as a song about jimmy’s love for rowan and lister, and how in relation to his faith, praying for them is one of his love languages

ashley - halsey

hoooooo boy, this song pretty much has jimmy’s entire arc shoved into 3 minutes; “standing now, in the mirror that i built myself / and i can't remember why the decision wasn't mine / but it seems i'm only clingin' to an idea now” - jimmy feeling like their original dream about starting a band, their childhood passion and wonder has been lost along the way, they’re only clinging to an idea “someday, when i burst into flames / i'll leave you the dust, my love / hope a bit of it'll be enough to help remember the / days when we came to this place / i told you i'd spill my guts, i left you to clean it up / i'm bursting out of the” - his dreams about breaking away; however, the fact that the line is sort of cut off abruptly shows how he isn’t quite ready to burst out yet, not until friday “is it really that strange if i always wanna change?” - rowan and lister don’t understand why he wants to leave the band “i told you i'd ride this out / it's gettin' harder every day / somehow, i'm burstin' out of myself” - in the second chorus we finally have that catharsis of him actually running away and deciding to do what makes him happy

humongous - declan mckenna

this is mostly about jimmy’s relationship to the media (including social media). he’s been very closely scrutinised for years now, and things like racism, transphobia, the j*wan photo, fuckin paul marks, even the bliss story have taken a toll on his psyche - and that doesn’t even begin to cover his paranoia that is strongly fuelled by the people constantly watching his every move. the line “do you care? / i'm big, humongous, enormous and small” sounds like a cry of despair - he’s made out to be this huge, untouchable god-like figure, while in reality he feels small and easily breakable, but nobody in the media cares about his real feelings

sweaters - blanks

jimmy and rowan wanting to have a chill evening and play splatoon or something instead of attending lister’s party

social - smallpools

same theme as sweaters. the “social” here could also be taken as part of the bigger picture of fame - “if you can hear this now / bow out, save yourself” could be jimmy warning others about the dangers of fame, so to speak

roaring 20s - panic! at the disco

rule of threes; jimmy feeling anxious at the party, surrounded by people he doesn’t know or care about, wanting to go home to his grandad, etc

lavish living - carey st

this song reminds me of the ark’s london apartment; first of all, it’s huge and lavish, as the title says. then there’s also several lines in the song that remind me of various scenes; “you're so upset so what's the point of me right now” - jimmy feeling helpless after the bliss story broke and not knowing how to cheer rowan up “met a fibber yeah you met him last month / he told you things and he said it wasn't love / you're so obsessed so what's the point of us // pull away from the party / i don't think that this is meant to be / but me oh my oh make me go crazy” - the party on tuesday, magnet making a move on jimmy, bicci undertones, etc

demons - hayley kiyoko

“it's creeping in, it's gonna get me by the end of the night / i'm sinking deeper, still, i'm reaching for the end of the light / burning in the lava / you can't go and pray this type of pain away” a song describing jimmy’s anxiety and paranoia

i spend too much time in my room - the band camino

stolen from @kindaorangey‘s jimmy playlist (+explanation), this song strongly highlights jimmy’s inner turmoil, him overthinking things, etc

hero - family of the year

“baby needs some protection / but i'm a kid like everyone else” jimmy didn’t ask to be worshipped. he often says that he doesn’t get why everyone looks up to him, “loves” him, etc when all he is is a normal guy

it ain’t me babe - nancy sinatra

similarly to hero, here we have jimmy trying to tell his fans that he isn’t their saviour, he isn’t the one they “want” and “need”

the archer - taylor swift

“i wake in the night, i pace like a ghost / the room is on fire, invisible smoke” you know on wednesday when jimmy comes back from his escape to the park and has a panic attack? this song feels a lot like that; it’s his mistakes and insecurities, the world and other people trying to tear him down, all of this culminating in him feeling unworthy, wondering “who could stay”, but then of course rowan is here for him, he could stay. in the end, however, the first line - “combat, i’m ready for combat” - is repeated, which in the context of iwbft could have a sinister tone - the worst is yet to come

midas - skott

this reminds me of jimmy wondering why the label, their management, and even lister and rowan actually want to go through with the new contract, why they want to be bigger and richer. there’s a lesson about the greed and capitalism of the music industry in there

some nights - fun.

“this is it, boys, this is war / what are we waiting for? / why don't we break the rules already?” fame feels like a war to jimmy by now, which is reflected by the joan of arc and the soldier motif in iwbft. on multiple occasions, he asks rowan and lister to just break away from all of it, rules and conventions be damned “so this is it? / i sold my soul for this? / washed my hands of that for this? / i miss my mom and dad for this? / no, when i see stars, when i s- / when i see stars, that's all they are / when i hear songs, they sound like a swan” once again we have jimmy’s realisation that fame isn’t worth it. he doesn’t see the glamour that everybody claims fame brings. additionally, the swan metaphor refers to the fact that swans only sing once, right before they die, which is in tune with the death motif in iwbft, everything feeling very close to the end additionally, @kindaorangey made some excellent points here

lifeline - we three

so far jimmy has mostly been going with the flow, not putting up much of a fight to get what he wants, letting other people “shiver, feel it, take it, break it, make it what you want and / lose it, choose it, find it , mind it, bruise it, use it how you’re gonna” - it being his life, basically. of course that changes on friday but i’m getting ahead of myself

sometimes - h.e.r.

“i had a plan, i had it mapped out / i knew where i was going when i left out / oh, you couldn't tell me that i wouldn't be there on time / i had some guarantees, i had a deadline / but now i know things change for better or worse / you could say that i'm the same, but i ain't adjusted to all the hurt” - once again, the theme of jimmy’s childhood dreams and hopes ending up worse than he imagined

#breaking my playlists up into smaller and smaller parts each time lol #jimmy kaga-ricci #playlist #osemanverse playlist #iwbft #death mention #panic attack mention

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sanghyukstattoos · 4 years

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Along the way

Characters: Kim Seokwoo I Rowoon x Reader

Genre: Fluff, angst

Words:1789

Summary: At a house party or a so-called dreaded 'family gathering', you detest the situation, how you feel and everything. That is until Seokwoo picks you up and is there for you all the way home.

A/N: Pictures from DailyRowoon

Thank you to the anon who requested this! When I was writing this, I slipped into a little daze and I was at my best writing this so I do hope that you love it! Personally, when things get hard for me, I am that person who plans it all out in her head. I’ll speak myself through it including why I have been feeling or why I feel in a particular way and how to solve the problem so a little bit of that is incorporated into this fic!

You were at your family’s house, sitting on the sofa and holding your breath, waiting for the right time to jump into the conversation. They were feuding about something and while no one was screaming, you could feel how tense the room was.

They make a big deal about everything, you thought but stayed quiet. Nothing good would come from you pointing out their obvious mistakes. It was right there and you felt a sudden surge of anger. You didn’t know where it came from either- there were so any sources.

You didn’t know how riled up you were getting but you did know not to get angry because apparently, that came to you pretty easily. Just because someone told you to control yourself didn’t mean you didn’t feel it.

Your felt the dull ache in your temple become something more as your family snapped their heads in your direction when you spoke while nodding your head in the direction , ‘’It’s right there’’.

There was a small hum floating from your family members as they considered what you were saying but then it all went to shit. To them, it was something else but it mattered to you- wasn’t what you wanted also important?

The room grew more hot as they dismissed your statement, some feeling annoyed while others gave you small, pitiful smiles as they all went back to what they were doing.

You stayed quiet and laid low for the next few minutes, contemplating how you spoke just a few moments ago. You wavered when you spoke, especially towards the end.

Maybe it was obvious, that’s why they gave you those smiles. You looked around to see everyone smiling, automatically nodding and giving a bright smile to a family member who raised their eyebrows at you, presumably in concern.

They just picked whatever they wanted, dismissing the rest as, ‘’it’s okay, how important could it be?’’. Knowing that somewhere in the future you wouldn’t be here made you cautious but for now you were stuck in this place.

Forced to endure this because it was social of you to do so, you couldn’t possibly have a problem with your family- after all, they were your family. Your family member next to you, turned to you saying, ‘’Why do they sound like that when they fight?’’ making you look over and laugh as well.

You felt guilty for laughing for none of it showed on your face, laughing along with the person beside you. Not even a couple of seconds had passed till they spoke up, pointing in the direction mentioned while saying, ‘’See? It’s right there’’

From there on, recognition pandered onto their faces and you slumped, recognising that you should have just pointed it look like your family member. Some faces looked at you too and you nodded saying, ‘’I said that!’’

‘‘We know..’‘, ‘‘Something about the way you explained...’‘ was all that you heard before you heard the sound of your phone buzzing. Your head was spinning and there wasn’t much room to breathe but you couldn’t have been more happy that it was Ro on the other end.

Standing up, you ignored the looks you got from your family members and headed to the exit to take the call. ‘’Hey, you doing okay?’’ was the very first thing you heard and you genuinely smiled, replying, ‘’Hey, I’m doing good’’.

‘‘What time do you want me to pick you up?’‘ Seokwoo asked, having just finished work.

‘‘Uh’‘ you started out, searching the area for any of your family members to hide what you were going to say next. Your eyes didn’t leave the direction that you were looking towards as you hurriedly whispered, ‘‘A little earlier than planned’‘

Fearing that he would ask for the time, you calmed down when he asked, ‘’8:30?’’. Leaning away to check the time on your phone, you shook your head in disagreement as you responded with, ‘’no’’.

‘‘7:45?’‘ he asked, this time hitting the mark. You agreed, exclaiming, ‘‘yes!’‘ and he agreed as well. In the background, you could hear the car starting as he came to pick you up.

There wasn’t exactly an end to family gatherings, they all just left when everyone agreed to leave. It also wasn’t easy to shove so many people out of the door and knowing that they had the opportunity, they would all stay till midnight.

You felt victorious yet juvenile as you walked back to the living room to tell your parents the good news. Looking at your family member, you envied how she was able to thrive in such a harsh environment.

Now, all that was remaining was for you to break it to them and that mattered. How you broke the news to them was important. Pulling your other family member close to you, the concern on her face almost broke you in two.

‘‘I have to go since we are both busy tomorrow’’ you said pouting, carefully watching how she reacted. She hummed before asking, ‘‘Is Seokwoo coming to pick you up?’‘ to which you slightly nodded to replying, ‘‘In 15 minutes’‘.

You kept yourself from smiling out and after spilling it to your other family members, you would have wished to see the spoils of joy on their faces but instead got into Seokwoo’s car.

This time your entrance was different and a whole lot better. It felt good to be back as you gave him a quick peck on his cheek. You reflected his wide smile, leaning your head on the headrest.

"How was it?" he asked, inquisitive but careful at the same time knowing that your family had a given history of making you feel like an outsider whenever they all came around. You hummed, dismissing the answer and instead looking at him and shrugging your shoulders, clearly exhausted.

"Don't stress about it a lot" he cautioned, hand on the steering wheel while one slipped into yours, wanting to be close to you in your time of pure distress. Gripping his hand tighter, you replied, "It's tiring, but I can make it" nodding as you said the latter, hoping to convince yourself that you could hold on.

It all sounded like fireworks to you but a part of you hoped that Seokwoo bought it because he was worried. You were an adult and if anything, they were people out there going through worse. It was a reminder that you didn't have to worry about something so small.

Whatever you thought to try and show that it wasn’t that big of a deal, there were always your own original thoughts at the back of your mind, trying to breach the surface. You had spoken to your family about how you felt, delivering in soft blows rather than directly and their response dismissed how you felt.

They had managed to convince you that the problem was now over, now that you had spoken to them but you felt as if no real change occurred. Truth to be told, you didn't have a proper explanation for this or anything like it but you did try your best.

Then again, what counted as a proper explanation?

"Hey" Seokwoo softly spoke, looking over at you in concern to see that you were looking out of the window with a look of despair on your face. It was at times like these that your real emotions would pour through, at times when you were stressed but tried to control how you truly felt.

You gave him a small smile and looked away, blinking the tears back. You felt hypervigilant now, also noticing how tightly you were gripping his hand. And then you felt grateful realising that he knew but gave you your space anyways.

You could show someone an example of what feeling like an outsider felt like in your family but individually, the single events did not count. On the other hand, a culmination or tyrannical combination of all these events made much more sense to your point.

They could point out how you were exaggerating the reality of the situation much like your family or at least how you thought they would react but Seokwoo and you knew the truth. Even before Seokwoo, you would live in your own mind, gradually moving away from the negativity.

Although the problem persisted, you once called into question your thoughts about yourself, the world and your future- the negative triad. It was simply a triad but you did know that you had negative thoughts regarding all three, making it your negative triad.

At present, you were content with yourself and the life you built that didn't involve a complete involvement of your family. Somehow, your problem with your family became your world and on a whole you were not angry at the world but you weren't angry at your family either. You couldn't change their actions and words towards you but you could change how you reacted towards them. As per the future, you didn't want to focus on that right now for your present work, relationship with Seokwoo and friends held so much more worth.

Taking a breath in, you released a shaky one, swallowing your tears and smiling. Hearing you, Seokwoo scrunched his nose in delight, happy that you were okay. You were also strong in every right for it made him plenty strong too. It was unfair to say that you shouldn't have felt terrible as others had bigger problems because you could acknowledge that fact but this was still your problem.

He didn't meet you like this and neither did you let this affect you in any way outside of your family home. Once it was over, you would be close to tears but it would hardly take you that same amount of time each time to pack your bags and move on.

Neither did he step in to defend you from your family because they were not your enemies. To them, they had the best intentions but drastically different ways of expressing it and Seokwoo supported you through it. You healed and went on to be your best self, knowing that you were surrounded by those that loved you because love came in different forms.

"I'm okay" you spoke, a lot more happier this time whilst looking at him. A smile slowly made its way to his face as he heard your words, rubbing circles onto your loosened grip on his hand. Resting on the headrest, you sighed in relief, all the stress and disbelief floating out of your system. Giving once last caring look at you, Seokwoo drove home where the two of you laid in each other’s arms, drifting off to blissful sleep.

#sf9 #sf9 au #sf9 imagines #sf9 scenarios #sf9 shine together #sf9 seokwoo #sf9 seokwoo fluff #sf9 rowoon #sf9 rowoon fluff #sf9 requests #sf9 fluff #sf9 fanfic #sf9 fantasy #Blooming time #sf9 writings #kim seokwoo #kim rowoon #Rowoon #rowoon scenario

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hngrylikethewoolf · 3 years

Text

Cry Wolf, Bleed Red || Errigan

IN WHICH...Errol's work behind the scenes on a case he was mysteriously handed months ago finally comes to fruition. He travels to London, information asked of him in hand (or, rather, hidden but nearby) and allows his curiosity to finally pull him toward the person in question. Little does he know that he already knows then, and he's possibly bit off more than he can chew. Then again, when hasn't he?

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Blood, Violence, Guns, Improper Medical Treatments, Errol’s Shady Military Shit (i.e. Special Forces) Mentioned, Death

[BACKDATED JULY 19TH, 2021] @professorofcrimeratigan

ERROL:

He never thought he'd be back in London so soon.

There was a certain hunger in this city, just a Bart away from the town he had put roots down in for the last two years, the town he had never thought that he would stay in for more than a few months nor find people to care about within it. But that wasn't what this was. This was something else entirely, a maneuvering, a life-sized game of chess and shadows.

The life Errol had lived by the hand of a state and had thought he'd put to bed with a medical discharge and its night terrors. This case had deemed it otherwise, however, and so here he was, rucksack in hand and information at the ready.

It seemed someone wanted to kill this mysterious shadow he'd been tracking and they couldn't have that, now, could they? Regardless of what the man might or might not be involved in, Errol could cite plausible deniability. He'd grown particularly fond of the shadowy bastard, after all. Or, as much as one could without knowing their face.

The sheriff had made the appropriate arrangements to get himself to the city, the flash drive of information he held in hand a culmination of every skill he possessed. It had been damn hard to unravel, but it had been done, in the end.

And the results were alarming enough that he walked, dressed in civilian garb, knife and handgun hidden on his person, to a predetermined meeting to discuss it.

RATIGAN:

It went without being said that he did not want to be here.

Usually he wouldn��t— his involvement in things like this were slim to none. That was the benefit of where he sat at the head of the table, there were so many people working under him that he rarely had to lift a finger let alone carry out a job himself. Obviously the circumstances for him to be here, in person, had to be special.

Or, as it was, dire.

This situation had blown itself out of proportion. He had only anticipated a slight ripple in the pond when he had sent the head sheriff on the case. The man he had wanted arrested and put on display for his wrongdoings had more to him than Ratigan previously thought. And what was worse, the sheriff had been quite good at his job. So good that he had uncovered the plot against him faster than Ratigan had and if he hadn’t been so angry at the notion that someone had been working against all he had built, he would have been highly offended by this. He could deal with that and all it implied later, for now he had information to obtain. Ever since the slip up last year that had resulted in the getting bitten Ratigan’s paranoia for things like this had grown substantially. And with the promise of an attempt to overtake his empire he knew he couldn’t trust anyone else to oversee the workings of this plot. While he would not face the sheriff in person, he would be there to make sure the information was obtained.

They had been tracking the sheriff’s movements as he moved about the city— and this late night stroll was no exception. They had already gone through the room the man was staying in looking for the evidence he had collected, only to come up empty handed. Unfortunately he was smart enough to know the safest place for it would be on his person.

