#struggled really hard and succeeded in not losing consciousness because he felt he was in great danger

[headphonemouse]

Ch. 427

Shin Yoosung pulling out premature grey hair on my head tackled the boy immediately.

I can't believe I forgot about kdj's premature grey hairs. Post epilogue dokjoong bald4bald

[syn0vial]

Top 5 Boba moments 🥺

ohh fun! :D i’m gonna go in chronological order for these, just for organization’s sake. i’m also going to try and only include moments i haven’t talked much about before, just to keep things fun and fresh!

1. freeing the sea mice: starting from the very first boba fett junior novel the fight to survive, bc, well, chronological order! i like this moment bc it really emphasizes how innocent boba used to be. basically, there’s an aquarium with an eel in the fett’s kamino apartment and while jango and zam are off making bad decisions on coruscant, boba is tasked with it feeding aquatic rodents called “sea-mice” to the eel, something he’s never had to do before. but he doesn’t like doing it. the sea-mice always seem to trust him when he picks them up and he feels guilty for betraying them by feeding them to the eel. so, one day, he decides it’s going to be different. that morning, he feeds the eel his own breakfast (which is like, both sweet and hilarious, like honey did you really just throw your lunchables into an eel’s tank bc you wanted to make sure it was fed even while you’re out here freeing feeder mice? A+ for good intentions, F- for knowledge of how animals work) and tries to free a few of the sea-mice into kamino’s oceans. unfortunately, they don’t survive. the next day, boba reluctantly goes back to feeding the mice to the eel, telling one before he drops it in, “sorry; life is hard on the small and the weak,” echoing a saying of his father’s. this then becomes horrible foreshadowing for the rest of the series, in which boba is orphaned and suddenly finds himself being preyed upon by all sorts of antagonists. i know it’s a kids’ series and it’s Not That Deep, but i do really like that there’s a parallel created between boba and the mouse and the implication of the series as a whole that boba fett didn’t become a notorious hunter because he was always that way, but specifically because he started out as prey. also, it’s kind of hilarious in retrospect that boba felt compassion for rodents, but literally days later attempted to take obi-wan’s life without hesitation. kid’s really got his priorities in order.

2. standing up to jabba the hutt: this is from the junior novel boba fett: hunted, which is my favorite of the junior novels for him. in the story, boba pretends a short-statured adult by concealing his face with his father’s helmet and attempts to find work from jabba the hutt. however, when he finally gets an audience with jabba, jabba indeed offers to bring him back to his palace—as an indentured servant. and this freaking, like, eleven-year-old, staring down the criminal kingpin of tatooine with no weapons and no armor besides a too-big helmet, snaps at jabba the hutt, “my debt to you? what do i owe you for?” naturally, he is immediately set upon by one of jabba’s guards, and, well, i’ll let you read the rest :D

Boba had no time to think. He acted.

Without a sound, he leaped to one side. The Drovian’s knife whistled harmlessly through the air where, a nanosecond before, Boba had been.

“Huh?” gaped the hulking alien.

A small table stood near the viewscreen. Boba grabbed the table and swung it in front of himself, fending off the Drovian’s blade. Jabba himself watched, laughing coarsely.

“You will pay for this!” croaked the Drovian.

As the guard bore down on him, Boba thrust the table upward. The knife stuck in the wood surface. While the Drovian struggled to free his weapon, Boba pushed the table up farther. Then, he darted sideways, kicking at the lumbering guard’s knees. With a groaning thud, the Drovian stumbled and fell. Jabba’s guests laughed as Boba turned to breathlessly face Jabba.

“I am no one’s slave or servant!” Boba said. “I will work for you, for a price—but I will name that price!”

like, this kid really just brought down an armed adult with nothing but an end table AND finishes it off with a badass line defending his autonomy and defying jabba the hutt! definitely one of my favorite moments from the junior novels.

3. the Look he exchanges with lando while han is being tortured in the background

look, idk why this is so funny to me, but it is. lando’s just so full of loathing for this man who is complicit in forcing him to betray han and boba’s just like “you got shit to say to me. or nah?” he’s such a fucking asshole, i love it.

4. staying conscious just long enough to express his displeasure with the situation in iiiiii think the mandalorian armor, idk it’s been awhile: this story takes place post-RoTJ, after boba has escaped the sarlacc pit, killing it in the process, and is being gradually regaining his strength with the help of fellow bounty hunter dengar and amnesiac former slave neelah. at this point in the story, he’s still quite weak and spends most of his time slipping in and out of consciousness. unfortunately, some of boba’s enemies find out he’s still alive and just start fucking carpet-bombing their general location, so dengar and neelah go “shit, we need a bomb shelter, stat!”...and then slowly turn to look at the subterranean corpse of the sarlacc pit. they thus drag boba’s unconscious body back into the pit so they can all hunker down and wait out the bombs. except, surprise, surprise! the sarlacc ain’t completely dead. one of its giant tentacles starts attacking the group and is succeeding in getting the upper hand over dengar and neelah, when suddenly, boba wakes up. takes a look around and realizes where he is. and then grabs the nearest blaster and just goes apeshit firing on the tentacle, finally managing to kill it. too exhausted to talk, he then turns and fixes dengar with the angriest, most hate-filled glare the man has ever seen... and then promptly passes out. i remember just dissolving into giggles the first time i read that scene. just the mental image of boba fett giving dengar the scariest fucking “why the fuck did you fucking bring me back here” deathglare in the galaxy and then immediately losing consciousness. energy well-spent, boba.