“Where’s he going?” Fidget asked from the driver’s seat. The rest of the crew that had been assembled would be close behind, their wardrobe had needed an upgrade for this change of plans.

“Seeing as he is not in uniform, I think our sheriff is trying to infiltrate the enemy’s line undercover,” he sighed, annoyed by this turn of events. It had made all of this needlessly complicated. “And yet he has not informed anyone else of his intentions.”

“...what’s that mean?”

“It means we’ll be playing his back up.”

ERROL:

At the back of his mind, waking down the street, the sheriff was running over the list of information he had. Of course, it wasn't on him, not really. That would have been stupid. But, then again, so would leaving it just lying around so anyone could waltz into his room and find it.

(He would be surprised if they hadn't done so already, actually. He hadn't been gone long, but there would have been time in between. It would have been what he'd done.)

No, the flash drive was safe and hidden somewhere no one would think it to be, a trick he'd learned during his stint pretending not to exist for twenty years. Hiding in plain sight was easy. Acting like a civilian was easy, too, but Errol still felt eyes watching him with every step he'd taken.

There was a certain feeling one had to recognizing they had a tail. It started at the base of the spine, the pit of your stomach, a bit of a tingling as it raised the hairs on your arms, the back of your neck. Skin stippling with the gooseflesh that dotted your flesh. An alarm that rang off in your head, telling you there was someone there but that if you acted normal, acted ordinary they wouldn't know.

This notion flashed through his brain in only a few seconds. It was easy to pick out from his other, more inane, thoughts. The sheriff thought about how he should have worn full Kevlar, how there was a nagging sense that things were going to go poorly, but that he knew if he was to be searched a vest would have given him away. Errol had been undercover before. He knew how it worked.

It still didn't make the feeling go away.

Errol ducked into the closest coffee shop, the smell of it detectable a mile away and where he had been heading this whole time. He wove in between customers, snagging bits and bobs as he went by, a genteel smile on his face as he pocketed money, fake stumbled into someone and took a scarf to cover his face and neck, a dark beanie hat he shoved over his curls.

He was in and out of the area in about a minute, parts of himself concealed that had not been previously, pilfered coffee in hand. The back door made little noise as it swung on its hinge, his boots making more noise as trash and alley goo squelched beneath them.

He was at the mouth of the alley, turning back onto the main street, when a solid impact to the ridge of his shoulder had him spun into the bricks, startling him. Automatically, he glanced up. No sniper in sight, but then if there were, they weren't a good one. They'd missed his head, if that had been the target. Errol had stumbled but he hadn't fallen, a glancing ricochet of a bullet off his shoulder strong enough to move him, so he rolled his arm and kept moving, weaving seamlessly back into the crowd with a grimace on his face and the smell of blood in his nostrils.

They wanted him alone, but the safest place was amidst people.

A trap, however, was never ideal. Not unless it was his, and the gun at his hip said it would be.

RATIGAN:

“What’s he doin’ now?” Fidget leaned over to get a peak at the screen while they were stopped at a red light.

If there was one thing that Ratigan did not miss it was the population of the city and all that accompanied it— traffic being among the top 10 behind all the other environmental determinants and housing crises it perpetuated.

“Gettin’ coffee?” The driver cackled, head tilting back slightly as he let out his amusement. Ratigan simply rolled his eyes at the sound and leaned against the arm rest so that he could rub at his temple. He knew by now what he was getting into when being alone with Fidget and yet there he was, making the mistake all over again. (Yet another reason he would resent the sheriff for his actions after this.)

This was why he did not miss being a part of the field work. He could remember the days when he would sit for hours on end in the dark listening to the conversations of that of his mark or between people who would soon lead him to where he needed to go. The inane, unintelligible nature of them. Back then when he had nothing but himself and the lone weapon the family would lend to him upon giving him his instructions. How different it was now, with a whole team and technology his brain had not even fathomed into existence back then.

Of course, his insides were all the same— filled with black like tar of vitriol. He would always be that creature that roamed the shadows of the world like a wraith, observing the people around him in an attempt to mirror their movements and expressions. All in the hope that in the few moments he did step out into the light, it would be enough to convince those that saw him that he was derived from the same beginnings.

“I don’t get it,” Fidget started up again, making Ratigan breath in deeply, preparing for what was to come. “Why can’t we just take him out? Why all this chasing?”

“Because, Fidget, there’s no point in that.” Even if it would have been more fun compared to this absolute mess. “Despite his superiors' lack of interest, he is still law enforcement.”

“Suddenly we care about Scotland Yard?”

“No, but should he die they will be informed and all will be lost to that failed organization of so called investigators.” He glanced up and rolled his eyes again at Figet’s confused stare. “If he dies now someone else will take over this case and since an officer died while investigating it there will be more interest, as well as all that he has already managed to dig up. I have no doubt our half will be untraceable but the people targeting the sheriff are not so careful, and I do not intend to let the police get involved. These people are mine to deal with. The police will just get in my way and they do not deserve prolonged hope of life.”

Fidget nodded slowly. After a moment he asked, “What’s he doin’ now?”

ERROL:

There was something like single mindedness that could narrow a man's focus down into pinpoints, the tunnel vision of pain or fear of the smell of his own blood sending him off to do something stupid. Errol couldn't afford that feeling.

He breathed in through his mouth and out through his nose, kept his shoulder as protected as he could, edging through a small crowd of people. Tried not to flinch when something whizzed past his good ear and struck the concrete in a small spray of dust. Another miss again but this time more purposeful, an indication that whoever was herding him didn't care that other people were involved.

Hell, they probably barely cared that he was police. It would be more trouble for them in the long run if they killed him, he knew, but he wouldn't put it past them. This group wasn't exactly smart, they were just ruthless. Or, well, what amounted to their version of it anyway.

The car that had been following him wasn't their handiwork, though. It was a bit too subtle, save for the fact that he'd seen it too often to be coincidental. He glanced toward it, briefly, with a smile as he stepped off the curb and jogged across the street, switching sides to the less populated areas. Errol's left hand rested on the gun settled at his hip, jaw clenching as he jarred his shoulder. The knife was already hooked around his thumb, the handle curled into his palm.

RATIGAN:

Ratigan had taken his eyes off the tablet for a moment when one of the other members of the crew had sent him the text that they had hit a slight delay but would be on their way soon. He cursed silently to himself.

The police really were just a bunch of pests, weren’t they? Ironic that them holding up these people would only put one of their own in danger. Normally this would have delighted Ratigan but knowing what could be lost and what was at stake only made him frown.

Ever since the sheriff had uncovered more than was expected in this investigation anger had begun to simmer under his skin. All that kept him from getting lost to it and putting his fist through any given surface was that he had been trained not to— but it was a near thing. This was not how his plans were supposed to go. He was careful, thought through every perceivable outcome thoroughly before making his move and planning accordingly. It was why his systems worked so sufficiently, why those who had entered into his game rarely complained of how things worked since they did not have to pay attention to the system they were working with. It was simply there to make sure their world moved along smoothly and without those in it having to worry about the semantics.

But, as this whole affair had shown, not everyone enjoyed the efficiency. Wanting to revert back to the ways things used to be run. That thought alone made him want to smash his fist through the window beside his ear. (Given the extra strength from the bite, he knew his fist would go through the bulletproof glass.)

When he looked back, the dot had gone off course— this time he cursed aloud.

ERROL:

The silence of this side of the street was unnerving, enough to make any normal person turn on their heel and stride back into the crowds. Errol wasn't most people, certainly wasn't normal, and he breathed calmly when most people would have started panicking.

That first scuffle of sound further down made the famous words of Admiral Ackbar ( it's a trap! ) ring in his ears. He hated the feeling that coursed through his veins, the adrenaline of it all. He didn't have anyone to back him up, save for the car that had been following, quite obviously, behind. But even they were too far away right now. Both Dublin and Delilah were back in Swynlake.

He felt the loss of the dogs keenly when he was rushed from his left side, a large beast of a man all but hooking his hands under Errol's arms and throwing him into the wall across from him. Probably done to try to get rid of his weapons, or maybe just to be a tit, but the slag certainly didn't expect for him to clamber to his feet, snarl in his face, and cut his belly open.

Served him right, Errol thought, watching as he slumped to the dirty floor, and kept moving. He limped more visibly this time, the impact he'd sustained cracking his head against the brickwork and wrenching his hip. Everything else was sore, pounding with an ache he hadn't felt in ages. The thought crossed his mind that this was what they'd wanted, to get him into a secluded area before trying to pick him off. It made frustration well up in his chest.

He'd been so worried about someone else being hurt, had reverted back to that mindset, that Errol had forgotten what was at stake here. Namely, whose life would be taken if he didn't play his hand expertly. Like a chess match, and one that he was currently losing.

The sheriff took his own advice and turned back the way he'd come, picked his way carefully toward the more populated areas. He wasn't quite back at the street yet when a loud banging sound from behind him made him heave a sigh and adjust his grip on the tactical handle curled in his grip. The blade was slick with blood and gore. He'd need to clean all of his weapons later, make them shine again.

A slight grimace curled around his mouth when he turned and noticed not one but four men blocking the only other exit. Errol should have kept walking, could have, but the people that streamed past the alley entrance had no clue what violence was about to be wrought a few feet away. He really shouldn't make them aware of it. That was when people, more than himself, got hurt.

He made the first move, not waiting for his assailants to attack first. Every movement was economical, purposeful and forceful, and the surprise on each of their faces as he came closer, drove them back through the doorway of the building off to the side, and dispatched them neatly one by one was almost amusing.

Unlike their boss, they hadn't done their homework. It was clear they'd had no idea what he was capable of, even injured.

It was almost laughable.

The blade of his knife cut through throats and tendons, his free hand helping block attacks that came to close, snapped arms like toothpicks when they came at him. The gun at his hip stayed where it was; bullets went through buildings. He didn't need to shoot someone walking outside.

The men in the room, most now crumpled dead to the floor, had no such qualms. Handguns lay scattered around them, quickly dispatched and removed from the equation. One of them had hit their mark ( clearly they weren't taught how to shoot ) and exited through his side. Another caught his leg, tearing into the meat of his thigh. He'd stumbled, but kept moving. He could worry about it later.

When all was said and done, the engagement lasted for only a short while. Blood covered Errol's hands, clothes and face. His chest heaved from the exertion of the fighting, but he still stood on his own two feet, if a bit less stable now.

The next three came a few moments later, or so he thought. This time, he had his gun in hand, stance shifted to keep his balance from wavering. If he could see his own face, he wouldn't recognize it.

He had survived, but the part of him that would have been sickened was nowhere to be found in his eyes.

RATIGAN:

In the time it took for the sheriff to be corralled the crew had finally bypassed the delay and were moving in on the location within their assigned groups. The first few had been able to navigate to where Ratigan had relayed the location. The description of the carnage was not his priority, the bodies could be taken care of later. He wanted to know where the sheriff had run off to and whether or not he was still able to give them the answers he needed.

This organization (if that’s really what they were calling themselves) had only been the instigators. The top of the pyramid. What he needed were the names of everyone that had been willing to place themselves underneath to hold them up. He could find them, but that could take time— something that he was not willing to give them to reorganize. Or run.

He let out a frustrated noise and cut off Himari, assigned leader of this particular operation, before she could finish describing the injuries the men had sustained. “Does anyone have eyes on him?”

Only static replied. He sighed, hitting his head back against the headrest. “Pull over.”

“But boss we don’t even—”

“Fidget.” Ratigan’s voice fell into a low warning. “Pull over.”

The driver didn’t need to be told a third time.

Ratigan stepped out of the car and onto the busy sidewalk they had pulled up beside. “We’ll need to follow on foot.”

Fidget gave a short nod, reaching forward to turn off the ignition. He checked his person to make sure he had his weapons on him before stepping out to join Ratigan on the sidewalk. The two made an odd pair standing next to one another, one short and shifty as he glared at everyone who passed by who eyed him oddly while the other stood in an elegant line as he buttoned his suit’s jacket with no concern for anyone else.

“I’ll be with you shortly,” Ratigan said, turning to find Fidget looking up at him from under his well worn jaxon cap. He received a confused lift of an eyebrow.

“Where’re you gonna be?”

“I’ve just said I’ll be joining you soon.”

“But—”

“Trust me, Fidget.” Ratigan smiled, the sound of it evident in his voice. “Go help the others, you’ll know when I’ve arrived.”

He began down the pavement in the opposite direction of where his people had entered the building. Fidget watched him as he went only when he blinked, the man had disappeared among the various figures. (He hated it when he did that.)

The first team consisted of three people, all dressed in police uniforms and they had arrived at the scene in the car to match. The second and third groups would do the same, all dressed as some form of local law enforcement because who would question the presence of police at a crime scene where one of their own was in harm’s way?

They moved in silence, following the silent hand signals of Himari as they made their way toward the sounds of fighting. The closer they got the easier it was to make out the groans of pain and bullets sounding off despite being suppressed by silencers under all the yelling. Along the way they took out the men that had been loading their weapons to join in against what appeared to be a one man army.

When they had reached the nearest hallway the two other groups had announced that they were in position. (One had taken out the set of snipers, the others had taken care of those that were waiting around the perimeter of the block.)

Himari stepped forward to look into the room, eyes roaming the men inside until she could see the figure they were there for. She pulled back, relaying his position to the other members of the team so that they wouldn’t take him out by mistake, and then gave the final signal.

With that they all stepped inside and took their shots. The rest of the men that had been gaining their ground on the sheriff were taken out within the span of a few seconds. Everyone entered the room, guns trained on their marks and checking over the bodies to collect the weapons and ensure that they wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon.

Fidget, having joined the secondary team, approached the sheriff alongside Himari. They shared a glance with one another that communicated their concern for him. (Not because they cared for his life, but they feared what would become of them should their boss not get the outcome he desired from this.) Fidget flicked his head forward for Himari to take this one. She rolled her eyes at him— he had always been a scaredy cat. Especially when staring down a man covered in blood surrounded by a trail of bodies.

“Sheriff Woolf,” she said softly, holding her hands up as she approached with measured steps. “We’re here to help you. Please lower your weapon so we can do so.”

Somewhere outside the distant roar of sirens had everyone looking up in alarm.

ERROL:

The sheriff panted, winded by his own injuries, and finally laid the last gun down to rest, dismantled where he stood with a few deft movements of his hand. He'd kept away from windows, knowing snipers lay beyond (though based upon their shooting, he highly doubted their ability to hit anything vital).

The last body had fallen, but it wasn't by his own doing. As it stood, however, there were about ten or so bodies sprawled at his feet, all incapacitated by a tactical knife, a snapped neck, or their own weapon. The kills had been clean, efficient, and would have made any normal person's stomach roll. To Errol, it had just been another brush with death, the training from the SRR put to use when he needed it. Looking at the carnage, Errol was fairly certain the bastard had it out for him after he'd been cheated twice before.

The team that moved in toward him, however, were not familiar. They had also been late, and he leaned against the wall at his back to keep himself from swaying as he studied them. Fatigue was finally taking over, the adrenaline running its course, and the pain in his leg was no longer a dull throb, but he still had information to give.

Stripping the scrap from his neck while two of the team spoke in hushed tones, Errol made a makeshift tourniquet just above his wound. The sluggishness of his movement upward suggested he had lost a fair amount of blood, more than he had believed.

The sound of the siren was a relief, made his shoulders inch downward from their defensive position, but he still bared his teeth at the woman when she came closer and raised his knife.

"While I appreciate t' assistance, I ain't sayin' shite tah any o' ye. T' information 've got 's fer yer boss. No one else." He turned his gaze to rake through the crowd of people clustered around the room on instinct, a sardonic laugh pulled from his chest as he spied one of the men on his list of information. Errol pointed toward him, a smirk on his face. "An' 'at rat bastard 's why. Wouldna trust 'im if I was ye, luv, he'd stab ye in t' back fer a few extra pounds."

Errol didn't like bastards like him. His commanding officer, the one who hadn't died, had been one of them. The contempt was palpable in his gaze, a hatred there that was more than just about the information he had. Two of the other team grabbed the one he'd pointed out by the arms and dragged him out the back of the building half of them had come through, unconcerned with the fact that he was struggling.

Good.

Errol did another sweep of the room, then, and found no one else he'd memorized the names and faces of plus all the information he'd gathered (legally and...not so legally) on them. It was only then that he put his knife back into its place on his person.

Nodding toward the exit, Errol spoke not to the woman who had come toward him but the lad in the jaxom cap, a slight grin on his face. "Show me where yer boss is, eh, lad? He'll want t' information 've got, an' yer t' only one that didna travel wif t' rest o' 'em."

It was as he took his next, limping steps, that Errol sagged a bit, tiredness and blood loss finally, and firmly, grabbing hold.

"Lad," he called, motioning for him to hurry up, as best he could, anyhow. Errol had noticed the prosthetic the moment he'd walked through the door. When the younger man finally edged closer, Errol dropped his voice so he could speak, the words serious. "Yer boss isna jus' dealing with a mutiny, like he thought. They're tryin' tah kill 'im."

RATIGAN:

Fidget blinked at the man, eyes wide from both fear and general shock at being addressed. How had this guy known who he was? Or that he worked right under the boss? How had he pulled all this off on his own? How was he standing and talking right now when he looked like he had stepped right out of a scene in some horror movie?

Just who the hell was he?

Himari stepped back over to them before he could even process what he had just been told.

“Sorry to interrupt but there will be enough time for this later, we’ve got to move.” She turned her dark eyes onto Fidget. “The boss isn’t answering. Do you know where he is?”

“Uh, no. No, he disappeared.” He made a motion with his hand and blew on it, as if trying to depict smoke.

Her jaw clenched a few times before she spoke again. “Did he say anything to you before that?”

“Yeah. Yeah, yeah, he uh— he said that he would meet us here! Yeah!” Fidget smiled up at her, proud of himself for remembering but she only rolled her eyes.

“What’s going on?” Landon, sturdy both in build and on any job, came over to join the commotion. “What’re we doing? We moving him out of here or what?”

“Yes.” Himari leaned in closer, “I just don’t know how far he’ll make it.”

Landon eyed the man they had come here for in the first place from over her shoulder. The sheriff already looked like he was a few inches in the ground; maybe the information he had was better left with him. All this trouble for one man, and what for? Because he couldn’t keep a secret? It wasn’t like they could leave him alive after all this anyway. They could just explain to the boss that they hadn’t gotten there in time— that it had been too late. His fingers curled, arm lifting slightly so his thumb brushed against his weapon holster.

“H, we’ve got an ambulance pulling up outside. What do you want us to do?” Mandy, who was posted outside, asked, voice coming over the comm. It made everyone pause.

Landon and Himari shared a look before she reached up to press a finger to the talk button.

“Confirm if they’re real or not. If it’s more of these guys deal with them but secure the vehicle. If they’re the real deal, keep them out there.” She turned to address the sheriff. “Can you walk?”

“Uh, H?” Mandy interrupted.

“I told you—”

“I know, but H—”

“What?” Himari snapped, annoyed at the unusual backtalk. But no one had to answer as the door was shoved open.

A man, dressed in the green paramedic uniform complete with the fluorescent green night jacket, came through the door pushing a stretcher with a medical bag on top. He paused when everyone in the room holding a weapon aimed them at him, raising his hands and looking rather annoyed when someone shined their flashlight right in his face.

“While I appreciate everyone’s professionalism, we don’t have time for this.”

ERROL:

The sheriff's eyes flickered between the young man in front of him, the woman who thought she ran the joint, and the man with the itchy trigger finger. The last one is who he focused on, squaring his shoulders and baring his teeth in a slight snarl at the man, his own hand edging toward the gun at his hip.

Errol might have looked like hell, but he was a stubborn bastard. The only thing that would kill him would be something on his own terms. This? Wasn't it.

"Aye, I can walk. But keep t' whelp away from me."

Staring Landon in the eye and lifting his chin, snarl still in place, the radio chirped that there was an ambulance pulling up outside, giving them all pause. Errol, however, just waited. There was no need to panic, not to him anyway. It gave him a good chance to watch the way this team operated, anyhow.

With the other information he'd gleaned--that their boss had disappeared but that he'd said he would meet them, that they intended to move Errol himself somewhere, but wouldn't say where--Errol figured the boss was here. Besides, the people walking around outside wouldn't have heard anything, let alone sent an ambulance. How could they? He'd not used his gun, every other one had silencers attached to their barrels.

If he had learned one thing during his time working both undercover and for the government it was that no one paid attention to the world around them. Certainly, not when something was right underneath their noses.

So, unlike the rest of the people milling about, Errol didn't raise a weapon when a man walked through the door. He cocked a brow and crossed his arms across his chest, shifting so he kept a bit of the weight off his leg. When the man, pushing a stretcher and its accompanying medical equipment, stepped into the room and raised his hands and head, a snort escaped from the sheriff, amused and chagrined at the sight of a familiar face.

The woman who appeared to be leading this little operation glanced at him from the corner of her eye but Errol didn't pay her any mind. Instead, a lopsided grin broke across the sheriff's face and he started laughing, quietly, to himself.

While he was surprised, the information he had gathered made more sense now and all the pieces of before fell into place around it. Certainly the fact that he'd been given the investigation. He knew the man they were trying to kill, after all.

"Ye know, I should be surprised an', yet, I ain't," he mused, unfolding his arms to run a hand down his face, pulling a face when it came away bloody. "But I s'pose it makes sense, really." He had, fleetingly, of course thought something of Ratigan, but those thoughts were neither fit for present company nor along the lines of 'international criminal.' More...WitSec for a crime he'd witnessed, maybe a turncoat to his organization, but not that Pedram Ratigan was running the bloody show. He waved a hand to indicate the entire scene, jumpsuit and all, grin still firmly in place. "That ambulance fer lil' ol' me?"

RATIGAN:

“Stand down!” Himari motioned her hand in the silent command as well and everyone followed direction, though that did not stop them from looking at the man with curiosity. Many of them would not connect the dots because it was not their job to do so. For now they would just believe that someone had called in the paramedics on their payroll to come help with the extraction.

Ratigan continued to push the stretcher across the room until he was standing with Fidget, Himari, and Landon. The smell of fresh death was rank as it clung to the back of his throat— and the most prominent smell belonged to that of the sheriff, his own blood having seemed to spill out in vast quantities. There was too much of it covering him for Ratigan to be able to tell where his injuries were but the tourniquet was telling enough.

“Do be quiet, sheriff, unless you’d like another hole through that thick skull of yours.” His tone was controlled yet anyone could hear how close to the edge it was. He was in no mood for the man’s games. In fact, he was quite angry with him. For all the marks he had gotten on his professional career he had been stupid enough to get himself caught up in this and had nearly died in the process.

“Boss, where—”

“Marasete gomennasai.” Ratigan turned and looked at Himari pointedly. Her eyes wandered around to their audience for a moment before she returned to him, understanding. They spoke for a moment to one another in Japanese, fast paced and with little to no animation. The conversation ended with a nod of agreement from both parties and she turned away, motioning for Landon to follow her as they went to address the rest of the crew.

“Uh, boss? What’s with the get up?” Fidget raised an eyebrow as Ratigan approached where himself and the sheriff were still standing. Ratigan ignored him, his glare focused on the metaphorical thorn in his side in the shape of a blood stained police officer.

“I’ll give you a choice, though you’ve not earned the right to it. You will come with us willingly to tend to your wounds. Or, you refuse and this ends here.” Again, the room’s weapons took aim. Only this time they were pointed at the man they had come here to save. Ratigan’s eyebrows lifted. “Judging by the blood on your trousers, I would say time is not on your side.”

ERROL:

Dramatic entrance aside, Errol would give his whole performance a 7/10.

You know, purely because he knew him. Bedside manner could do with a little work, though.

And it appeared that Ratigan’s people barely knew who he was, if the guns a moment ago were anything to go by. Errol looked to have been correct in his assumption, too, that the lad worked closely with him, as Ratigan maneuvered the stretcher to where he, the woman and the other two men were clustered.

Ohhh and he knew Japanese. How quaint.

The tone Ratigan projected, while controlled, was one that held an undercurrent of...oh was that an emotion? Directed at little ol’ him? Oh, Errol was flattered, really. He couldn’t even argue with the snip at his stubbornness, either. It was true enough. It was part of why he’d been dinged during basic training, why he and his second commanding officer had often butted heads. There was nothing different here, except he didn’t hate the man that was currently glowering at him.

The sheriff tossed off a jaunty salute in reply, smile still firmly in place while he waited for Ratigan to finish his hush-hush conversation. There was a bit of relief, however, when the woman took the little whelp away. Meant one less person who clearly didn’t care if he died or not. No matter what Ratigan might say on the matter, or how he may affect an air of not giving a shite, Errol had information about the people he’d been asked to find.

He had a lot of information, and all of it was pertinent to the other man and his survival.

Errol chuckled again and answered the man in the jaxom cap, not waiting for Ratigan to do so because he had a hunch that he would not. “‘e stole t’ ambulance, lad. Frankly, ‘m impressed. Ain’t easy.”

And, yes, he knew from personal experience.

Ratigan started speaking, saying how Errol didn’t have a right to a choice and the sheriff’s brows mirrored the man’s across from him, hiking up into the curls at his hairline. He didn’t flinch when some...ten? Ten, odd guns pointed at him. Instead he laughed, nothing more than a huff of breath. “I ‘appen tah like those odds,” he mumbled, rolling his stinging left shoulder back, “but aye, yer right. Bullet nicked me femoral artery, I fink. ‘S been bleedin’ fer a lil' while. Tourniquet slowed it down, though. But, I, ah, also know who’s tryin’ tah kill ye so--” The emphasis on kill shouldn’t have been lost on the man. After all, Ratigan wasn’t stupid. In fact, he was quite the opposite. Errol had been tasked with finding the men willing to start a mutiny, but he had uncovered something that appeared to run far deeper than the surface appeared to show.

The sheriff shrugged his shoulders, pointedly ignoring the guns pointed at him from all sides and the twinge in his leg. Instead, he cocked his head to the side, watching Ratigan’s face the whole while. Finally, after another moment, he smirked and nodded.

“Ye brought clamps, aye? ‘M gonna need 'em. An’ another pair o’ ‘ands.”

RATIGAN:

(The sheriff was, unfortunately, correct in his deductions. Still, he had to run through the scenario for his own benefit.)

Had the sheriff not been an advantage in this tiresome game then Ratigan would not have cared what happened to him. He would have left him at the mercy of the people standing around this room, all of whom did not like law enforcement, and been on his way.

The option was still there. It was tempting, too. The rage that boiled just below the surface of his skin, made the wolf grow agitated. It clawed at his ribs, the bars of its cage. Whenever it wanted out his chest would ache against its efforts, but the pain did nothing to tempt him into letting it free. It was the concentrated anger that enticed him. That black tar that consumed and spilled into every part of him, the heart, the soul, the mind. It all was placed on this one man who was threatening everything he had worked for. After all Ratigan had undergone to obtain what he knew was rightfully his.

He wanted violence, so deep was this rage, so heavy his vindication. The wolf could have made it easy.

His mind cleared rapidly after that. Ratigan regained awareness of the situation and knew he could not do that.

To run an organization such as the one he had helped to build, one could not move with only the next ten minutes in mind. It was why so many failed in this line of work— it was why the Shrivani’s had. They had seen a boy kill a man and did not stop to think how that could be the beginning of their end.

No one here was aware of what he was, not really. Neither wolf nor a killer. To his network he was just a very smart man who had made his way to the top with clever words and letting other people pull the trigger for him. They did not know he had been dipped in blood, no inch of him untainted. He would like to keep it that way for as long as possible. If he chose to expose himself now, over such a man, he would never forgive himself for such a mistake.

As for the sheriff— Ratigan did not have the time to waste on digging up everything while he was being buried in the ground. He would just need to find relief from the mad grief in bringing the people who thought killing him would be a move made without negative consequences.

Ratigan blinked in the span at which his decision had been made, expression unchanged. He did not say anything to the sheriff or anyone else before turning away and back to the exit. There was no need to.

Fidget moved forward with the stretcher toward the sheriff, giving it a pat to indicate to the man to get on. “We gotta go.”

ERROL:

Used, quite frankly, to these small bits in time of waiting for people to decide what to do with him, Errol's patience held out well enough. It was tired and it was frayed at the edges, but it held. Besides, it gave him an opportunity to study that look on Ratigan’s face, the one that hinted at some deep, boiling anger.

For a man that clearly held himself to a higher check in standard, probably claimed he was emotionless, Errol saw quite a lot of it in the few seconds he had to search it out. And he didn't say a word, just as Ratigan himself didn't say anything before he blinked, turned, and walked back the way he had come.

Errol's shoulders fell a fractional inch and his chest ached with the force of holding himself still, keeping himself in check when his heart beat thrummed and fluttered in the wound at his thigh and blood had begun to dry across his entire body.

The lad with the cap on moved forward with the stretcher and Errol couldn't help the small smile that curled one side of his mouth upward. He nodded his thanks to him as he leveled himself up onto the stretcher, eyes darting toward the rest of the assembled teams.

When their boss had turned, their guns had lowered, but there were still some whose guns had taken a split second too long to do so. While their faces weren't familiar, not like the man he'd picked out before, it was something to consider.

Yes, he was quite aware that they probably hated his profession but he didn't give two fucks about that. They had no idea why he had done the things he had, why he worked the way he worked. What he had seen or lost or why he didn't sleep at night.

"Thank ye," he murmured, glancing down to his leg with a sigh.

The tourniquet helped, but it was not a proof-all solution. If this had been like what had happened before, back in Afghanistan, he could have stopped the bleeding in the field. But he couldn't. He needed tools, a pair of steady hands that weren't his own….

"Lad, yer gonna need tah get me intah t' otharcarr. Now. I'll talk tah yer boss while I fix meself up, right as rain." He proffered a smile, voice leaning a bit further into the 'calm and collected and everything was okay' persona.

He was calm, but he was starting to feel the cold, and that terrified him.

RATIGAN:

Once the sheriff had situated himself onto the stretcher Fidget turned it around and began to follow after Ratigan. Their path had been cleared of the people that had been dropped, but the wheels still had to roll through the pools of blood that had been left in their wake.

When she was done telling everyone else where they were supposed to go from here, Himari joined Fidget in the effort to get the man out to the awaiting ambulance. They did not look at one another or share any words as they rolled him through the corridor and out into the back alley.

The arrival of their boss in person had been a surprise, but more so than that had been the way in which he conducted himself. Normally he was much more upbeat than he had been tonight, words as if they were lyrics to a song in the way they were said on his smile. When put in front of an audience he would capture everyone’s attention, even when he was in a foul mood. His annoyance was well known in relation to the tolerance of something not going to plan, but it was always telegraphed in louder ways. Slammed doors and barked orders, as if he knew that these were the only ways people would clearly understand that he was angry with them.

Tonight there had been none of that. Everything he had done was quiet. His silence scared them more so than when he was shouting at them— it meant that there was something wrong, not just a misstep that could be corrected.

He was waiting for them beside the ambulance, the lights and sirens having been turned off. Again, he said nothing. It set the tone for the two of them, that there was no time for anything else but the work.

Fidget stepped aside to let Ratigan and Himari get the stretcher into the cabin of the ambulance and he went around to the front to get himself acquainted with the driver’s seat.

Himari stayed behind in the alley and shut the doors on them. She clapped her hand against the side of the vehicle for Fidget’s benefit and they were off. They needed to get to one of the doctor’s the network had within the city— the only problem was that they were all just out of reach of the time limit they were working with given the sheriff’s condition. As always, time was the enemy that no one could touch.

“As hard as this may be for you, sheriff, I’d appreciate it if you refrained from any of your usual need of having to be the funniest person in the room.” Ratigan sat beside the stretcher, pulling on a pair of gloves and grabbing the scissors from the supplies. He leaned forward, over the stretcher to get at the fabric of the man’s blood soaked trousers.

ERROL:

The silence around him was almost deafening, but Errol didn’t let it penetrate. He focused on his breathing, instead, about keeping his heart rate steady, calm. If he could do that, it would slow the blood flow, would hopefully keep him alive for long enough that he could repair the damage done to himself. He let himself be wheeled after Ratigan, gaze fixed on the back of the other man’s head. Something familiar to anchor himself when his head would start swimming from the blood loss or the nausea would hit.

It was, unfortunately, a dance he’d done before. Didn’t mean he liked the familiarity of it, but he was quiet the entire time he was being loaded into the back of the ambulance, barely looking at the woman or Ratigan before the doors were closed. Errol only turned his head when he heard the telltale clap of a palm against the side of the ambulance’s back paneling and felt the slight lurch of the vehicle as they started driving.

Beside him, Ratigan was pulling on gloves, some quip about finding it in himself not to be the funniest person in the room. He snorted, quietly amused, but nodded. He’d be good, though, really, that wasn’t why he did any of what he did. Not that Ratigan would know that, but his bravado, his lines and his sarcasm were all a way for him to compartmentalize, to get done what needed to be done.

“Mm ain’t ‘ard,” he disagreed, nudging his leg to the side so the other man could get at the inseam of his bloodied trouser leg. “Yer jus’ sore ‘cause I did me job. Long list o’ people ye pissed off. Ain’t jus’ a mutiny, either. ‘S more ‘put a bullet in yer ‘ead an’ call it a day.’” He lapsed into something like silence for a while after that, face pinching slightly when the cloth stuck to the skin around his wound was pulled away. It gave a lovely view of the scars that already existed there and Errol huffed a laugh and leaned his head back from where he'd angled it to give Ratigan room to do whatever he was going to do. After a moment he tilted his face to look Ratigan in the eye. “If ye gimme a needle an’ suturing thread I can take care o’ t’ wound on me shoulder. Eventually gotta patch up me side, too, but ‘s a through-an’-through.”

He just wanted to be useful, really. Needed his hands to be busy or else his head would start spiralling, he’d start cataloguing the injuries, the blood he’d lost, how many quarts he would need, if they had blood for transfusions (even though he’d done all of that within a split second of being in the rig and cataloguing all of the equipment at their disposal) but that wasn’t the path he needed to go down in the back of an ambulance with a halfway irate man holding a sharp pair of surgical scissors so close to his soft bits.

Ironically, though, not the first time he’d been in a situation like this one.