5. that time boba did a mission completely in his underwear for no discernible reason, because daniel keys moran: this one’s just like. so delightfully bizarre that i’m not even going to try justifying it logically bc literally the only reason it exists was bc renowned EU author and certified mad man daniel keys moran really wanted to give boba his strong female character moment, because he deserves it. so, in this subplot, boba is tracking this devaronian war criminal who is holed up in a safehouse equipped with security systems that are triggered by the presence of, like, metal. which means boba can’t wear his armor plates and can’t use any blasters or other gadgetry. so boba loads up a compound bow and knife and makes to hunt this guy down. now, what about his armor? obviously, the most logical thing to do would be to just remove the metal plates and hunt in his flight suit. or, if that isn’t satisfactory, go out and buy like, leather armor or something? or just clothes? BUT NOPE. boba apparently goes, “well, if i can’t wear my armor, i’m not gonna wear ANYTHING” and just. does the entire mission in his underwear. he tracks and stalks this man, shoots him with an arrow, and then chases him down with a knife, ALL IN HIS UNDERWEAR. daniel keys moran even goes so far as to explicitly specify that these ain’t no long-johns, either. he’s like, “and the underwear...... MAINLY COVERED HIS DICK.” LIKE, DANIEL? DANIEL? HOW IS IT THAT OUT OF THE TWO BOBA FETT STORIES YOU’VE WRITTEN, BOTH OF THEM MENTION HIS DICK IN SOME CAPACITY? DANIEL? WHO KEEPS LETTING YOU GET AWAY WITH THIS??? and, like, can you imagine being this poor devaronian? you’re just living your fugitive war criminal life when an arrow hits you in the shoulder and boba fucking fett comes sprinting out of the woods at you in his underwear with a knife? what the fuck. this was canon at one point. what the fuck.

[thatrandomwriter]

Taken Prisoner

Merle Dixon x female reader, set in Woodbury

Warnings : cursing, sexual language, violence

After checking several nearby stores and having one too many close calls with walkers, Glenn and I had finally found what we were looking for - baby formula for Judith. Maggie had offered to come too, but she was far better with the baby so it was just Glenn and I.

“We should get back, don’t wanna keep Judith waiting,” I said, eager to get out of the open and back to safety. You never could be too cautious.

Glenn nodded. I reached down, packing my bag and checking to ensure my gun was secure in my waistband, along with the couple of knives I had concealed about my person. It had become an unconscious habit of mine to check for them all every few minutes or so, just in case. Distracted, I didn’t hear anyone approaching until a confusingly familiar voice made me snap around, “Now where is it y’all good people calling home?” A man was approaching from behind a van parked a few abandoned cars away. A man I would recognise anywhere, and as his eyes caught mine, I could see recognition slide over Merle’s face as he realised who I was.

“Merle? You’re alive?” Glenn was as shocked as me, but seemed to find words far quicker. He was also quicker to hostility, hand twitching to his gun, but guns were the last thing on my mind.

I stepped towards Merle, a walk that transformed quickly into a jog and then a run as I flung myself into his arms, relief and happiness entirely overwhelming the rational side of my mind. He hugged me back immediately, muscular arms enveloping me, holding me tight and secure to his chest. We had been close when we had camped outside the city; he was the one who had brought me to the group. Probably only because he thought I was fuckable. But after a couple of weeks, what was once shameless flirting turned into a real friendship. And of course, I had always been too proud to admit that I might be interested in Merle as more than a friend. In the end though, none of that had mattered when he was handcuffed to the roof and seemingly gone for good. I had thought I would never see him again, and I had never been more overjoyed to be wrong.

We finally broke apart, but only by a few centimetres.

“Missed me?” He grinned the infuriating grin that I suddenly realised I didn’t find infuriating anymore, a reminder of how much I had missed everything about him.

His smiling eyes suddenly glazed over, expression dropping to a neutral mask as he stared over my shoulder. I turned and his arms dropped from my body. Six or so men, all armed with guns, all pointed at Glenn, whose gun had been confiscated, and at me. For a moment I thought they were strangers, but one glance back at Merle told me all I needed to know. He had drawn his gun too, but it wasn’t pointed at any of the strangers.

It was pointed directly at me.

For a moment, I froze in shock. Only for a moment. As soon as I had come fully to me senses, I raised my hands in surrender, backing away from Merle and in the direction of the strangers. Slow enough for it to look like scared confusion. As soon as I was within a metre of them, I nodded at Glenn, a warning before I darted towards the armed men, flicking a knife out of my sleeve and into my hand and in one smooth motion slitting the throat of the man closest to me. He fell to the ground, choking and spluttering. Glenn hit one of the men hard in the nose and then in the gut. I moved to the next, holding a knife to his throat, about to slice into his jugular.

“Hold on there honey, don’t make any stupid decisions,” Merle had a gun pressed into the back of Glenn’s head. Some part of me had thought that somehow, if we had managed to take on the strangers, Merle would have taken our side. Clearly I had been sorely mistaken. There was no way out of this. It was two to four, plus the man Glenn had attacked who was slowly standing back up.

I dropped the knife, and then the gun in my waistband. They didn’t need to know about the other knives I had hidden.

“Check she doesn’t have anything else hidden on her. Wouldn’t want a repeat of Bentley.” One of the strangers commanded. I assumed Bentley was the man whose throat I had slit. I felt a strange sense of pride that even though I had been overpowered, I hadn’t given in without a fight.

“Sure thing, Martinez,” Another man answered and stepped forward and roughly patted me down, fishing out my two remaining knives from my clothing. So much for keeping them hidden.

Glenn and I were shoved roughly into the back of a truck with three guns pointed at us as we were driven away, Merle and Martinez in the front. The drive gave me time to realise how stupid I had been, trusting Merle despite having no idea where he had been for all the time we had been apart. Of course he had found another group - how would he have survived cutting off his own hand otherwise? Glenn hadn’t been as stupid as me. He had known straight away that Merle wasn’t to be trusted. If only I had followed his instincts instead of mine, then this never would have happened. I managed to catch his eye, and mouthed ‘I’m so sorry,’ in his direction. He shrugged. Not an angry shrug, more of a ‘what did you expect?’ sort of motion. Somehow his acceptance of the situation made it worse.