“Ye know...ye could’ve jus’ asked instead o’ all t’ bloody cloak an’ dagger shite. Like I said. All o’ this--'' he gestured minutely with the hand furthest from where Ratigan was working, indicating the encounter as a whole “--ain’t a surprise. 'S jus' a bit different, mutiny an' murder."

And he'd done both, himself, so the slight shrug of a shoulder was nonchalant.

RATIGAN:

Ratigan highly doubted that. In situations like these people were always looking for some sort of release. From the pain. From their current reality. From the possibilities of what that reality may be for them. Many people turned to humor. Laughter like an air bubble that brought them back to the surface before they were inevitably dragged under once more. As he had learned, the sheriff enjoyed pressing the people around him— it was his form of coming up for air against the heaviness. Someone else may have appreciated it, someone else may have even joined him in such a method, but he was here with a man who had never learned to stop for air should he need it. He had always kept his head down until the weight was cut and allowed it to sink itself.

“If that is why you believe I’m angry then you are more self absorbed than I originally believed.” Ratigan threw the fabric out of the way and turned, digging into a drawer to pull out the IV needle and tubing that led to a bag of saline that would need to be pushed through this man’s system.

Outside there was a loud honk and the vehicle they were in gave a sudden jerk as it veered to the side sharply.

“Fidget!” he yelled, having to push himself up from where he had fallen back against the seating.

“S-sorry, boss! Not my fault!”

Rolling his eyes, Ratigan returned to what he was doing. He applied the IV to the back of the man’s hand, and placed it on the hook beside the stretcher. “You’ve lost too much blood to be trusted with anything regarding your health.”

Not that he would have trusted the man with it even if he had not been shot and bleeding everywhere. “Focus on staying awake. How about telling me where it is you’ve hidden the information you’ve almost died for?”

ERROL:

"Nah," Errol drawled, smirking. "Ye jus' like ev'ryfing jus' so." He tilted his head to get a look at the other man's face, ready to push or concede the point depending upon the tick in his jaw. It was a slight little thing, just like the flare in his nostrils when he'd walked into the room and smelled all the blood, but it was there.

That was about as much of a tell as Errol had ever gotten, and he learned to read the little things for what they were.

The sheriff was about to comment about the saline bag, offer up his arm even, but the vehicle lurched and he jerked to the side, jarring the bullet wounds under his ribs and throwing his shoulder into one of the cabinets.

A curse ripped from Errol's mouth as he pressed a hand to his side, grumbling under his breath as he drew back his shirt carefully with a sigh, relieved when he saw the wounds hadn't started bleeding again. He'd been able to wrap them a bit with a section of the scarf while people had been speaking, but they would need to be cleaned and dressed properly.

A noise of offense was pulled out from the depths of Errol's chest at the other man's words and he offered his hand for the IV with a furrow between his brows. "Who d'ye fink fixed me leg t' first time?" It was an ugly scar, and he knew it too. But that was what he got when he only had gunpowder and his mate's matchbook to cauterize the wound. Then, the tone became curious, brow curling vaguely upward. "'d'ye even know 'ow tah clamp off an artery?"

Ah. Yes, Ratigan should hear all of that shouldn't he.

"Ain't wif me, if 'at's what yer wonderin'. Drive's hidden at t' hotel, but 's got a fail safe. Memorized all t' names an' faces, though. One o' 'em was at t' extraction."

RATIGAN:

Did Pedram Ratigan know how to clamp an artery?

What reason would he have to know such a thing? Or any first aid for that matter. He had certainly never been a soldier at war nor had he trained in the medical field. As far as anyone knew (disregarding the detective back in Iran), he did not like to get his hands dirty. No one knew the reason for that, either, though. They simply thought it had something to do with his nice suits and the conceited attitude.

He did not mind this— it was better than the truth.

He did not answer with words, instead proving his use by actions alone as the point was not to explain or prove himself to any capacity. What did it matter where or how he had learned it? It didn’t. The sheriff already knew more about him than Ratigan cared to acknowledge.

His touch was not gentle or as precise as that of a surgeon, the only thing he knew was efficiency. Using the tools available to him within the cabin, he cut an incision to the sheriff’s leg for better access to the real cause for concern. He pushed past the muscle to find the severed artery and placed the forceps’ ratchet to the second click centimeters above the separation to stop the bleeding, and did the same for the other side.

While he did this his mind was elsewhere— on the drive that was hidden in that hotel they had checked over. All this time wasted on one man when he could have just bought that hotel and torn it apart brick by brick instead.

“Tell me where it is.” He looked up at the sheriff, gaze steady. “Tell me and be done with this. It has nothing to do with you, it never did. You gain nothing from the information, only from giving it to me and keeping out of it.”

ERROL:

Right. Because he totally didn't think he was going to die the moment he gave the information over.

Errol would have said that, or something to that effect, but he was robbed of any ability to say much of anything when Ratigan sliced into the meat of his thigh, deftly twisted past the muscle and clamped the artery down within a matter of, perhaps, a minute. Errol bit into the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something nasty, though the 'bastard' that slipped out when he pressed the heel of his other leg into the base of the stretcher to stop it from twisting away was well-earned.

Breathing rapidly through his nose to keep both his heart rate down, because he knew that wouldn't help, and his mind from the pain, Errol glared balefully from beneath a fringe of curls. "Right. So ye answered me question 'en. Good tah know. Better than usin' a lighter an' gunpowder," he grumbled, tapping the ugly knot of scar tissue higher up on his leg absentmindedly with his free hand.

A distraction from the renewed pain in his leg.

He was quiet for a moment, mulling over the words he wanted to say and how he wanted to say them. Because, really, it did mean something, particularly that he knew the person these men were trying to kill. Shifted a few things about in his head, so to speak. Thankfully he was still coherent enough, despite his blood loss, to remember everything. His vision blurred a little at the edges but when he turned and held Ratigan's gaze, it was clear and it was steady.

Errol held up his pointer finger on the opposite hand, indicating a list. "Ain't said anythin' 'cause if ye havena found t' drive by now it might nah have yer information anymore, since it was time-sensitive. Also 'cause I fully expected tah be shot after I gave ye t' information," he murmured, gaze steady as ever. He knew the measure of this game, after all.

"If it does, the key is faolchú. Erases itself if ye get t' password wrong so make sure ye spell it right. If ye need me tah write it down, I can. Know ye can barely understand me normally." Yes he was taking the piss with that last comment, but he was right. He held up his second finger, a smirk curling the edge of his mouth upward. "I didna say anythin' before 'cause I knew whoever asked me tah show up wasna who I'd been workin' fer. Messages sounded off. 'Ad tah know it was t' real fing."

As he had said before, Ratigan or the correspondences that had come from him through whoever had relayed his desires, had a particular way of wording his messages. Straight, to the point. Efficient. That hadn't been the case when he had been called to London, but he'd gone anyway, knowing that something would come of it either way.

He held a third finger up, switching to Farsi, his normal accent all but disappearing to make room for the new language. He had a hunch the man driving the rig wouldn't understand anything they said using it, anyway. "You've got a lot of people trying to kill you. The information is coded in triplicate. 'M sure you'll figure it out quick like but t' key to get it started is a chara, no space."

You know: speak friend and enter.

Then, he rattled off a handful of names, their information, and the positions they held within Ratigan's organization. Hell, he even had some of their banking information. "There's more than them, about four times that number actually, but they're all on there. I can tell ye, too, if need be. Names, positions, banking information, etcetera."

RATIGAN:

Well, at least the sheriff had the foresight about one thing, that his life was only as valuable as the information he could provide.

“Very presumptuous of you to believe that they are trying to kill me.” He turned, grabbing gauze from the supplies. For all the sheriff knew he could have just been the leader of this branch, another cog in the machine.

Why did he have to be so careful about this when he had been the complete opposite before regarding the people that had been trying to kill him? Had he been under Ratigan’s crosshairs they would not be having this conversation right now. And yet, had he been less careful with a drive rather than his own life, they would also not be having this conversation. Ratigan would have left him to his own devices and not had to intervene on the order to kill the sheriff.

It seemed as though this man, despite not even knowing of Ratigan’s involvement, would always deliberately make his life that much harder than it ever needed to be.

“Then why go at all? If you knew they were not a part of your team of officers, why show your face? And why go alone? Why put yourself in such a position?” In truth, he didn’t care to know the man’s train of thought. The questions were more accusatory, a way in which he could convey his irritation.

The more the sheriff spoke, the angrier he became. Four times that number of people who had been trying to turn over the table? After all he had done in the name of organized crime? And why? Because they thought they could do better?

He grit his teeth and let out a slow breath through his nose to keep the anger repressed. It would not do to blow up in the back of an ambulance with a man who had everything he needed being held together by clothing accessories.

“Very well.” Ratigan nodded to him. “Continue. In exchange, I will ensure you survive the night.”

ERROL:

“Not if ‘m right it isn’t,” he shot back, eyes following the other man’s movements as he reached for the gauze to pack the wound with. Which would also hurt like a bitch, but he wasn’t surprised by that, not in the slightest. Everything hurts now. His entire body was throbbing, both in the way his heart beat in every open wound and the variety of injuries he had sustained.

Sure, Ratigan could have just been the leader of a particular section of people but that didn't seem like his style. He didn't seem like the type to play second fiddle. Didn't seem the type, much like Errol himself, to like authority when he could be it.

The questions the other man raised were good ones, and they deserved a decent answer, but the only one he could give at that moment was a small shrug of his good shoulder. "Curiosity, probably. And figuring if they were dumb enough to think I'd give them the information, that I would be followed by the person who actually needed it."

It didn’t take a genius to recognize that he would have someone following him. Someone who would want the information more than the other, who had a reason behind it that kept them there. The comment about knowing if it was one of his officers or not made the Irishman snort and he laughed, quietly, for a moment before tilting his head to watch Ratigan’s face, speaking normally for a moment. “Didna tell anyone else. None o’ me officers knew anyfin’ an’ fer good reason. ‘S less people tah protect if ‘s jus’ me. An’ I did it because my client’s a bit of a ponce, a bit of a bastard, but ‘e’s t’ kinda bastard I like.”

He could hear the growing anger boiling just beneath the man’s genteel tone, the flash of it in his eyes, and Errol smirked slightly to himself, brows twitching as he shifted around to straighten his leg ever so slightly. His knee was starting to stiffen and he knew if he did not move it, the joint would lock up and it would make moving around later a pain in the ass. Errol dropped his head back with a thump and a sigh, a hand settling across his stomach as he waited to have the gauze shoved into his leg.

“Yes sir,” he muttered, poking a bit at the man just because he could, mouth curling around the familiar, lilting tones of Farsi once more. “Your biggest problem’s a bloke named Bartholomew. Nasty little bastard thinks he’s got it in him to run an entire organization from the ground up.” Errol rolled his eyes, clear distaste for the man stark on his face. “But he’s got people who agree with him, a lot of them, and they won’t be easy to just...get rid of. They’re everywhere, top down.” Errol paused for a moment and lifted a hand to rub at his eyes, the ceiling and Ratigan’s face swimming a bit.

“D’ye ‘ave any transfusion bags? Fink ‘m gonna need ‘em. Any’ll do, ‘m a universal donor.” And then, to himself as he glanced behind the other man to try and catch a glimpse of any, he said, “‘Course, direct transfusion could work in a pinch, too, ‘cept yer Muslim. ‘M nah gonna ask ye tah do that.”

No, he hadn’t realized that little factoid had slipped out, but he didn’t care even if it had. Despite what others might think of the religion, Errol had been around and actively participated in portions of it off and on for the twenty years that he’d been stationed in Islamic countries.

RATIGAN:

It was not often Ratigan made mistakes. They were few and far between. Yet, only a year ago he had made several that had nearly cost him his life. Perhaps that is where this had all started, in that warehouse when someone had thought they’d gotten the best of him. Back then there had been a line of them that he had traced back as if he had been carrying a spool of thread with him all along.

Here, he had only made the one— misjudging the motivations of the sheriff. A single dismissal and it was costing more than he would have liked.

Judging by the shade of the man’s skin and the disorientation he was fighting to hide, the blood loss was significant, as it should have been given his wounds. It was a miracle he had not bled out as soon as his artery had been hit. (Or perhaps just stubborn willpower.) Ratigan did not care whether he lived or died by any moral standard, his life meant nothing to him. In fact, it would have been easier if he did die. His body could be used to frame the people he was going up against and everyone knew that the loss of one of their own would light a flame under that of Scotland Yard.

“I’m afraid there are none, and I cannot give my blood for reasons that are not tied to my religion.” It did anger him to think this man knew anything about him but it wasn’t as if he had done anything to hide it from his cover in Swynlake. But, despite what people may think, it was fine to donate blood so long as one did not collect any sort of reward in return and did not cause harm to themselves by doing so.

It was clear to Ratigan that unless they got this man to their medical facilities he would not survive. They were too far out to make it before he would be passed saving. But he needed those names the sheriff claimed to have wrapped up inside that head of his. They only needed just that much more time.

“Thank you for the advice, sheriff. I am sure the time you’ve spent on this has made you such an expert, I will be sure to pass along your valuable advice.” His tone was polite and proper, but perhaps that is what made the facetious point of it all the more biting. “What are the rest of the names?”

ERROL:

Errol hummed his acknowledgement, tapping his index finger against his good thigh (or, rather, the thigh currently not housing a few clamps) and screwed his brow together, forehead wrinkling as he shifted a bit. His leg was falling asleep. "'S fine. Figure we're almost where yer wantin' tah take me any'ow."

The sheriff listened to the other man speak and snorted, despite himself, amused at the tone that would have normally made him bite back his own sarcastic retort, a lopsided grin taking over his face, more unguarded than it normally would be in a situation like this. He almost wanted to tell him to quit being such a prick, that he was telling him. Didn't he see his hand, the tapping? Except, his voice wouldn't work, words wouldn't come, and Errol knew he needed to fix that. Right now. Even though he was wavering, fading into the edges of black around his eyes, Errol was still gritting his teeth and swinging back around, wrenching his eyes open and shifting forward, allowing the pinch in his leg, while painful, to wrench himself from the darkness of unconsciousness.

"Yer a genius," he mumbled, words slurring a bit despite how confident they were, and it was a fact because he was, Errol knew that, "ye'll figure it out. Jus' watch, 'cause 've been tellin' ye."

If anyone could figure out some sloppy Morse code in the back of a stolen ambulance by a man who'd lost more than a few quarts of his own blood, it was Pedram.

RATIGAN:

The Morse code, while juvenile and annoying beyond belief, was noticed. It was also a testament to how much longer this man had if he had already given up on the effort of speech— seeing as it was all he ever did.

“Unless you are taken to a medical professional there is nowhere that I can take you that could save you. For all that I am, a surgeon I am not.” He glanced down at the open wound, knowing very well that there was nothing he could do to fix it.

It would take some sort of miracle to do such a thing with the amount of time that had passed already and the amount of blood that had no doubt been lost. It was already astounding that the man’s heart was still beating now. There was only so far his beliefs would stretch outside his logic.

Silence followed this as he focused on the code the man was giving out. It was only so much information that could come across. There was not enough time. Wouldn’t be enough time unless he survived and there was nothing that could keep him among the living that Ratigan had within the cab of the ambulance. He sat back, tearing off his gloves in frustration, throwing them away. His mind cleared to work over the problem at hand, the sound of the traffic faded and he closed his eyes against the overhead lights.

The man was dying. Ratigan needed him alive, unfortunately, if he was to get the information.

He was overlooking something. But what was it? What—?

Inside, the wolf whined.

Ratigan’s eyes opened and slid over to the sheriff.

“You are dying.” A fact. “If I make sure you live, do I have your word you will give me everything you can remember?”

ERROL:

Errol could speak but he was starting to tire, a fuzziness about his vision that made the back of the ambulance and it's equipment almost grey, like the color had been leached out of the world. Slowly, and then all at once, the blackness would descend, and he, for the first time in a long while, feared it. This time did not feel like any other, like any other of his 'almost-but-not-quites.' Rather, this was the 'not quite yet' that had been hanging above his head like a scythe ever since he was a lad.

He'd cheated death one too many times. This would be his last, unless they figured something out.

A bark of bitter laughter escaped, and it almost sounded more like a punch to the gut or a cough. If he'd chanced a look downward he would have seen a grayish pallor hanging over his skin, from blood loss and death's gaze both. "I know," he mumbled, sighing through his nose when he shifted to glance upward at the other man's face (neck, chin, jaw, half of a cheek but not the eyes) with a little grin. "Feels like it did, t' last time. Was in a coma fer...weeks. 'S when they took me dog."

There was something angry in that, something brutally, visibly wrong there. He hated the thought of someone that wasn't family taking Delilah and, now, Dublin, too. Someone he did not trust and fuck he might have just learned perhaps one of the biggest secrets of the other man's life, but he trusted Ratigan enough to be here, dying, in this ambulance with him. Trusted him enough to try to fix what he could not, he would trust him with his dogs, too, if he knew the man would take them (he wouldn't, but Errol was okay with that).

"'S unfortunate ye ain't, luv," he mumbled, allowing the moniker to slip rather than the real first name like it wanted as he shrugged a shoulder, trying to sit upward a bit more. The world tilted and he groaned, fingers white-knuckling the edge of the stretcher he was laid along, cursing beneath his breath.