When the truck finally stopped, we were roughly guided forward again, this time down some stairs and a few grimy corridors to two rooms. They pushed Glenn into one, me into another, and I heard him struggle and groan as the thuds of fists and feet hitting flesh filled the air.

“Stop! Stop hurting him, hurt me instead, please, please just leave him alone,” I yelled out, hoping that by some miracle I would be listened to, but no response. Just more of the horrible sounds coming from Glenn’s cell.

*

It had been at least a day- there was no daylight down here, but that was my best estimate. Martinez had come into my cell a few times, but I had not suffered half as much as Glenn had. Even so, I was painfully sore and covered in blood and bruises. I was sure more of me was bruised than not. But they seemed to have realised pretty quickly that neither of us would give up where we were staying, and at this point Martinez seemed more concerned with hurting us than with finding out where Glenn and I had come from. I hadn’t seen Merle since the drive to wherever we were. Part of me was glad,but some foolish part of me thought that maybe if he saw what was happening to me, he would help me. I knew that this was stupid, but I could help but hold on to that tiny, ridiculous hope.

A few hours passed and it had been a while since anyone had come into mine or Glenn’s cells when an unfamiliar man entered my cell, followed by Merle who was uncharacteristically quiet.

“Now here’s what’s about to happen. You’re going to tell me exactly where you and your friend have been staying and how many people you have. Understand?” While he looked unfamiliar, I recognised his voice from hearing him give orders to Martinez and the other men who had imprisoned Glenn and I. He was the Governor.

I scoffed, glaring up at him and Merle who was deliberately avoiding eye contact.

“You wanna play it like that? Be my guest.” The governor, still calm collected, turned to Merle.

“You know what to do,” he said, and Merle nodded, leaving towards Glenn’s cell. Obedient and quiet - two words I never would’ve dreamed could describe Merle.

I began to hear muffled groans of pain from Glenn, making me wince with every sound. I deserved this, not him. The governor smiled at me, watching my obvious distress.

“Leave him alone.” I demanded, only succeeding in making his smile wider.

“You know what you need to do, then I promise, we’ll leave him alone,” he moved forward, uncomfortably close, “Or maybe you need a little more persuasion? You know, it’s surprising how long a person can survive without their eyes. Or their feet. Or even their hands - isn’t that right Merle?” he called out the last part to the opposite cell.

“Sure is boss,” The first time I’d heard Merle speak since getting here.

“Now I’m sure you know what I’m getting at, but just in case, I’ll be clear. Merle is pretty handy with a hacksaw as I’m sure you know, and while we need you and your friend to be able to talk, we really don’t need you for anything else. So if him losing a hand, or both, or even worse, would get you talking then I’m sure we can all agree it would be worth that sacrifice.”

He wasn’t bluffing. He opened his mouth to yell the order to Merle, but I interrupted, “The prison. We’re at the prison. Please, please just leave him alone, you don’t need to do this. Please.” My resilience had broken. We could defend the prison. We could. But I couldn’t listen to Glenn getting tortured for any longer. I just couldn’t.

The governor chuckled. “Thank you, wasn’t so hard now was it.” He got close again, and in a sudden move he struck me across the face. Hard. For a moment, the world blurred with dark spots, before I lost my vision completely and fell into darkness.

*

I could feel myself being jostled in the arms of someone carrying me. They felt familiar, and I spent a few seconds trying to place who it was, still not fully conscious. After a few seconds, I opened my eyes and saw Merle’s determined expression. He glanced down at me, but before I could ask him what the fuck was going on, I fell into darkness again.

*

The next time I began to be aware of my surroundings I felt the thin, scratchy softness of a prison mattress. Slowly, I opened my eyes, this time managing to hold onto consciousness. When I sat up, I saw Merle sat at the end of my bed. Hunched over - sleeping, I assumed. Looking around, I recognised my old cell. Finally something I could use to my favour. I reached under my pillow and grasped the familiar handle of my final knife, which thankfully hadn’t been moved.

I pushed the knife to Merle’s throat. His eyes snapped open, and he raised the blade attached where his hand once was, before relaxing when he recognised me.

“What the fuck, Merle. What the fuck!”

“Calm down honey - saved your life, didn’t I?”

“Oh that’s what you call it? You took me prisoner and watched the shit get beaten outta me and somehow you’re the hero?” I pushed the knife harder against his neck and I could tell how much he was struggling against himself not to fight back. That made me even more angry. What made him think I couldn’t kill him right then and there if I wanted to?

“I didn’t have a choice. But I got ya outta there, that count for nothing?”

I continued to glare at him. He smirked at me, infuriating and insanely attractive all at the same time, before gripping my wrist and pushing me back against the wall, forcing me to drop my knife.

“I saved yer ass, didn’t have to, but I did. The governor, he saved my life, but I chose you for fuck’s sake. I missed ya, didn’t you miss me?”

Of course I did.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” This was probably the first time I’d heard him apologise for anything.

Of course I’d missed him. A lot. And some part of me knew that he was being sincere, that he had missed me and mourned me as much as I had him. I had missed him more than anyone else we had lost, and I had no idea what I’d do if I lost him again. But I’d always been terrible at putting those feelings into words. So when I finally kissed him, I hoped I got the sentiment across. It took him a moment to register what was happening, but when he did his good hand cupped my face, sliding to my back to pull me closer into him, while his other arm braced against the wall behind me. He had released my arms, so I let my hands wander his torso, something I had longed to do for far longer than I was willing to admit. His mouth was rough and hard against mine, his teeth scraping my lower lip, stubble scratching my face. It was a sensation I had imagined so many times, it was hard to believe it was real. That Merle, obnoxious, stubborn, perfect Merle was kissing me, and I was kissing him back with all I had.

[firewoodfigs]

and A and B collapsed in it, exhausted

ERI!!! ILY 🥰💕

VADE ILY MORE <3 tysm for the prompt and I'm so sorry it took me so long to get back to it, but I hope you enjoy!! :')

(side note: this kinda spiralled out of control so it might be a better idea to read it on ao3 instead LMAO)

                                        xxxxx

There are a few things that her mind manages to dimly register before it loses focus.

One, the ongoing chaos around her — the yelling and screaming and the achingly familiar smell of smoke. Riza hopes that means the unit is safe, that the mission has succeeded. Adrenaline rushes through her veins as she struggles to remain alert, but her faculties are stubbornly uncooperative, and the only thing it really manages to absorb at the moment is pain.

Pain. Her hand is drenched, sticky. Riza inhales shakily, her breath coming out in short, ragged gasps. She’s bleeding from her side, and she has to bite her lip to keep from crying out as she presses down on her side. Her efforts are in vain; blood continues to drip on broken cobblestone like water from a leaking tap. She’ll probably need a blood transfusion or two. Riza just hopes she hasn’t punctured a lung (though she can certainly feel the makings and telltale signs of a broken rib or two).

The last thing she hears a voice she’d recognise anywhere — Hawkeye, stay with me. Stay awake, you hear me?Instinctively, Riza tries to obey the command, but it’s hard when pain is spreading through her chest like an exploding star; when she can barely catch her breath. She picks up on the desperation in his voice as he lapses into informality — Riza, stay with me, please. You’re going to be okay— and manages to choke out an apology before her consciousness flickers like a spoiled lamp. She wants to tell him to not worry, to tell him how she’s truly felt for the past decade, but the last spots of light in her vision seems to fade away, somewhere far beyond her reach, and —

And then her world turns to black.

—

When she finally wakes, her world is an astonishing shade of white.

Riza blinks groggily. She would have pushed herself into a sitting position, but the dull ache in her side seems to hint that that would be a spectacularly stupid thing to do. So she continues lying down, feeling very much like an invalid. Her nose wrinkles at the nauseating stench. Antiseptics. Disinfectants.

The hospital.

Riza bites back a groan and, this time, fighting any sense of rationality and self-preservation, attempts to seat herself up. She hears a matronly voice fussing over her predicament — something about her being as stubborn as Colonel Mustang had described her to be, and would have snorted aloud at the hypocrisy if the morphine hadn’t done its job so expediently.

Riza falls back asleep, the pain slowly ebbing away as a hand reaches out to gently stroke her hair.

—

The next time Riza wakes, her world is spinning, tilting on its axis to create an indecipherable blur of colour. There are, however, blobs of light swimming in her vision, warm and golden —  daylight? It must be daytime, then.

Riza swallows a pained groan and forces her eyelids open. Her vision is hazy, but she notes, to her dismay, that the ceiling is still conspicuously white. That must mean she’s still in the hospital. She clears her throat and blinks, hard, thinking it might just be a hallucination or a side effect of having too much morphine in her system, but her surroundings remain the same.

The only difference this time is the voice that greets her. It’s deep and decidedly masculine, one that she would recognise anywhere. (One that has been haunting her dreams.)

“Are you awake, Lieutenant?”

“I am,” Riza mumbles. She will never understand how her body can be so tired even after she’s slept so much. She doesn’t even know how long she’s been out for. “How long was I out for?”

“Nearly two days,” Roy whispers, and she immediately detects the worry in his voice. She wonders if he’s gotten much sleep over the past two days; the dark circles lining his concerned eyes tells her that he hasn’t. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m alright, sir.”

Riza shakes her head lightly in an effort to dispel some of the dizziness. Slowly, she tries to ease herself into a sitting position, wincing as a sudden wave of pain surges through her abdomen.

“Lieutenant!” he half-yells, chidingly. Riza winces again when he circles his arms around her torso without any warning. “You shouldn’t be doing that.”

“Hypocrite,” Riza manages, weakly.

Another burst of pain renders her speechless soon enough, and then she’s gripping onto the bed rail like it’s a lifeline.

Roy ignores her comment well enough. Gently, he adjusts her back into bed, the hem of his black wooden scarf tickling her cheek as he does so. She mutters something about propriety and regulations, but Roy ignores that as well, instead bringing a cup of water to her lips. Riza sips at it slowly. She hadn’t realised how dry her throat was; it makes her feel like she's just swallowed sandpaper. Like she’s back in the desert.

Riza mumbles a thanks when she’s done and leans back against the hard pillow, bringing a hand up to shield her eyes from the sunrays. She is so very tired. She thinks she could use another shot of morphine, possibly another day in bed, but there are bigger, more important things at hand, like —

“How did the rest of the mission go?”

“We’ve managed to sort everything out, Lieutenant,” Roy reassures, frowning at her priorities. “Don’t worry about it. Worry about yourself, first.”

“You’re being hypocritical again, sir.”

“Maybe, but we can save this argument for another time.” His tone brooks no disagreement, and before Riza can so much as protest he’s already taken the liberty of laying her back down. “For now, rest.”

“I’ve been resting for two days, sir.”

“Clearly, you haven’t had enough,” he says, smirking in a way that makes her want to pull the trigger on him. Regrettably, though, the hospital has a no-arms policy, and she finds that even the pistol that she always keeps hidden on her thigh has been removed. Riza huffs. “Since you haven’t shot me yet for putting you in bed.”

“I will soon enough,” Riza mutters, but the words sound tauntingly hollow to her ears. Her eyelids are starting to feel heavy again. She can feel herself slowly ebbing away, drifting back into a void.

“I look forward to that. And Lieutenant?”

“Yes?”