Errol watched in placid fascination as Ratigan stripped off his bloody gloves and threw them across the ambulance, every line in his body radiating frustration. It was clear it was about the information he was not getting now because there just wasn't enough time, never enough time, but Errol wondered why there was such a large upwelling of it.

The sheriff waited, patient in the face of his own death, for Ratigan's eyes to open again and slide back to his face. Both brows raised up into his hairline, intrigue and confusion sliding together in his gaze before the edge of his lip curled, showing teeth. Despite his acceptance of death, he was a stubborn bastard. If Ratigan could think of a way to fix all of this, then Errol would take it.

"Cross me 'eart. Everyfin' 've got an' then some. 'S yers." Despite the tone, the false-joviality of the attitude, there was a deep seriousness that said he meant every word.

RATIGAN:

As soon as the permission was given Ratigan put the plan into motion. The behavioral straitjacket of control and posturing was locked into place once more as he leaned forward to clap his hand against the wall between the cabin and front seats of the ambulance.

Fidget startled but turned his head to glance through the little viewing window. The pair exchanged words, the driver confused at first but once consoled with an unwavering gaze simply nodded his head in understanding. He would do as he was told, like always.

It didn’t take him long, the instructions had been simple. (Whatever happens, whatever you hear, do not stop driving until you’ve taken the sheriff to the doctor. I will contact you tomorrow, Ratigan had told him. Fidget had no reason to think he wouldn’t.)

This was a bad idea, of this he had no doubt. When desperation entered into a situation there never seemed to be any other kind. All he had was this if he wanted to right the wrongs. He would be inflicting great harm to a man, changing the course of the sheriff’s life just as it had done to Ratigan, to anyone who had been inflicted by this magic. But he had no choice— he was not dead yet and if he waited too much longer the infection wouldn’t be able to save him anymore than a hospital could. He was out of options.

The wolf whined again, pacing and clawing, looking for its way out.

For once, Ratigan let it.

It took no more than an intake of breath— where once there was a man there was now a wolf.

The wolf was distracted by everything all at once. The smell of blood made it whine in the back of its throat. The enclosed space made it start to pant, it hated the man’s basement where it had only been allowed out, but this was smaller. Too small. It felt caged and threatened and it wanted out. It hated it here, it didn’t feel stable, every time it tried to move the floor would shift as the ambulance rocked against its weight. The wolf barked and the sound of it bounced against the too close walls.

Then, the wolf noticed that there was something else in the cage with it.

The smell of blood and sweat made its eyes snap to the man laying there. It knew just by looking at the figure that he posed no threat. One slash of its paw across his throat and he would be dead. It bared its teeth, growling, ready to— that was when the man’s thoughts met the wolf’s.

The man’s were different, he wanted this one alive for reasons that were complicated and had been calculated down into something that was less to do with emotion and more to do with business. The wolf was not like the man in that regard. While it did hold his intelligence, its thought process was more base.

It barked again, a warning shout before it reached. The wolf sunk its teeth into one of the man’s biceps. (One of the only places not injured, easily hidden by clothing for the scarring that would be left behind.) The flesh caved easily around its teeth and it thought, briefly, about just pulling back while its jaws were still locked. It would be easy. Just as easy as it would to go for somewhere softer next. It could feel those thoughts from the man inside, from the days when he had known only blood and death and darkness. It could be like that, perhaps that was the connection it needed to—

The wolf released the man’s arm, the fur around its mouth now matted with his blood, and barked again. The walls were too close. It could feel Ratigan’s fear of enclosed spaces now boiling to the surface, too. They were together on this— it needed out.

Its eyes roamed the steel cage until it spotted the windows at the back of the space. It waited until the constant movement of the box to come to a stop. (Fidget pressed on the brakes, adhering to a stop sign.)

It lunged.

The doors to the ambulance popped open and the wolf stopped only long enough to sniff the night air before running off.

ERROL:

There was something like dread, or finality, in Ratigan's eyes. Errol could see it. Maybe not dread, then, but a knowing. The kind of knowing that Errol hadn't yet picked the thread of yet and run with, the kind that was still forming, sluggishly, at the back of his mind. Perhaps, if he had been more aware, if he had not lost so much blood, he'd have been quicker on the uptake.

He heard every word exchanged between the man in the cab and the one beside him; as drowsy as he looked, his mind was still sharp, was still taking in and processing information. The weight of the ambulance shifted as the driver started driving again, just as he had been instructed, not stopping unless it was warranted. They needn't draw attention to themselves, after all.

That one was loyal, perhaps unconditionally so. Good. Maybe he could help Ratigan fix his problems if Errol couldn't.

(And maybe Errol shouldn't have been glad for that, given the divide between law and lawlessness that veiled them, but Errol understood what it was like, having a foot between both right and wrong, doing what he could to survive and skating just beneath the surface of the law to do it. It was not something he forgot, never probably could. He didn't blame the man).

Ratigan turned to him and he breathed and in one second to the next Errol was no longer staring at the face of a man but the face of a large, snarling, wolf.

Somehow, the second shoe had dropped a long time ago and only seconds ago, at the same time. Errol was not surprised. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he ever would have been.

The wolf growled and barked, the sound echoing off the too-small walls. The body language was apprehensive, put off by the instability of the ambulance cab and the smells that surrounded the beast. If Errol had been of any other mind, he might have been able to speak with it like he did his dogs, to get it (Ratigan) to understand he was no threat.

Though, when it paused, considering in that all too human way a beast had when it burst forth from its first skin, Errol figured it already knew that. Errol had seen it, once, a long time ago.

He didn't have much time left, he knew that. But he did recognize when an animal was about to lunge, the coiling of the body and the way their head angled to grab hold, to grab for the softest flesh it could reach.

Usually the throat, normally, if given half the chance. Ratigan had every one.

The wolf took a chunk from his left arm, the scarred one, and Errol was almost grateful. It would be easier to hide amidst the mass of damage already done. Would look like any other mark done to him in the first attack. Easily believable that it was another.

His own blood running down his arm, a burning sensation radiating from the wound, was what he was left with when the wolf backed away. Errol's eyes tracked it, alert but tired, and watched as its great big body bounded against the ambulance doors and out into the street, letting the night in. There were no sounds of cars honking frantically at the wolf loping into traffic. There wouldn't have been. Where they had gone, the streets were nearly deserted. Errol chuckled half-heartedly, glancing at his arm, and pulled his hand into a fist against the stretcher. The thumping, throbbing ache was still there but it had slowed, spreading out into a fire instead.

The sheriff sighed and dropped his head back against the wall once he fixed himself more firmly upright. He knew what this was, what had been done. He knew how this had changed everything but, in the back of his mind, Errol was already past caring, even while his blood burned.

Just like every other time life had dealt him a shitty hand, Errol would slip a new card into the deck and make it his own. It was the one way he knew how to survive.

When Fidget finally stopped and opened the ambulance doors and wheeled him into the makeshift hospital, Errol didn't tell him anything, suggesting only that he would see his boss tomorrow, just like Ratigan had said.

#ch: Ratigan #p: cry wolf; bleed red #r: machiavellian #//we've been sitting on this and plotting for months!! I am RIDICULOUSLY EXCITED #//thank you so much Sid for agreeing to do this awesome wacky plot with me #//can't wait to see what else we come up with 😉#//also Errol is a shit head even faced with his potential death and I love that for him #blood tw #violence tw #guns tw #death tw

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semi-imaginary-place · 4 years

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rewatching decadence part 2 because part 1 got too long

ep7: Getting to see the game Deca-Dence as a new player would with the opening cutscene, skipping the TOS, character creation and all was a good touch. Also the fact that Kaburagi could look like anything, but he wants to look like mid 40′s dad both times. I wonder who it was that decided Minato should vape. The conversation on the top of Deca-Dence is real interesting because its like only 20% of the actual conversation is spoken out loud and the other 80% left unsaid, so we have to guess what was left unsaid. Minato tells Kaburagi to not make things worse for himself, condoning his actions, but also vows to himself to help Kabu even though it is very dangerous for him. Kaburagi leaves after regretfully saying he doesn’t want to cause Minato more trouble, and yet his current and future actions are and will be doing just that. The obscuring fog in this scene adds to the sense of distance or disconnect between these two. Somewhere over the past 7 years they have fallen off the same page.

This episode again highlights how while for the Tankers this is life and death situation, for the cyborgs Deca-Dence is a game. We get a shot of some Gears lightheartedly discussing how fun the latest game event was, followed right after with what that event meant for the Tankers as we see a makeshift medbay in the streets filled with the dead and dying to really drive home the gap of compassion between the two groups. Minato is one of the few cyborgs we really see besides Kaburagi and the show uses him to show how cyborgs don’t think of humans as people. Humans to the cyborgs are just npcs in a game. Now anime and manga about videogames have been around a long time and were especially popular in the mid 2000s (mmorpgs especially) after which the genre dropped the “in a game” part but kept everything else which were today know as the isekai genre. Hot takes like “the videogame characters are actually people all along” aren’t new either, but Deca-Dence is one of the most successful in generating sympathy and compassion for the Other by flipping the script. Most of those series come from the perspective of the player and show the player coming to care about the npcs. This often isn’t done very well or comes off as patronizing, like the other characters act in service of making the mc look like a good guy instead of actually acting like fully realized people in their own right. (*cough* sao *cough*). In contrast to this, Deca-Dence initially starts from the perspective of Natsume who is human just like us the audience, and thus predisposing us to feeling with and feeling for her. So later when its revealed the humans of this world aren’t seen as people by the cyborgs or the the corporation that rules all their lives, it is granted greater weight in the context of all of us who have played videogames before and met npcs and maybe not cared all that much about them. Decadence places the viewer in the position of the npc, the Other.

Episode 7 is also the beginning of several letters exchanged between Kaburagi and Natsume. Its a presence that lingers long after the person has left and also acts as a contrast to the call/social networking apps of the cyborgs. In episode 5 we saw Kaburagi choose Natsume over following the orders of Solid Quake, but through to episode 7 he still believed in its system. Look even at episode 6 where he still believed that if he worked hard and played by the rules, the system would reward him and everything would be ok and compare that calm assurance in episode 6 to his mountain frustration in episode 7. He’s starting to see how thing are run in Deca-Dence makes life really hard and kind of terrible for the Tankers. This frustration at the system culminates at the end of the episode when he realizes the real human cost of perpetuating this system of oppression in how it hurts Natsume. I mean “Late stage capitalism made my adopted daughter Natsume cry, so I'm going to dismantle it.“ is a joke and pretty funny, but like, that’s what actually what happens. Both Kaburagi and Natsume further the theme of pushing the limits. Kaburagi realizes the limits of his society and why its time to break them down, while of Natsume’s side we see her struggle in the face of things much larger than her. Much like how the cyborgs are stuck in their lifestyles of working for Solid Quake, earning oxyone, and playing Deca-Dence, the Tankers are stuck in their role in society to leave their fates to the Gears and Deca-Dence. So Natsume asking everyone to take charge of their own lives and close that the hole is them stepping out of the comfort of what they’ve always done, which is leave it to someone else (deca-dence administration, gears, etc.). Natsume asks the Tankers to push their limits, the step outside of what they’ve always done and to believe in things they thought were impossible to do. We see Fei representing the belief a lot of Tankers that nothing needs to change, thus nothing should change and they will not act to bring change to their own lives. The Tankers live lives that are decided for them. The Deca-Dence administration controls their population, and the system eliminates any who would disrupt it. They don’t have a lot of control and are resigned to live like that, until Natsume comes along. This episode we see her do what she does the entire series, inspire people to be more. Natsume’s doing alright, she might not be where she wants to be but she’s taken steps in that direction. Where Nstsume is psychologically contrast Kaburagi who’s a bit of a mess realizing he can no longer live under the thumb of Solid Quake’s Deca-Dence system and is kind of floundering about. When kaburagi meets Natsume again... he is so awkward, I’m getting second hand embarressmen. and again the assault jokes have got to stop. The shot of the empty chair calls back to the first episode and another talk between Natsume and Kaburagi. I always love it when an anime plays the credits early.

ep8: again the importance of the individual over the group with kaburagi’s lines at the beginning on why he’s taking down the gadoll factory. I’m just thinking about how kaburagi is certain minato kept his avatar. and everyone just agreeing that minato has that vibe. I really love the avatar retrieval part of the first episode. Its a heist sequence. I love heists!. They also did a good job with pacing and tension in that part. Still can’t believe the creators put a sex toy in this show but at least this joke is actually funny. Oh Minato pulled strings to get Kaburagi out of the poor jail. I missed that part. but now the two of them are not only on different pages, but on different books. Minato doesn’t see the tankers as people and follows the Deca-Dence system on what is good and what is bad, so he can’t comprehend why Kaburagi is throwing away everything the Deca-Dence system values for something the system has deems less than worthless. While Kaburagi has formed a moral compass independent of this system, he sucks at communication and doesn’t explain anything to Minato. Interesting how Minato views bugs as bad but has made an exception for kaburagi and probably did some mental gymnastics to do so. It reminds of those homophobic family members that make an exception for their gay family member. Minato never wanted anything but to be by Kaburagi’s side so he prioritizes Kaburagi above pretty much everything else which is why while he defends the establishment, he also breaks rules for Kaburagi. Their little convo continues the same dialectic, Kaburagi’s been inspired by Natsume to push the limits of himself and society, to choose how he lives instead of letting the Deca-Dence system tell him. Kaburagi underwent character development when Minato wasn’t looking and he can’t recognize him anymore but desperately wants to. Kaburagi moving forwards without him and him realizing that he was never as much a priority to Kaburagi as Kaburagi was to him, means that Minato’s really hurting by the end of the scene, and he doesn’t take it out on Kaburagi, he just leaves. ...if it isn’t obvious by now, minato is my favorite character. gotta love the gay robot having a mid life crisis. (i mean his feeling aren;t necessarily romantic, but you know the joke I’m referencing). Turkey just wakes up and chooses evil every day huh. I predict someone on tumblr with a history of unhealthy relationships is horny for turkey.

ep9: why does the reactor look like a cyborg core? Again. WHYYY does Donatello have a gun??? idiots let him keep a working gun. I love the contrast of the actual pretty gritty situation of the prison riot being represented with super cartoony slapstick animations. This probably saves on frames as well as keep the series from getting too dark, because if you think about it the labor camp conditions are pretty horrifying but its disguised with cartoony designs and wacky characters. Kaburagi and Natsume are doing very important plot things, but the core of episode 9 are Sark and Turkey. Through them we see the same conversation that has been repeated through out the series of conforming to society and staying in line, that things won’t ever change so you should just duck your head and follow order, or the “I’m comfortable how things are” versus you should make your own choices with live life how to want to, to push your limits. Turkey sees the Deca-Dence system as absolute and eternal and thus tries to play by the system and help it continue by selling out everyone else. Sark is passive and doesn't really have an opinion of his own, just following whatever the others are doing whether its Kaburagi stealing his avatar or Turkey in betraying everyone. Sark unlike Turkey isn’t malicious, he wants the best for everyone but also isn’t quite willing to put himself at risk for others. After seeing everyone be destroyed as a consequence of following Turkey however, his new resolve and subsequent suicide bombing is the only reason the plan ends up succeeding. For total destruction of the gadoll factory two things were needed: flipping the kill switch on all the gadoll in the dome, and destroying the reactor powering the factory. We aren’t told how Jill and Kaburagi originally planned to destroy the reactor (like was he just suppose to wander around until they bumped into it?), but Sark’s explosion is what allowed Kaburagi and Natsume to get away from Hugin. Without Sark, Hugin would have totally caught them. So it was Sark taking charge of his own life and pushing his limits that saved them all. That said, if the explosion was powerful enough to reach all the way up the giant tube and destroy the reactor, why didn’t it break the tube and why didn’t it destroy everyone left in the prison? ah well it makes thematic sense so I’ll let this pass.

So I’ve talked before about how Deca-Dence’s ending could be improved to build on some of the themes established in the first couple episodes. The problem is that this show isn’t pushing a narrative of collaboration and the power of collective bargaining, its pushing an individualist narrative about how each and every person can reach out and better themself. Now I don’t think these two themes are mutually exclusive, but it would take a very delicate touch as well as an attentive and thoughtful audience to successfully weave these two theme together into a nuanced whole. And if a rewrite were to happen with the minimal amount of changes, I think ep 10 is a good divergence point. The final little arc is about the rogue gadoll outside of the Deca-Dence system and the threat of total annihilation by solid quake, and while big kaiju fights look cool, they don’t quite deal with dismantling systems of oppression at the hands of your corporate overlords. So, I would have preferred something like the cyborgs and Tankers coming together to seize the means of production, destroy Solid Quake, and take its assets for themselves. The ideal rewrite situation though would for this all to be 24 episodes and the big gadoll to be the episode 12 climax while taking down Solid Quake happen in ep 23-24. And since we’re doing a rewrite, Natsume kinda drops off as the main character after episode 5 and I’d like to see her back at the forefront of the show.

ep10: If this show had leaned more into the futility of Natsume seeking to improve herself within a system that rendered it meaningless, it would have ended up much darker, but I also think it would have been richer. Ah poor Natsume, she’s at a low point since the context of what she has been doing has wildly changed, afterall, what’s the point of improving yourself if nothing else ever changes and what you do doesn’t matter. The letter writing continues and it is good. So I’m not going to question how the exit tunnel is still intact, but watching into robot kaburagi angrily drive a car and swear is really funny. I’ve been wondering for a while, the humans literally live in a fuel tank, how is there enough light to grow plants in there? Like as part of the post-apocalyptic aesthetic, a lot of Tankers have little house plants which in addition to being inside the fuel tank, are also inside their houses. oh yeah for any who didn’t get it. The reason as a child Natsume went into cardiac arrest and her chip was read as dead wasn’t because of the severity of her injuries, Deca-Dence’s system had deemed her too dangerous to live and flipped her kill switch.

ep11: on a thematic level I might be meh, but the writing and execution are what really pull the ending through. Everything is nicely set up from the mutated gadoll the victim of animal abuse several episodes earlier to fighting hugin in the factory being how hugin finds out about natsume. I think about Jill’s lines here, that no matter how hard you try to keep things from changing, you’re just fighting the inevitable. Also Natsume took Kaburagi’s switching bodies really well like seeing someone you care about die in front of you but then surprise they just got another body would give most people such whiplash. “our bodies are under the system’s control, but our core’s are independent of it” I’m still thinking about this. It makes sense given how the first generation of cyborgs where humans with mechanical implants, but cyborg’s cores are still such a mystery. The things you can’t control are a part of life too. In Deca-Dence bugs are uncertainties that the master control system doesn’t know what to do with. More than just individualism good, here we get a little more nuance to Deca-Dence (the show)’s theme. Jill was one of the creators of the Deca-Dence game (giant mech, control system, and all), and they tried to create perfect system where everything was under its control and order could be maintained forever, and this inevitably failed (the show tells us). Trying to perfectly order everything is to attempt the impossible, disorder will always creep in and those little individual differences should be celebrated. and is to the backdrop of an old Deca-Denca(robot) part that is rusting away, plants and animals overtaking it much like how the Deca-Dence’s currently enforced status quo of the game will fall away in the face of those it deems bugs. wait did we ever figure out what the bug was that jill left in deca-dence? mmmm I’m still thinking about Minato logging out because the system told him to but unwilling to let things end this way so physically going back down to earth in his real body. Facing the possibility of truly losing Kaburagi forever is what pushes Minato to question following the Deca-Dence master control system. He totally became a bug for Kaburagi. I doubt Kaburagi had any idea how much Minato wanted to hear the words “let’s fight together to the end”, but offered the thing he truly desires, Minato probably would have done anything. mmm he’s got it bad. there’s also that linking Kaburagi and Deca-Dence’s core takes two people and yet, Kaburagi didn’t bring anyone with him. Which is terrible planning, but allowed for this really great scene. that he knew Minato would come after him. And then the last thing me sees in Minato. Minato truly is ride or die. literally. He could have gone back to the spaceship so that he’d survive no matter what, but he choose to stay. If the plan succeeds then he will see it through with/right beside/literally inside of Kaburagi, and if it fails and Kaburagi is annihilated when Solid Quake wipes the dome, Minato will also be annihilated along side Kaburagi.

ep12: so kaburagi just straight up demands admin privileges and the governing sys is like “sure”. Yeah pretty sure the governing system convo was a season 2 hook to show the big wigs. The independent all governing system tells Kaburagi that all this, him and bugs are a part of the system’s learning process, to which Kaburagi responds that all that doesn’t matter since he’s going to do what he wants independent/regardless of the governing system. the context in which you do things doesn’t matter. Also I never pointed it out since its like the 4th wall of scifi, everyone is just trained to suspend their disbelief, but oxyone is total bullshit. A non toxic liquid energy dense fuel that can be concentrated into orbit range lasers. The tankers all helping Natsume push the spare part is a feel good moment seeing everyone working together. Its an unnecessarily scene for the purpose of including the tankers in the action, since the part wasn’t ever really needed and the writers didn’t have to have it severed by the laser to begin with. the Natsume montage overlayed with the music is very good. wait. i just realized, limiter release can be reversed. Afterall, Kaburagi released his limiters with his first avatar, and if he had still been fully connected to it when hugin killed that avatar, cyborg Kaburagi should have died too but he didn’t and just immediately logged in on a different account. Kabu-Dence releasing his limits here and literally giving all of himself to destroy omega is fulfilling both for his character arc and on an emotional level. This entire show has been about pushing one’s limits and making your own choices, and it culminates here’s in Kaburagi literally releasing his limiter, thus putting him in mortal danger, and then giving every last ounce of himself to the path he has decided. The destruction of the mech fortress Deca-Dence is also symbolic of the end of the game of the Deca-Dence mmorpg as we know it. wait wait did Kaburagi hold on just long enough to hear Natsume thank him. aaaaahhh and then the ed song plays!! and then the play the new mmo intro scene. Still real weird that they’re using a cyborg brain as a ball.

#deca dence #deca-dence #decadence #deca_dence #anime #reviews

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100hearteyes · 5 years

Photo

Lexa travels back in time to prevent her girlfriend’s death, for which she was responsible, from happening.

TW: past character death, grief.

(thank you @butmakeitgayblog for the moodboard and beta’ing.)

–

Three moments.

Three key moments, however inconsequential they may seem, triggered a chain of events which culminated in Clarke and Lexa meeting for the first time.

For Lexa, it was instant attraction. For Clarke, although they would only find out many years later, it was the promise of doom.

“You can’t just erase me from your existence, you know? I’ll still be there.”

I might still die, is what Clarke doesn’t say. Lexa hears it anyway.

Nowadays, Clarke is but a ghost. Literally. Lexa has no idea how or even why it happened, but it had been an exact year since her girlfriend died when her non-corporeal form first showed up.

It was… gut-wrenching. Lexa has no words for how painful it was to see the love of her life in otherworldly tones of grey and not be able to touch her. It’s become easier with time, but she suspects this hollow ache that pulsates every time Clarke appears to her will ever go away.

“You’re the one who told me there was a way. You said it would work.”

This Clarke is Clarke, or rather the continuation of her; but she’s also not exactly the woman Lexa knew, regardless of the shape she has taken. This Clarke is rude and unsympathetic and has little to no regard for boundaries.

She’s an unpleasant version of the love of Lexa’s life.

Still, it’s hard to dissociate them. Lexa must do it, though, for the sake of her own sanity.

“I said you could avoid being the reason why I die,” Clarke states. “I meant it. You can.”

This journey has taken Lexa to remote places and from each she took tokens of different cultures and outlooks on life. She’s learned about grief and guilt. She’s learned to accept what she cannot control and respect what she doesn’t know. Above all, she’s come to a realization: if this doesn’t work, she can take the final steps to let go. This isn’t the final step towards the precipice.

Two years ago, Lexa would’ve lost herself looking for Clarke. Now, she’s finding herself again, parsing through the grief and plucking the parts of her she’d lost after everything that happened. And the puzzle is coming together, piece by piece and day by day, creating a new version of her which may not be whole anymore and may not be exactly who she was before — but it’s her, and it’s imperfect and it’s beautiful.

Lexa has learned to love herself again.

So this isn’t a desperate Hail Mary, her one last resort, the final step into madness. If anything, wherever it may lead her, this is closure.

The first door she opened was in Cape Town, South Africa, where Clarke was born before her family moved back to the States.

It was a cold December morning. On her side of the door, Lexa was thirty and falling apart. On the other side, Clarke was five and building a tower with Lego blocks.

Lexa felt herself staring long into an abyss.

All she had to do was relocate a single object and leave through the same door she’d come from. Days later, when she returned to her home country, she found out Jake was still alive. His daughter was not, though.

The second door she opened almost three months later. February 25th, Lexa’s home city. All she did was drop Anya’s phone into a lake.

When she came back, all her problems were gone.

It sent her reeling.

Lexa began to wonder; was she doing this for Clarke, or for herself?

She was meant to open the third and final door just a week later, but spent the 3rd of March holed up in her apartment, curled into a ball on the couch. She had jumped into this without a second thought, out of a selfish desire to relieve herself of the guilt of Clarke’s death.

Someone else had paid the consequences. Someone else was making her mistakes now and paying for them. Someone else was going to have a loved one ripped from their life.

What right did Lexa have to unload her burden onto someone else’s shoulders?

It took her months to get back on her feet. If the past year and a half had been an amalgam of denial, anger, and, with her selfish undertaking, bargaining, her second voyage in time had triggered the stage of depression, reflection, and loneliness.

It was then that she finally came to terms with ghost Clarke’s presence in her life. The afterlife form of her girlfriend gave her the tough love she needed to push herself off the ground. Clarke punched Lexa into motion and through it, Lexa found acceptance.

Lexa loves herself, now. She loves herself like she never did before, even when Clarke’s love made her feel invincible. Now, she sees the cracks and hard edges, the places where the cloth of her doesn’t reach far enough to breach the gaps, and she’s made peace with it.

Her shortcomings are no longer defined by her limits, but rather what she lets herself be limited by.

Lexa flexes her fingers. “What happens if I open this door?”

“I turn right instead of left. We never cross paths on the Brooklyn Bridge.”

This door has been locked for two years. Lexa never opened it, afraid of the crushing feelings that may lurk behind it. Behind it is Clarke’s studio, where she spent hours painting, the outside world all but forgotten. Lexa would sit in the corner, laptop perched on crossed legs, pretending to work but really watching Clarke print her talent on canvas.

Lexa feels ready to open it, now, even if what she finds behind it is a row of paintings leaning on purple walls, rather than gray skies and the wooden planks of the Brooklyn Bridge.

She has two conditions, though. Her fingers tighten on the handle.

“Do you live?”

“Lexa, you know I can’t–” Clarke stops short at Lexa’s stern glare and sighs. “Yes.”

But that’s not enough. Lexa won’t be selfish again — she doesn’t just want Clarke to survive; she wants her to live.

“Will you be happy?”

Clarke averts her eyes, then swallows. However, when her eyes meet Lexa’s after she’s taken a fortifying breath, there is nothing but honesty in them. “Yes.”

“Were you?”

Lexa’s heart constricts as Clarke’s eyes well with tears. What does it take to make a ghost cry?

Clarke nods, tries to get hold of her emotions. Her lips tremble and Lexa wants desperately to take her in her arms. If only she could.

“More than I can ever put into words.”

–

March 3rd, the day everything changed.

Twice.

The day Lexa found Clarke and the day she lost her.

Lexa opens the door and finds herself once again on that day, seven years ago, when she was trying to balance three cardboard boxes while speed walking down the Brooklyn Bridge, trying not to crash into any people — or worse, topple over the railings and fall to a wet death.

It was fruitless, of course. Just about to cry mission accomplished, she collided with something solid and everything in her hands went flying.

Not this time.

This time, Lexa changes the course of events and Clarke never crosses that bridge.

She watches from afar as her past self makes it to the other end of the bridge unscathed and a whole new life rolls out in front of her.

“You did well.”

Clarke appears at her side, colorless though still beautiful. There is a nostalgia to her expression, a knife that slashes at the relief that blankets it.

As she studies Clarke’s face and her mind fills the grays with color, drawing memories along the light edges dark lines, Lexa finds herself unwilling to let go. She moves to take Clarke’s hand, but catches herself at the last moment, remembering the colors she’s seeing are a figment of her memories and there is nothing she can touch.

Clarke notices, though, and regards her with such sympathy and compassion Lexa wants to run away with her and never open the door again.

“Come with me.”

They stroll down the bridge, side by side, their tranquility offsetting the electric current stringing everyone around them; the runners and the hurried, the young and the old, together. They find a bench to sit on and stay there for a while, watching the river run its course and the sun arch over the city and the people fall into slumber as the hours go by.

Can she stay here? Can she live a life in a world not her own, in a time asynchronous to hers, under the guise of having Clarke at her side?

She knows the answer to those questions. She’s long since learned that what she wants isn’t always what she needs — and vice versa.

“I’m proud of you.” Lexa meets Clarke’s gaze. Human or ghost, and despite the absence of color, Clarke’s eyes are beautiful. Lexa has always found solace in them, a rock to hold on to in times of need. She hopes she’s been able to provide even a fragment of that same comfort. “How are you feeling?”

It takes Lexa a few moments to sift through the throng of thoughts and feelings which this day has brought forth. Even now, she has doubts. But greater than anything, and the driving force behind her actions, is the desire to make things right.

She finds a feeling amongst the rubble and makes it hers. Peace. She feels…

She feels at peace.

However, after spending two years with the grumpy ghost of the woman of her life, Lexa is also feeling nostalgia as well as the pain over her upcoming loss.

Ghost Clarke was a way to remain connected to the past. Now, Lexa has to let go of that too.

“I hope I was able to make a difference,” she finally replies, eyes still locked with Clarke’s. “It’s not even about my guilt anymore. It doesn’t matter if we meet, either. I have made my peace with what happened. I just… I wanted to give you a chance.”

A chance to live; not just survive.

“You did it, Lexa.”

Lexa has made her peace with her role in Clarke’s death as well as the tragedy itself. The wound will always marr her skin, but it will no longer hurt when she touches it.

All she cares about now is for Clarke to be alive and most of all happy, even if it’s not with Lexa.

Several hours later, Lexa’s hand is once again resting on the doorknob, this time waiting to go back to her world — or whatever of it is left.

Clarke is staring at her, bottom lip trapped between her teeth. At Lexa’s questioning look, once-pink lips pull up into a rueful smile.

“Everything will be different.”

Clarke will be alive, her life will follow threads unknown to her till now. Lexa knows things will change. She also knows she will never see Clarke again in whatever shape or form.

Each time she remembers that, the ground beneath her quakes. She holds tighter onto the doorknob, determined to stay on her feet.

When she meets Clarke’s eyes again, they’re shining with unshed tears. Lexa nods, solemn.

Words would taint the moment.

“It was never about me, you know? I just wanted,” Clarke moves as to reach out, but catches herself. She clears her throat. “It was never about what would happen to me. I just- I wanted to lift the weight of guilt off your shoulders, give you closure. I-,” she chuckles humorlessly, eyes flitting to the ground for a moment before meeting Lexa’s again. “I need you to know, I’m still me. There was never… I never would’ve been able to help you if I didn’t put some distance between us. That’s why I behaved differently. But I was always still me.”

And Lexa knows this, knows what she’s saying. She always has.

“Your happiness is all that matters to me, Lexa.” Lexa opens her mouth, but a shake of Clarke’s head stops her. “Please don’t. Otherwise I’ll say something to make you stay.”

Lexa aches to touch her, kiss her, though she knows she can do neither, and her hands shake with the urge to close the space between them.

Instead, she turns the handle and opens the door. Before she can go, though, she turns to face Clarke one more time, needing to commit every single detail to memory, as though every line of Clarke’s face, every nuance, every emotion, isn’t already burned into her mind’s eye forever.

So she knows the broken words before Clarke speaks them.

“I love you, Lex. And I’ll always be with you.”

It’s with those soft words cradling her heart that Lexa crosses the threshold.

–

One of the first things Clarke told her, when they started, was that Lexa would remember everything, both her own memories and her new version’s, but the original ones — the timeline where Clarke died — would fade with time.

Clarke also told her things would change.

So Lexa was expecting to step into a different world and to be surprised at how much had changed around her.

She just wasn’t expecting her life to be quite so different.

Clarke’s friends are no longer her friends. She expected that, but the reality of it is overwhelming at first. She realizes, now, she often took them and the support they gave her for granted. Suddenly, having none of them to lean on, she feels crippled.

On the other hand, she has a different, better job. And as it turns out, her new self has left behind the concrete stuffiness of New York and embraced the free-spirited intellectualism of San Francisco, which isn’t just a different city — it’s on the other side of the country. Any latent hopes she might have had of somehow finding Clarke have vanished.

It takes her a while to adapt to all the changes, but a year later she’s back on her feet and the life she had before is now but a distant memory. She still dreams about Clarke, though the dreams are fewer and further between. Selfishly, she thanks the universe for the small reprieve.

Her old problems don’t haunt her anymore and, if not for the absence of Clarke, this would be a perfect life.

At least she’s doing her best to make it so.

She’s also learning to treat herself better than she did in her past life. Embracing the practice of being kinder to herself is refreshing. Freeing.

It’s the pursuit of one such self-indulgence that she finds a small coffee shop downtown, which she starts going to every day before work.

Today is no exception.

As she waits in line, Lexa distracts herself, noting down her to-do list for the day ahead. As she’s debating whether to go to the grocery store before or after her late afternoon run, she doesn’t notice her pen sliding down the page and falling to an early demise, until she feels a tap on her shoulder.

“Excuse me, you dropped this.”

Lexa turns around to thank her good Samaritan, a gratitude sat ready on the tip of her tongue, only for her breath to catch at the sight.

Because she’s as stunning as ever…

Clarke.

#clexa #clexa fic #clexa au #my fics #mine

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somuchfuckingsalt · 4 years

Text

Percy Earned his leadership

Okay, the thing is I get almost personally offended when the fandom tries to write off Percy’s leadership because that boy earned the right to be CHB’s leader.

First off, the way that RR wrote the first five books was in a way where when you combine them together, you can track one cohesive story the same way you’d do with a single story.