As much as she tries to fight it, being awake for the past ten minutes has taken a toll on her still-battered body, and she’s unbelievably exhausted. Being so drugged up probably doesn’t help, either.

“Do not, under any circumstances, risk your life like that for me. Ever again.”

That’s what a bodyguard is for, is what Riza wants to say, but sleep reclaims her before she can properly protest, and it’s dark again. (She thinks she’d managed to articulate a resolute no, though.)

—

The rest of the unit, along with Rebecca, visits her the next morning.

Riza manages to remain civil and courteous throughout the entirety of their fussing — which is a miracle, she thinks, when Rebecca and Havoc are sobbing like she’s actually dead. (Riza rolls her eyes and pats Rebecca on her hand when nobody’s looking, hoping the contact will provide some confirmation that she is still in fact among the living.)

Falman, Breda and Fuery are, thankfully, a lot more composed than them, although Fuery himself looks like he’s well on the verge of crying too. Riza distracts him expertly with questions about Hayate’s well-being, and he perks up immediately at the mention of her beloved pup (who’s presently under his care, because he’s the only one she can entrust Hayate with).

“Alright, alright, the Lieutenant needs her rest,” Roy announces at last, much to her relief. As much as she appreciates their concern, she does need her rest, and she will probably need an extra dose of morphine, too; Riza can feel the ache in her side starting to flare up again. “It’s time to go.”

Riza hears a chorus of get well soon, Lieutenant, mingled with a couple of tearful goodbyes. (Rebecca mumbles something about Roy being a selfish prick who’s kidnapping Riza for himself and warns Riza against Stockholm syndrome. Riza rolls her eyes and tells Rebecca to stay away from shitty soap operas.)

Riza waves at them as Roy ushers them out. When the room is empty again, he turns his undivided focus back to her, and asks, “Are you feeling alright, Lieutenant?”

“I’m fine,” Riza insists, although her mind is already devising a way to ask for morphine without him noticing. She’s sure that he’ll kick up a fuss if he realises that she’s in pain; the last thing she needs is him moping around day and night like a kicked puppy.

Slowly, like she’s testing the waters, Riza eases herself up - with some uninvited assistance from her commanding officer - and breathes heavily, resting her head on the pillow. She notes the weird contraption around her waist and stifles a childish groan. The fact that it’s still there means that she’ll probably be wheelchair-bound for a while, but she’s already starting to feel restless from being stuck in bed for so long. (Riza wonders if this was how Roy had felt, when he had been hospitalised after his affray with Lust. She thinks she can better empathise with his decision to recklessly discharge himself now.)

“Are you hungry?” Roy asks suddenly. Riza shakes her head, but he continues anyway. “I made chicken soup.”

Riza watches, somewhat nonplussed as he extracts a thermal flask from an insulated bag and sets everything up on the overbed table. The sudden role reversal discomfits her a little. Riza feels strangely out of her element, being cared for like this (when it’s normally the other way round).

“Thank you, sir,” she says, both embarrassed and touched by his concern. “You didn’t have to trouble yourself —”

“It’s no trouble at all, Lieutenant,” he interjects gently, smiling.

Riza shrugs and sips at the homemade soup wordlessly. The warm liquid glides down her throat easily enough, and she lets out a hum of approval, pleasantly surprised by the sudden display of culinary talent from her commanding officer.

“This is really good, by the way. Since when did you learn how to make such good chicken soup?”

“Since ten tries and a burnt kitchen.”

Riza almost sputters. “What?”

“Just kidding. I’m not that bad of a cook,” he says, grinning as he ladles out a bowl for himself.  Riza stares at him disbelievingly. Burning down a kitchen is not something altogether impossible for him, considering his track record of culinary mishaps. “Really, Lieutenant. Give me some credit. I’ve improved quite a fair bit since my days as a teenage boy.”

“Well, this proves it, for sure,” she says, and his grin widens.

“I’m glad you like it.”

Riza offers a small smile of her own in return.

“I do, thank you.”

They eat in companionable silence. Riza is relieved to note that his mood has improved somewhat. since the last time she’d been awake. She might’ve been too drugged up to fully comprehend her surroundings previously, but she had been conscious enough to note the anger and frustration, the worry in his tone when he’d reprimanded her for her recklessness. And it’s easy to understand why was mad; he’s always had a peculiar habit of putting his subordinates above his own well-being.

Still, Riza doesn’t think she’s done anything wrong. She’s simply doing her job, and he’s simply being overprotective. She is his bodyguard, after all, and that itself entails sacrifice where necessary. And she would do it, in the blink of an eye, if it means keeping him out of harm’s way.

But Riza also knows him well enough to know when to back down from a losing argument, and so she simply pretends that conversation never happened. She’s satisfied with the way things are between them — for now, at least.

Above all, she’s just relieved to see that he’s safe.

—

Later in the afternoon, a nurse comes in to check on Riza.

“How are you feeling today?”

“Better,” she says, even as the growing ache in her side threatens to expose her lie. Roy looks at her, unconvinced, and Riza feels a sudden, uncharacteristic impulse to give the nurse a hug when she ushers Roy out for privacy reasons. She’s not really the hugging sort, but this nurse - Jade, Riza notes, from the little white name tag hanging from her breast pocket - definitely deserves one. “When can I be discharged?”

“Not so soon, my dear.” Jade clucks her tongue, as if disappointed that Riza had even asked such a thing. “We’ll have to keep you around for at least a week more, but you should be able to start physiotherapy in a couple of weeks.”

Riza visibly cringes when she hears this. Two weeks is a long time to be hospitalised, and she’ll probably be out of commission for a while at this rate — especially if physiotherapy is involved. (Throw in an overprotective boss in the mix, and she’s basically done for.)

“Is it possible for us to start physio earlier?”

“No such luck, sweetie,” and Riza cringes again, this time at the term of endearment. She’s always been a little uncomfortable around nurses like these, simply because the military doctors are usually the stoic, no-nonsense with no time for coddling.

(Between the two, though, she’s not sure which she prefers, but Riza decides she just hates hospitals in general. The rooms are stifling and smell like a mortician’s lab, even though it’s a place that is technically supposed to keep her alive and nurse her back to health.)

“I’ll be fine. Really, I’m feeling much better already.”

Jade sighs, the disapproval apparent on her pretty face. “Have you even tried walking yet?”

“No, but -”

“Good, you shouldn’t. You’ll have to use a wheelchair for a few days, before switching to a walking frame.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me,” Jade confirms, sounding a little more apologetic this time. “I would strongly advise against trying — unless you want to risk worsening your injury, you’re better off staying in bed.”

Riza frowns, very much displeased with her current predicament. As she’d predicted, she is, in fact, wheelchair-bound, but she hadn’t thought that she would have to rely on a walking frame, too. She’s never had to rely on one before — not since she was first trying to learn how to skate on the rink that one winter as a girl of ten.

“I’m sorry,” Jade says, patting her on the hand sympathetically. “I’m sure you’ll get better soon, with time and rest.”

Riza shrugs, feigning nonchalance. She’s irritated at the situation, but there's really not much she can do right now other than rest. Besides, her commanding officer will find a way to keep her here somehow even if she tries to escape.

“Alright. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, do you need anything else? More painkillers, perhaps?”

Riza nods grimly. She turns away as the nurse administers another dose of morphine, and adjusts herself on the pillows in helpless resignation as she waits for it to take effect.

“Take good care of her. She’s a stubborn one.”

Riza hears these words faintly, through the charged, cottony silence filling her drug-addled mind. She tries to protest, but the words seem to come out like garbled nonsense, and the last thing she hears before falling back into unconsciousness is something that both irks and warms her heart immensely.

“I will.”

—

Riza begins her first physiotherapy session exactly a week later.

By some stroke of luck, she’d managed to bring it forward, after proving to the doctors that she had, in fact, made a rather speedy recovery — even if said recovery meant that she was still mostly stuck to a wheelchair. Her commanding officer hadn’t been too pleased, of course, but it was still worth being able to get out of her room and get up on her own two feet.

That doesn’t mean it’s easy, though. Recovery is an agonisingly slow, painful process. Riza finds herself trembling, just from supporting herself with a walking frame. It feels like someone is repeatedly stabbing her at her side, and she has to pause every now and then just to catch her breath.

Riza grimaces. She hasn’t felt this winded since the last time she’d had an awful case of bronchitis. Her legs are like jelly, and there’s a sheen of sweat that’s starting to stick to her fringe from all the heaving and wincing she’s been doing the past five minutes.

Still, Riza forces herself to keep going. She’s had worse, anyway, and this is nothing compared to the survival camps she’d endured back in the academy.

(It’s also nothing compared to what Havoc is going through.)

“Now try to put your left foot forward, Miss Hawkeye,” the physiotherapist says, and Riza follows suit, thinking of her friend as she takes her first steps. “Very good, now slowly, with the other foot.”

Riza continues as instructed, even as a fresh jolt of pain shoots through her side. Riza grits her teeth and staggers forward. She has to do this. She has to get better soon for the unit, for him. It’s bad enough that he’s already missing one subordinate, and she would rather die trying than be a liability.

(The thought of being an additional burden on his already worn shoulders is simply unbearable.)

—

“How did your first session go?” Roy asks later that evening, when he comes around to visit her. It’s already way past visiting hours, but Riza doesn’t need to ask to know that he’s probably charmed some poor, ingenuous nurse into breaking the rules and letting him in.

“Fine.”

Roy frowns. “I still think you should have waited for a bit longer before —”

“I’m fine,” Riza insists. The exhaustion is beginning to creep up on her, and she doesn’t think she can sustain much of a conversation - much less an argument - today. Riza notes the dark rings under his eyes and immediately softens. Guilt creeps into an overworked system, urging her towards a feeble attempt at reassurance. “I promise, sir. Don’t worry about me.”

Roy stares at her meaningfully, and then sighs as if to say, you know that’s an impossible request. He offers a wry smile.

“Alright,” he says, making himself comfortable on her bedside stool. He folds his arms across his chest and yawns, joking about increased paperwork and reduced efficiency in his absence, but Riza can tell that he’s still in a sombre mood; she doesn’t need to ask to know that he’s been beating himself up over her current situation.

Riza knows, however, that it’s not something that he’s particularly keen on discussing, and so she plays along with a teasing shrug.

“I hope you’re not slacking off, sir.”

“Oh, you know me. I wouldn’t dare.”

“I’ve known you long enough to know about your atrocious work ethic, sir.”

He laughs. “I’ll work on that, Lieutenant.”

“Good.”

—

Roy continues visiting her the following evenings, after her physiotherapy sessions. He’d insisted on tagging along at first, but Riza had convinced him that it was better for her to do them alone. It’s bad enough that the nurses are starting to think that there’s something more than a strictly professional relationship between them.

Besides, he’d made a promise to not skive off at work. That had been enough to get him off her back in the afternoons, but not enough, apparently, to prevent him from breaking in and visiting her at night.

“You don’t have to come every day, sir,” Riza says, because she knows he’s been basically shuttling between her and Havoc. The fatigue is obvious on his face; his complexion is paler than usual, taking on an almost sickly tone, and the rings under his eyes are starting to become almost bruise-like.

“Nonsense,” he scoffs. Riza rolls her eyes, because he’stalking nonsense. “I’m fine.”

“You look tired.”

“Is that meant to be a jibe at my appearance?”

“Yes,” she deadpans, pointing at the stubbles on his chin. “You haven’t even shaved today.”