TLT is Act 1. It establishes the setting, the characters, and the story. While there aren’t a lot of leadership moments for Percy, because it’s the first act Percy has a lot of moments where you can see his various skills that will lead him to becoming a good leader coming through. This includes his ability to think on his feet (how he dealt with the love ride), manipulate (Crusty), and make the necessary calls needed for the good of the world (sacrificing Sally to return to the surface and stop the war).

There isn’t a lot that happens in this book that happens that changes Percy’s internally and turns him into more of a leader. Aside from the decision to leave his mom behind, every moment of ‘leadership’ that he has are small, baby step versions of leadership. This book is mainly just getting Percy accustomed to being in the situations where a leader is needed while not necessarily pushing him into a leadership position (while Percy was technically the leader of the quest he relied heavily on Grover, Annabeth, and Chiron since he was so new to the world).

SoM is Act 2. Since we know who Percy is and we don’t need to be coaxed into loving him like the first book, this book is the one where Percy probably receives the most help. This is also the ‘training montage’ portion of the story and likely the reason that the Sea of Monsters was chosen as the setting.

There are a few moments in the book where Percy takes the necessary steps to become a leader but most notably are.

Making the decision to send Clarisse on ahead.

Stepping up and confronting Luke on behalf of all four of them.

The beginning of the book where the campers poorly treat him and Tyson is also important for two reasons. The first being that Percy sticking by Tyson despite the poor treatment shows what a good person he is, even though we know he’s resentful of the situation and Tyson. The second is that part of the reason Percy is so resentful is because the last time he was at camp he was Hot Shit. Everyone thought he was the bees knees because he had completed a quest and prevented a war. By having Percy be ostracized for his association with a “monster” Rick not only prevented Percy from developing an ego but it also teaches him something all leaders need to know - which is that public opinion is extremely fickle.

This is also the book where we first hear that Percy is an ‘unreliable weapon’. Kronos specifically does not want Percy to be the prophecy child because he knows that Percy is difficult to predict, manipulate, and control. The gods themselves would be way less scared about how powerful Percy is if he was easier to control. By Percy being difficult to manipulate, that means he’s not going to wind up pulling all the people he’s leading in the wrong direction because someone else is pulling his strings.

TTC is Act 3 and the mid-story low-point. This is the book where Percy fucks up the most.

He lets his jealousy of Thalia cloud his judgement, which directly leads to Annabeth getting captured.

He again lets his jealousy and pride cloud his judgement which causes the campers to lose to the Hunters.

A tiny moment but he’s so upset over Annabeth possibly becoming a hunter that he nearly kills an Ares camper with a javelin.

He’s so pissed at Mr. D he almost lets his anger prevent them from getting help, which would have led to all of them dying.

All of Percy’s fuck ups teach him that he needs to not let his emotions cloud his judgement and clearly see in BotL and TLO that Percy has learned his lesson. Even when his parents are in danger or he has his own personal drama with Annabeth and Rachel, he’s able to focus on the task at hand.

(The one time that Percy lets his emotions take control is when he takes off in the Labyrinth alone because he thinks Nico is nearby and he’s extremely worried about Nico because he cares a lot about him despite what Rick and his ghost writers say).

They also serve as a humbling experience to keep his ego in check, because at the beginning of the book we’re told that Percy had become accustomed to campers looking to him and up to him after having completed two dangerous quests. His issue with Thalia is that he feels she gets all the attention because Zeus is her father (whether that’s a justified feeling or not). This shows us that not only does Percy have some sort of expectation of leadership but also that as someone who spent his whole life either in the corner or in bad light, he has enjoyed being in the spotlight even if only a little bit, and now he’s missing it.

This is also the book where Percy accepts the prophecy and basically puts himself in a leadership position for the sake of protecting Nico. However, for me, this isn’t the most meaningful leadership moment.

Percy’s big leadership moment in this book for me is when he takes the sky from Artemis and this is the big moment for many reasons.

For one, it shows that he has learned from his past mistakes of wanting to be the one to turn to. He acknowledges he’s not going to defeat Atlas and takes himself out of the fight so Artemis can fight instead. This is a great juxtaposition to the beginning of the story when he wanted to be on the front lines during capture the flag and have Thalia instead guard the flag (even though Thalia was right about the river).

For two, it shows his ability to make sacrifices because he knows very well that he can die.

And for three, it is his idea, his decision, and he has to convince Artemis it’s also a good idea.

BotL is Act IV, the rising action. The stakes are higher, the situation is more dangerous than ever, and our protagonist is digging himself out from under his mistakes of the previous act.

This is the book that while Percy has learned most of what he needs to in order to become a leader and has even chosen a leadership role, he’s not the one in charge. Annabeth is.

This book is literally Percy being Annabeth’s second-in-command because before you can lead, you need to learn how to follow. This is important to happen here because in the previous three books Percy either didn’t want to be a leader and/or he was fucking it up and had a lot to learn.

This is the book that shows us two things: 1) Percy's ability to sacrifice his personal wants and desires for the greater good and 2) why he is the best option to lead.

He does #1 first at Mt. St. Helens when he sends Annabeth away, because in the situation she’s the one that needs to get back for the greater good. Then the second time was when he sacrificed a peaceful eternity with Calypso for the greater good (not Annabeth, which the fandom, Rick, and his ghost writers seem to have forgotten).

Everyone is going to hate me for what I’m about to say next but bear with me. The BotL is showing us why Annabeth, the daughter of war and battle strategy, is not going to be the leader of their army in the series climax. To be clear, Annabeth is not a bad leader, in fact she is a good one, my point for the next bit here is why she’s not the best option. Throughout the book we see Annabeth repeatedly making the same mistakes that Percy made in the previous book; she lets her emotions get the better of her and cloud her judgement.

The Sphynx moment is her letting her pride overtake her better judgement and she puts everyone at risk by refusing to answer the questions over an insult to her intelligence.

Absolutely everything with Rachel is an issue. From the first moment Annabeth sees Rachel and Percy together she is jealous and she treats Rachel terribly. First off, this is poor behaviour in general (and it should have been addressed in series and apologized for) but as a leader it’s poor for a few reasons.

Firstly, that as a leader she needs to know how to put her emotions aside in order to work with everyone, regardless of her personal feelings towards them. By not being able to be at least polite to Rachel, she risked Rachel saying fuck this, I’m out (probably the only reason Rachel didn’t is because she’s chill and she knew it was a world ending problem they were dealing with).

Secondly, it shows a certain amount of immaturity. The thing with jealousy is that although it’s not a reasonable emotion, how you handle it shows how mature you are. The fact that when Annabeth becomes petty and vindictive when she’s jealous shows a lot of emotional immaturity.

Thirdly, she doesn’t fucking learn anything as we see her behaving the same way towards Rachel in TLO, made worse by the fact that she’s also attacking Percy. This isn’t entirely her fault because these actions don’t have any consequences that make her want to change her behaviour. Leaders need to be able to learn and adapt and check their own behaviour.

(honestly, the fact that Annabeth ended the series without at least trying to get over her pride and abandonment issues makes me feel like her character arc is incomplete).

TLO is Act V and the grand finale. It’s the book where Percy is 100% the Boss. It is the culmination of everything that he’s learned and shows off all the things he has that makes him a good leader.

Leaders need to know when to make sacrifices, evident by when he leaves Beckendorf and when he takes a million-to-one chance by dipping in the Styx in order to gain a chance at winning this war.

He’s cunning and manipulative, shown when he bribes the river gods into playing for his team.

He’s incredibly good at battle strategy, shown when he manages to make a plan that allows 70ish campers/hunters to defend the entire island of Manhattan from hundreds, if not thousands of soldiers from Kronos’s army.

He’s well spoken, shown when he’s able to get the campers pumped before the first battle.

He cares about the people that he’s leading. In the previous book he didn’t know Castor’s name before he died and he felt bad about that, so in this book every time he mentions a demigod it’s by name.

He’s clever, shown when he’s able to figure out literally on the fly how to kill the pig and that the hero that dies in the prophecy is Luke. He also figures out that Typhon won’t be defeated without Poseidon and knows what to say in order to get Poseidon to abandon the ocean battle and help the rest of the gods.

(Lowkey-highkey Percy is the reason that Typhon was defeated at all, because without him Poseidon would have never joined the fight and the gods would have failed, which would have meant that regardless of Kronos dying they would have been fucked)

He’s able to focus on the task at hand despite his emotional problems. This includes the times that his parents are put in the line of fire, both when they’re asleep and awake and when the Annabeth/Rachel drama is making him all kinds of angry and upset. In all those situations he’s able to carry on and largely ignore them in order to focus on the war.

To me, his deference to Chiron before the war officially begins is Percy a) being so used to following Chiron in everything and respecting the centaur as a leader and b) not entirely confident in himself and needing that confirmation that he’s in charge. While it’s never stated in the books that Percy enjoys being a leader, we never really see Percy lamenting that he wishes someone else was in charge even when he was neck deep in danger and death and stress.

No one ever questions the fact that Percy’s in charge. There isn’t ever a power struggle. Even with Thalia and Annabeth - both of whom have their own merits to make them leaders and the ambition/pride to make them chafe under the leadership of someone else. Everyone easily accepts and looks to Percy to be their leader.

I’m sorry if this comes off as rant-y and I’m likely going to piss a bunch of people off with my opinion on Annabeth’s faults, but Percy literally went through so much shit and learned and changed in order to be a good leader that it honestly makes me angry when people write him off for the sake of uplifting someone else.

#percy jackson is a leader #percy jackson #pjo #if you've noticed i have entirely ignored everything that happens in hoo

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drawing079 · 4 years

Text

Exception On Line 129

Chapter 6: Ephialtes Interlude

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7]

A Human AU SCP-079 x SCP-682 Fanfic

Warnings: Violence, Alcoholism, Brain damage/trauma, Police brutality, Sexual content

Description: Zero is a reclusive computer science major, floating by in college with the help of vodka by his side. His only human interaction seems to be from his distant father, who abandoned him as a child but now is trying to make a bit of effort to be back in his life. And after a failed virus he sends to a Cray supercomputer gets exposed, he is forced to pay for the consequences of his cyber crimes in more ways than one.

During an unnecessarily violent arrest, he suffers a brain injury and anterograde amnesia, damaging his short-term memory. But during his time detained, he meets a violent man with an infamous short-temper, who takes a surprising interest in him.

(Read it here on Ao3 or continue below)

Exception On Line 129: Ephialtes Interlude

Most people know their body and sleep patterns well enough, that they can predict certain things. Maybe they know what will make them sleepwalk, or give them nightmares. Maybe they know how to wake themselves up from a bad dream, or fall asleep within minutes of deciding it’s time for bed.

Zero never understood people who were really in tune to their sleep like that. Although he was broadly categorized as an insomniac, he learned that he could sometimes invite sleep sooner with a few shots of vodka. Or, it would keep him up later by encouraging him to have another round, but it wasn’t consistent which way the night would swing when he went to pour one out. However, if there was one thing Zero could guarantee about his sleep, it was that he got wet dreams when he was stressed.

Embarrassing, but true. Maybe it was his subconscious way of coping with stress. Makes sense why when he has a bad day nothing takes the edge off more than a night of drinks and going home with a stranger.

But, somehow, tonight’s dream was way more vivid than the usual.

The first part of the dream that really started being memorable was Numin pushing him aggressively up against a wall.

The room was dim and cold, and so was the wall behind him, but Zero’s lips were locked with Numin’s, and their bodies pressed up against each other provided a sweltering heat that kept him warm.

The place was familiar, and the second Zero spared a thought about it he realized they were in his apartment. Or maybe their apartment? It felt like they lived together in this dream.

Broad, strong hands slid over his slender waist, teasing him as they stopped at his hip bones, and with a yearning whine Zero pressed his pelvis forward to invite those wandering hands behind him. With a dark chuckle, Numin pulled his tongue out of Zero’s mouth for a split moment, so he could watch his face as he aggressively grabbed his ass with both hands.

With a delight groan, Zero arched back into his grip, throwing his head back ever-so-slightly to ravish the feeling.

The hands underneath kept a firm cup under his bottom, and in a sudden motion Zero felt himself hoisted up, which he greeted with a short gasp of pleasant surprise. Almost naturally, his legs came up to wrap around Numin’s waist, steadying himself by a needy grasp encircling the larger man’s neck for support. Upon looking up, he saw some of the glint of light barely filtering into the room hit the bright canines of Numin’s devious smirk.

Something about the way his teeth glistened threateningly felt as if Zero couldn’t tell if Numin was going to kiss into his neck or rip out his jugular between his incisors.

And before he could predict which one it would be, the beast rushed forward to devour his prey, and Zero couldn’t help the little noises escaping his throat as he felt those dangerous teeth leave a certainly inhibited bite on the skin between his neck and shoulder.

The idea of wearing a scarf of delicious bruises and hickeys from Numin’s mouth made his hip buck forward, grinding down on the man he was wrapped around. Almost as a reward, he felt himself rub over something firm and prominent, albeit muted from the barriers of fabric between them.

Eager to make his own excitement be known as well, Zero gave a rolling arch of his back, allowing his own erection to rub up against Numin‘s. And almost as if rewarding him, Numin gave a fervent suck of the stolen flesh between his teeth, not ceding until it tinged with a reddish hue. The tangible formation of that hickey made Zero whine needily under his mouth, only encouraging Numin’s ego.

Upon drawing back to admire his own work, he saw Zero’s mouth agape in carnal delight, and pale face flushed into a rouge hue. Heaving, still enraptured by the fresh bruises blessing his neck, Zero licked his bottom lip at him, carefully pushing the ring around it suggestively.

Entertaining him, the larger man tightened his grip around Zero, before pulling his hips down against his own to grind up into them. It earned a desperate cry from the smaller man, but he was in the mood to hear more from him than just incomprehensible noises.

“Say my name.” He commanded, voice husky and laced with an obvious note of his own enrapturement. The way that voice commanded the air sent a wave of goosebumps sailing over Zero’s skin, intoxicated by his deep and velvety tones.

Eager to comply, Zero’s mouth opened on a moan, ready to put his name on his lips-- until, he realized, he didn’t know his name.

A sudden embarrassed panic dropped in his chest, and he hoped it was too dark for the man to make out the obvious perturbation in his face. How could he forget the name of a man like this?

“Zero. My name, say my name.” The voice commanded again, although less commanding and more… monotone, this time. Like the texture of his vocal cords was getting lost in Zero’s fragmented memory.

“I-I don’t know, it doesn’t matter…” huffing, feeling the spike of adrenaline in his blood, he tried to wave it off and continue on with the more sexy details.

Until those details weren’t there anymore. The hands on him stopped feeling hot, or even warm. It was getting too dark to even distinguish anything but a silhouette of the man before him.

What happened to the details?

“What’s my name? What’s my name, Zero?” This time the voice wasn’t just monotone, it was borderline inhuman. Like a bird spitting out sounds that it didn’t understand, mimicking words in pseudo-speech that treaded into the uncanny valley.

Regretting his position against the wall, Zero had no room to distance himself and he meekly unhooked his legs from the strange figure, stumbling a bit on his feet as he squeak back, “I-I’m sorry, I don’t know--”

The place where those hands made contact with him had noticeably lost its warmth; the man’s skin felt like ice, almost as if he had become a corpse. The creature holding onto him wasn’t even human at this point. The noises out its mouth were merging words like one big stream of sound, spitting out gibberish that was only vaguely understandable.

“My name, what’s my name? What’s my name, name, name? Zero, what’s my name? Name? What’s my name?”

Like a horrible interlude, it began just making noisy lip smacks and pops, like the mouth around those words were melting as it spoke, and it needed practice with it to accommodate. It babbled like its tongue was sticking to the roof of its mouth, like it was speaking with a gloopy mouth full of peanut butter. The outline of the figure got fuzzy, alike to the blurry details in a dark black-and-white photo or an out-of-focus polaroid, walking the line between being something to being nothing. Staring at the supposed edge of the silhouette didn’t help either, as it continuously yet slowly distorted beneath the gaze, at a rate slow enough that the perception felt more like vertigo than a sincere deformation of the figure. The growing pit at the bottom of Zero’s stomach twisted in nausea the longer he tried to discern its shape, dread swelling up in his chest and settling in all the wrong places.

He didn’t just forget the name; Zero couldn’t even remember the face of who that creature was supposed to represent, and that failure of his memory reflected back to him through this eldritch simulacrum. Before him was the culmination of every vague and forgotten information lost from the individual it once represented. The silhouette was ever-changing, yet remaining a looming dark mass. The details of color, shape, or likeness had melted into the backdrop of darkness around it, and its only dimensional consistency was its lack thereof.

Worse yet, the simulacrum continued its mockery of speech once it had adjusted to its malformed mouth.

“What is my name. What is my name. What is my name—“

To call it a voice was unfitting, the words lacked any nature in their cords that could lead Zero to believe a living creature was making them. Even trying to imagine it was a creature producing them tinged the presence of metal in Zero’s mouth. The simulacrum, this vile ephialtes invading his consciousness, spoke so uncanny that its words were stuck echoing in his ears, as if the garbled voice was ricocheting inside his own head.

“I don’t know! Just stop, please just stop…” Voice straining against the thick suffocating air, they sounded almost mute compared to the insistent repetition of the simulacrum.

Then, as if the world was pulled out from under him, he felt a sudden drop out of this horrific rendition of reality, snapping back into the real world with such a speed that it felt like conscious whiplash.