Roy waves a dismissive hand as he carefully pours out her favourite congee into a bowl. “I still managed to charm my way in, so I’m sure I’m still as good looking as ever.”

“With all due respect, sir, you’re not.”

“Really, now, don’t be insubordinate —”

“I’m serious, sir.”

Roy regards her with abject horror, and heads to the bathroom to fix his stubbles while she slowly savours the steaming bowl of congee that he’s left on the table. Roy leaves an hour later, and at first Riza thinks he’ll take a hint and take the day off tomorrow, but he shows up the following evening, anyway, remarkably clean-shaven this time.

—

As much as Riza knows that her expectations are unrealistic, it’s disheartening to see that she’s still having trouble walking. It’s been nearly two weeks since surgery, and she’s received feedback that she’s making tremendous progress in physiotherapy, but it’s still too slow. She’s still not discharged. She’s still not allowed back at work, she’s still mostly confined to bed, and —

And she’s still useless.

She hates it, of course, but there’s really not much she can do right now. She can’t return to work without her commanding officer filing a restraining order of some sort, and she can’t discharge herself without an entire army of hospital staff hot on her tails.

She can, however, get past the nurses who are a little too preoccupied with the rumour mill. And so she does. Riza wheels herself furtively into a lift without attracting attention, and, having brought along her inconvenience of a walking frame, takes her rehabilitation into her own hands. She ventures out into the hospital garden, clumsily pushing herself towards standing. The floor is cold and the air tastes salty, but it’s the most alive she’s felt in ages. Her first step is shaky, and so is the next, but she is walking without supervision. Taking baby steps.

Riza smiles, even as her arms tremble from having to hold up her entire weight. She soldiers on anyway, persisting in her hobbling. It’s a strangely liberating feeling to walk by herself after weeks of enduring multiple sets of watchful, paranoid eyes.

But maybe she’s overestimated herself. The ache in her side returns with a vengeance, without warning, causing her to pause in her tracks.

Riza leans against the railings, gasping for breath. She presses a hand to her side as another wave of pain strikes. She’s a far cry from her usual athleticism, now. She doubts she’ll be able to ace the annual military fitness test this year like she normally does (she’s never fallen below the gold standard since graduating from the academy).

“Hawkeye!”

Riza stumbles when she hears her name. She only just manages to latch onto a nearby railing, but her limbs seem hellbent on giving way. She braces herself for the impact, expecting to fall flat on her face, but a hand reaches out to steady her from behind just before she crashes to the floor.

A little more than relieved, Riza exhales shakily and clutches onto her walking frame, with both hands this time.

“Hawkeye,” she hears again, and she knows instantly that she’s in for an (unnecessary) lecture.

“Sir,” she heaves. “I’m alright. Sorry for the scare.”

“What are you doing here by yourself?” Roy exclaims, and she shushes him with a displeased glare.

“Keep it down, please. We’re in a hospital.”

“Exactly,” he huffs, his voice taking on a reprimanding tone. “You shouldn’t be out and running about by yourself. Where are those nurses, anyway? Why isn’t anyone keeping you company? What if —”

“Sir,” Riza stresses, her irritation seeping through. The last thing she needs right now is to be treated like a helpless child. What she needs, actually, is some affirmation that she’s still a valuable asset to the team. Still useful. “I’m fine. You worry too much.”

“You’re not helping with that, Lieutenant.”

“The last I recalled, you were running around with a similar injury.”

“Yes, but I was an idiot, and you’re not.”

Riza smiles. “I can’t say you’re wrong there.”

“Anyway,” he continues, clearing his throat as if to regain some of his lost dignity. “You were nearly caught in an explosion, and then shot by a bullet. That’s far worse than getting impaled in the gut.”

“When you put it like that, I’m not too sure which is worse, sir,” Riza says. As much as she appreciates his concern, the double standard is beginning to grate on her nerves; she thinks he should at least be grateful she hasn’t broken out of the hospital by sheer force yet.

Roy huffs. “Stubborn as always, aren’t you?”

To that, Riza simply shrugs. She leans back against a nearby vending machine, enjoying the fresh air and dim lights for a bit before being forced to go back.

Roy regards her with a meaningful look like he’s debating whether to scold her or something else. Something she doesn’t want to expressly acknowledge. Not yet, at least — not during this crucial period of their lives that could very well dictate how the rest of it will go.

(But this is how it’s always been, Riza thinks. They’ve never needed words to convey the unutterable. In many ways, their actions have always spoken louder than its verbal counterparts, and it’s probably best for them to keep it this way, to suppress the felonious sentiments that they’ve already kept so closely guarded for years.)

“Put your feet on top of mine, Hawkeye.”

“Sir?”

“Just do it. You’re not that heavy,” he says, gently pulling her forward so that she no longer has the vending machine for support. Something nudges at her toes, and Riza raises a brow, as if to question whether he’s genuinely serious about this. “Go on.”

“You could end up with two broken feet, sir —”

“In which case I’ll get an extended leave from work, so really, that’s a win-win.”

“Seems like you’ve given this a lot of thought,” Riza says. She laughs quietly at his antics, and she doesn’t need to look at him to know that he’s smirking triumphantly, like he’s just bested her in a game of chess.

“Of course I have. Now get on, it’s better than walking around like you’re fully recovered.”

And because she knows better than to fight a losing argument, Riza just does as she’s told.

Gingerly, she puts her feet on top of his, mindful to not fracture anything. Roy pulls her close to him, wrapping his arms around her torso — whether to prevent falling, or to embrace her, she’s not sure, but she doesn’t mind, not really. Being shackled to a hospital bed for two weeks is enough to make her crave and cave into human contact.

“This feels an awful lot like we’re dancing, sir.”

“Again, a win-win.”

She rolls her eyes. “How very opportunistic of you.”

Laughter rumbles from his chest, genuine and unbridled.