Startled, he jumped, and in that moment he recognized the departure out of dreamland and into his body. Even though the sheets around him were light and airy, his skin felt hot and damp, and the first thing he became aware of was his sweat mending his back to the fabric beneath him.

The lights were dimmed. It was the middle of the night according to the plain white clock ticking softly above the door, contesting with his heart rate monitor between being the only noises in the room. Yet, their off-sync tempos almost made it seem as though they were complementary, somehow adding calmness to the room. Or, perhaps anything compared to that nightmare seemed like the epitome of tranquility.

Confused, he checked his hand, and surely enough noticed his IV line was taped back upon the poor vein it has been yanked from one too many times. And next to the IV printed in neat lettering was a name: Numin.

A sigh of relief escaped at the recognition of that name.

He was so certain he had forgotten. Actually, even now, he can’t remember the last interaction he had with Numin. After freeing himself from his medical shackles and shuffling over with a grace that rivals a toddler learning to walk, Zero didn’t remember much besides kissing his roommate.

A sudden color tinged his pale cheeks.

They kissed. That much, Zero is certain of-- even though his memory after said kiss got very butchered afterwards. On top of that, beside the certainty of said kiss existing, he was also positive that it was Numin who had grasped his hospital gown and pulled him down into it.

The color on his face intensified, waxing with every second he spent dwelling on that memory.

They hadn’t just kissed; Numin instigated the kiss.

However, like a dismal cliffhanger at the end of a fantastic season finale, Zero drew a blank on what exactly happened next. Hell, he couldn’t even remember returning to bed and falling asleep. Did they spend the time fondly cuddling and sharing intimate thoughts on hushed, quiet breaths between themselves? Did they continue making out, before not really feeling into it and learning they didn’t have as much of a spark as once thought? Did they just flat out have sex last night?

Anything was on the table at this point, and Zero was prepared to play this scavenger hunt with his own memories. After all, it would be quite embarrassing to wake Numin-- whom Zero could tell was fast asleep from his sporadic snoring across the room-- and ask him what happened. Not only would it be embarrassing on Zero’s part, but what if his lack of recall of a potentially fond and intimate moment was a red flag to Numin that’ll make him recede his interest in a fresh amnesiac?

Sitting up, slow enough in case Numin was a light sleeper, Zero brought his hand up to the faint glow of the heart rate monitor to examine the IV line.

Despite the darkness of the room, the dim monitor light was just enough illumination to realize he didn’t even have the IV line in. Rather, it looked as if the medical tape was just tape back over the vein to hold the line in place, leading Zero to the relieving conclusion that a nurse hadn’t come in and interrupted them. Instead, it appears Zero himself probably taped the line down and planned on pretending to a nurse in the morning that it had fallen out of the vein during the night. After all, he didn’t have the original needle to insert the IV tube, and probably wouldn’t have the best idea on doing it both safely and believably.

Even though it was the plan of a forgotten consciousness, a soft smirk of pride ghosted his lips at the idea of taping the IV line down. Or perhaps, maybe he was just retrospectively grateful his former self even put an effort to hide the freed IV line at all, for Zero could completely see himself having a steamy night with an interesting man and going to bed without a care how conspicuous he appeared the following morning, consequences be damned. Said consequences would without doubt be sharing Numin’s state of handcuffed confinement, although unlike him Zero would sooner break his own wrist before successfully breaking out any cuffs.

Disrupting the line of thought to continue his own self-detective work, Zero carried on.

It only took an exploring hand snaking into his gown to tell that the stickers holding the heart sensors were also inexpertly returned to his chest. So more or less, he was checking all the boxes to at least appear at a glance like he had spent the whole night in his bed.

Now that he had confirmed his former consciousness had already established his alibi, his efforts redirected to figuring out what exactly happened after their kiss. Lucky for him-- although not as lucky for his liver-- Zero has had plenty of experiences deciphering a night he doesn’t remember from all the countless times he’s gotten blackout drunk.

If there was anyone who would probably make a good amnesiac detective, it was Zero. That or every morning-after hangover investigation he had ever done would have all been in vain.

There was a bathroom door in the room, on the far side closer to Numin’s bed. If he could make it there, he could check if maybe he had a hickey or two that’ll allude to what he and Numin was up to a few hours prior.

Zero couldn’t help a little smirk at the thought. After all, maybe Numin finally put those dangerous teeth to use.

Aside from a sly bite of his lip, exciting himself at his own thoughts, he made an effort to try and not let himself get carried away by his suggestive imagination.

Once again, he undid the taping on his hand to detach himself from the IV, and peeled off the sensors from his chest with a bit more care than his haphazard yank earlier. After pushing back the sheets that freely crinkled noisily amidst his stealth, Zero stole another glance up towards Numin, confirming he was still deep in sleep whilst he pushed smoothly off the bed.

Or at least, as smooth as he could over his still unadjusted feet. There were a few patters as he calibrated himself, the balls of his feet meeting the floor and dancing his weight back and forth between the two as if they just weren't landed on the floor quite right, before the muscles of his legs finally all synced together and kept him steady without feeling the need to constantly shift his weight. The sensation of jelly in his legs didn’t go away, but at this point it wouldn’t be a shocker if his head injury was compounding with his lack of coordination. Nevertheless, feet ready to be walking or not, Zero made his way towards the bathroom door as softly as he could to remain quiet.

Embarrassingly enough, the lack of adjustment showed in his gait, as it swayed unsteady and borderline on a stumble at points before evening out as best Zero could manage. Perhaps, what with his lack of an audience it was only embarrassing for himself, but it still brought a sensation of heat to his cheeks that made him that much more cautious to not wake Numin.

But somehow his feet still found it’s way guiding him to the bathroom door, even if he walked with about as much confidence as a newborn deer. There was an auditable sigh of relief upon reaching the door, and completely ignoring the loud creak it made on its hinges, he hurried inside and flicked on the light.

The sudden brightness made him recoil, hands reflexively coming up to shield his unprepared eyes. After a series of squints and blinks, the room became perceivable, albeit a lackluster view what with the bland setup. The walls were a simple powered blue, and the sink and toilet the same porcelain white. Adjacent to the mirror above the sink was an automatic soap dispenser, the kind Zero remembers seeing at shops or restaurants bathrooms, generic for commercial use.

When his eyes laid on his own reflection, he gave a meek whimper at his face.

Adorning one side were the dark blots of bruises, discolored with greenish hues to suggest they were days old, trailing over the cheek of the side the cop had kicked mercilessly, and fading off slightly over his brow. Zero often had bags with his chaotic sleep schedule, but the dark puffiness beneath the eye on the more abused side looked much different than under-eye circles, instead it was more rounded and shiny in appearance. Never having a black eye before in his life, it almost turned his stomach to see one on his own face, even if one so minor in comparison to ones he’s seen on people before.

The gauze around his head was wrapped expertly and tight, with particularly thick padding above that sore spot on his head that wouldn’t stop throbbing. Worst yet, perhaps exacerbated by his recent activity, there was a tinge of bleed-through coloring the thick padding over his head injury, suggesting he had reopened the wound.

Lastly, and probably just as disheartening as the rest of his appearance, he bore no hickeys or bite marks over his neck. But after taking in his own reflection Zero almost doesn’t even blame Numin; he looked so battered and frail that it was no wonder the nurse was surprised he had woken from his coma so soon; it almost looked as if he had no right waking from his coma at all.

A dark, dismal drop sank deep into his hollow chest. He wasn’t in any state that even remotely screamed desirable. And while that was a silly thing to be worrying about at the moment, it was a major clue that things probably didn’t go anywhere exciting last night with Numin.

In all honesty, Zero was surprised he was even interested in him enough to kiss him.

Dejected, and a bit over this whole detective game, he shuffled out of the bathroom pitifully, hunched over and over wishing he hadn’t gotten out of his bed to begin with. Yet, to his even sadder surprise, Numin appeared roused awake upon his exit from the bathroom.

Even though the half-lidded look upon his face suggested the lingering presence of sleep, Numin still offered a single raised brow at Zero, a silent question to what he was up to in the dead of night.

“Ah, I didn’t mean to wake you.” He offered sheepishly, almost phrased like an apology. Compared to only hours before, his demeanor had noticeably repressed, not even offering eye contact as he kept his downcast gaze locked on the powered blue vinyl lining the floor below.

“Doesn’t take much to stir me.” With a casual stretch, Numin replied with a cloudy tone, sleep still overtly overcasting his newfound wakefulness. “Can’t sleep very well? You don’t look rested.”

Offering a half-hearted shrug, Zero shifted to leaned against the closed door of the bathroom, having a bad feeling this wasn’t going to be a short conversation.

“I slept some, just had a bad dream,” with a nod towards the bathroom he came from, he elaborated, “I figured I haven’t seen myself in the mirror since the incident so I got up to check.”

The delivery was shallow, as if meant to hide the deeper disturbance Zero held underneath to seeing his reflection. Enough so that Numin could note it, knitting his brow at the smaller man slouching meekly against the bathroom door, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Don’t like what you see?” Guessing, Numin straightened up, seemingly more alert at the notice of Zero’s perturbation.

Unintentionally confirming, he slouched in even more, wishing the darkness of the room was enough to hide his marred features.

“Nah, I’m absolutely thrilled with the bruised and bloody look.” Zero retorted, voice with a backbone of sarcasm, yet delivery surely missing a few vertebrae.

The corner of Numin’s lips just barely peaked, gauging the jest as a good sign. “You’re in the hospital for a traumatic brain injury and currently being detained for a felony cyber crime. But sure, your swollen eye is definitely your biggest problem right now.”

Reflexively at those words, Zero folded his arms around his chest tight, unintentionally emphasizing his thin, fragile-looking frame.

“I’m not saying it’s my biggest problem. It’s just, I’m not exactly the fighting type, so this look is just…” hissing, as if he was trapped into finishing the sentence now, Zero struggled to pin down the correct adjective,“...it is just unsettling, to me.”

His anxieties were only met by a deep, reverberating chuckle from the larger man, who only seemed amused. “Guess I’m just used to seeing people bruised and bloody.” Numin shrugged before looking up, but upon noticing the red glow of embarrassment adorning Zero’s face, a deep part of him stirred in discomfort.

Before he had even realized, his tone took on a much different tenor as new words suddenly found their way on his tongue, that deep part of him yearning to diminish that disheartened look on Zero.

“The black eye will fade in about a week and a half. And your bruising has already turned green so I’d give it another five days, seven tops.” Huffing out a sigh, feeling that deep part of himself settle, Numin offered another ever-so-slight peak of the corners of his lips before finishing. “You’re fine, Zero.”

Blinking thrice, Zero found himself taken aback.

“Th… thanks. That’s good to hear the worst of it should subside in a week.”

If Zero didn’t know any better, he would have guessed that was Numin’s best efforts at trying to comfort him. At least, it would seem that way in his delivery, but such an assumption would be a bit brash to make with a seemingly heartless individual like him. Or perhaps there was a heart in there, somewhere deep and hidden as to not invite harm, that Numin kept guarded ferociously lest he be taken advantage of.

Zero had to wonder if he was born so abrasive or if it was learned, like a defense mechanism. And he couldn’t lie; he also wondered what was so different in himself that Numin cared not to bare his teeth and intimidate him, like he seems to do to all others who dare interact with him.

Shrugging off the wall, Zero took a few idle steps forward.

“Or at least the worst appearance-wise should clear up, that is. I’m honestly not sure about my memory, though.” On finishing, he was just about at the foot of Numin’s bed, and he extended both hands down on the plastic baseboard to lean in a bit. “If I’m being honest… I can’t even remember what happened between us earlier tonight.”

Although his body language was noticeably less embarrassed, there was an obvious shame in Zero’s expression, and he bit absently at his lower lip as if his lip ring was still present to fidget with.

Numin’s brow peaked up.

“You don’t remember anything?” Stiffening up, Numin tried to ignore that deep part of him festering once more, sitting like a weight at the bottom of his throat. Swallowing didn’t help; it only made the heavy sensation more vivid. “Do you remember my name, Zero?”

He pretended that he didn’t notice Zero’s mouth twitch into a momentarily frown, before his jaw noticeably clenched to keep himself leveled.

“When… When I woke up, I didn’t.” Woefully, he raised his right hand, and gave a tap to the name still penned on the back of it. With what could only be described as a pitiful smile, he assured Numin, “I did remember where to find it, though.”

Releasing a controlled sigh, Numin accepted those words as enough for him.

“But a few hours ago? Nothing?” The inquiry held an awful weight in those words, one that Numin wasn’t bothering to hide.

Clicking his tongue, Zero’s gaze wandered up momentarily, as if testing his own recall.

“I remember what the nurse said, about you attacking your previous roommates. And that you offered a trust-fall exercise to show you weren’t a threat to me.” The pale color of his face reddened slightly, and Numin noticed his gaze was now more purposely avoiding his own as he continued, “I-I went over to your bed, and… w-we…”

“We kissed.” Numin finished for him. An uncharacteristically soft smile graced Numin’s features in response to how bashful Zero had become, knowing well it wasn’t the amnesia that was holding Zero back from completing his sentence.

Rewardingly so, he watched as Zero sighed in relief, as if he had been self-doubting if the memory was even real.

“Y-yes, we kissed. But, after that, I-I’m not all too sure what we did…” trailing off, Zero’s eyes kept low to avoid contact with Numin’s, but his diffidence wasn't about to be coddled and catered to by the other man.

“We didn’t fuck if that’s what you’re asking.” Numin supplemented, albeit delivered with a grin of jest. Part of it was just to take delight in watching Zero’s face immediately flush and redden, but a sliver of it was indeed meant to clarify.

And redden he did, almost instantaneously feeling the heat rush to his cheeks. Yet watching Numin subtly smirk at the rise he got out of him, Zero felt the need to justify himself.

“No, no of course not. After all, it’s not like I woke up sore or bleeding down there or anything--” Cutting himself off, Zero realized his insinuation exposed his typical role in the bedroom, and although it didn’t take a lot of detective work for Numin to figure that one out, Zero still found himself somehow even more embarrassed by the second. Which only served to widen Numin’s already entertained smirk.

“For shame, Zero! Give me more credit than that.” Brazen, but still maintaining an atmosphere of jest, Numin continued with a cocky grin, “I would never prepare a partner so half-heartedly that they bleed from being with me. Or hell, even feel sore.”

“I-I didn’t mean to insinuate, I-I’m just used to—“

“Used to tops that don’t know what they’re doing? Come on Zero, you don’t need to put up with that.”

Zero gave a meek shrug, before slouching into himself.

“I know, I-I know… but I’m used to it, it’s not a big deal.” He leaned off the baseboard, and stepped around it to sit at the foot of Numin’s bed before continuing. “Besides, it already comes with the territory that it’s gonna hurt a little bit each time.”

This time Numin scoffed a bit, seemingly a little less entertained and a bit more irritated at whoever convinced Zero that anal sex was doomed to always hurt a bit. Surely a former sex partner, to excuse their own laziness or inexperience; or at least, Numin guessed so.

“I’m telling you, it really doesn’t have to.” The slight irritation in his tone almost immediately waned upon seeing Zero’s worried gaze up at him, and instead Numin found himself forming his next words before a devilish smirk even had time to grow on his lips. “Still don’t believe me? Oh Zero, don’t make me prove it to you.”

Immediately, the lewd suggestion earned a flustered squeak of surprise from the very much embarrassed Zero.

The amount of blood rushing to his face looked enough to cause a faint, what with the bright vermillion glow his naturally pale skin bloomed with. So much, in fact, that Numin almost expected him to swoon— in the quite literal sense of fainting, that is. It wasn’t as if a man as thin and lithe as Zero exactly had so much blood to spare to bring with.

“P-prove what—?” Finally managing to stutter out a line, Zero looked as if he didn’t believe what Numin just suggested. Perhaps in his already sensitive and embarrassed state it wasn’t the right atmosphere to pose such an offer, but Numin couldn’t lie that it was quite cute to watch his sarcastic demeanor wither away into endearing bashfulness.

Numin caught himself thinking that word again. Cute.

It was surprising how much Zero drew that word into his head.

“So coy all of a sudden, hm? Do I need to be more direct?” Leaning in, confined by his shackled wrist from getting too close, his face still managed to be only a foot or two away from Zero’s. In his pause, he noticed that despite his blush, Zero leaned in towards him reciprocally, as if awaiting in bated breath for his continuation, sealing Numin’s confidence in what he planned to say next.

“Do you want to fuck me, Zero?”

Eyes immediately widening, Zero’s mouth parted momentarily as if the words got stuck in his throat. In those bright green irises pooled a storm of different emotions, all too intertwined to differentiate, but each playing a role in the dumbfounded look on his face.

No words. No reply. No nothing.

Numin, still smirking, was almost about to poke fun at his sudden stupor until Zero leaned in fast, crashing his lips onto his own hungerly.

And, pushing back into the kiss once he realized what was happening, Numin heard Zero’s non-verbal response. He heard it in the way Zero’s tongue slipped into his mouth, and in the way his slender hand found hold onto his shoulder. He heard it in the feel of Zero’s back arching slightly towards him, he heard it through the muffled groan released against his lips.

Zero’s whole body was practically screaming one word.

Yes, yes, yes.

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