“You know me. I would never pass up on an opportunity to dance with my favourite subordinate.”

“I’ll be sure to relay your message to Havoc, sir.”

“Thank you,” he says, and Riza bites back a laugh at the obvious sarcasm. “Alright, now just follow my lead. Move your left foot back.”

She does as she’s told, again. Roy repeats his instructions for the other foot, and the cycle repeats, until they’re trudging around in small circles. It’s like graceless dancing, Riza thinks, observing him silently as he frowns from concentrating so intensely on their every step. It’s just like when he’d first tried to teach her how to dance. (Dancing around campfires during the pumpkin harvest had never really been her thing - in part because it involved copious amounts of socialising and talking, and in part because she was born with two left feet - but it had been Roy’s, evidently. She hadn’t the heart to rain on his parade, and so had reluctantly obliged when he’d asked her to dance.)

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, sir.”

His frown deepens, and he stops moving for a moment.

“Are you tired?”

“I’m alright, sir.”

“You always say that,” he murmurs. “But I don’t want you to overdo it. Let’s get you back.”

Riza sighs resignedly. She is starting to feel exhausted, but there’s a part of her that doesn’t want this shared, private moment to end, either. She’s been enjoying it more than she should. More than she would ever admit.

“Alright,” she says, but Roy surprises her and pulls her in for a hug.

“I just wanted you to know that you’re not useless, Riza. Not at all.”

Her throat runs dry.

“Sir?”

“I know you’ve probably been feeling that way,” he continues, running a hand through her hair, now limp and sickeningly dry from all the time spent away from sunshine and conditioner. “Which is why you’ve been pushing yourself so hard. But I promise you you’re not. You could never be.”

Riza chews on her bottom lip contemplatively. She wants to ask how he’d read her mind, but there’s no point asking questions that she already knows the answers to. They’ve known each other for a long time, after all (she knows he must’ve been thinking the same thing during his earlier convalescence, too).

“I - thank you, sir.”

Roy nods, his chin tickling the top of her head.

“Besides, that word is meant for me, not for you.”

Riza laughs, but it comes out muffled as he continues stroking the back of her head.

“Your level of self-awareness today is off the charts.”

“I know,” he smirks. “Shall we?”

She nods, and Roy guides her back into her wheelchair. Their extensive experience with covert operations is particularly handy during a time like this; Roy manages to somehow evade all of the staff on duty and successfully wheels her back into her room without arousing suspicion.

Riza is so enervated that she practically sinks into the mattress without protest, even as Roy helps her in. She eyes him as he makes himself comfortable - as comfortable as one can be - in the old, lumpy chair beside her.

“Sir,” she croaks out. Riza clears her throat and tries again. “Sir.”

“Yes?”

Riza shifts a little to make space. She’s thankful that it’s already evening; she’s pretty sure she’s blushing by now, because she’s never been so bold, so forward before. (He’s usually the one taking initiative when it comes to things like this, but the unhealthy pallor in his skin is enough for her to make an exception.)

“You should rest, too.”

“I am, Hawkeye.”

She shifts a little more to the side. He gets the hint.

“Well, since you’re asking so nicely —”

“I'm not asking.”

Roy laughs, but he slides in any way, military regulations and meddlesome nurses be damned. They’ll be fine, Riza thinks; the nurses aren’t known to be particularly alert past midnight. Besides, Roy is probably sensible enough to get out before dawn, and if he’s not, he’ll probably charm or bribe his way out somehow. She’s not normally so cavalier about breaking the rules, but Roy deserves a night of proper rest, at least. It’s the least she can do after all he’s done for her.

“If you say so.”

“I didn’t,” Riza insists, stifling a yawn. She’s so tired that she thinks she might fall asleep while talking. “Get some rest, sir.”

“You too, Hawkeye,” he says, yawning as he pulls the miserable excuse of a blanket over them both. “Sleep well.”

Riza feels the ghost of a kiss on her temple, before her world becomes blissfully dark.

[sector-i-closed]

Caught

Requested by anon

Model au + photographer!Hongjoong

Mingi x Reader x Yunho

Warning: Exhibitionism, anal fingering, double penetration, orgasm denial but reader comes, spanking one time

The day at work was not favoring you well in the slightest.

Already you had unwittingly succeeded in getting into a cat fight with a fellow model and your skin was also a mess after a breakout of acne littered your face and created chaos for the makeup artists who fussed over your appearance.

You were extra anxious today and wished that you could relax, trying to find comfort that the steroid that was used to control the inflammation of your acne that your dermatologist tried to console you but the best they could do was prescribe the steroid for you.

"Focus, focus on the camera, Y/N!" Hongjoong barked out, knowing that he could get a better face from you as he remained behind the camera lens, snapping away.

You were struggling to zone into autopilot, which was where you functioned the best for both photoshoots and fashion shows.

Part of the reason why you were more distracted then usual was this particular shoot required you to be partly exposed for the fashion spread of the upcoming issue of the magazine that you modeled for most of the time, though what made it awkward was that you were paired with two fully dressed male models that made you feel smaller than you really were and the attractiveness of the pair was enough to unnerve you, let alone the humiliation of being exposed and posing with them was enough for fire to rush directly to your face and awaken every cell of your body.

"Are you okay, Y/N?" The male model that you had came to know as Mingi spoke near your ear, his low voice prompting you to involuntarily shudder beneath the other male model known as Yunho's fingertips where his large hands held your waist.

"I'm- I'm fine... Just camera nerves..." You bit down hard on your lower lip, hating how you trembled at the effects of the male's that surrounded you.

"You've got this sweetheart. We all do..." Yunho encouraged as he tried to convince himself that everything would be alright as everyone moved their forms in front of the camera.

You wanted to sob in frustration, feeling a sense of arousal in your system and you chided yourself for feeling such a strong, intoxicating sensation around your coworkers.

"Hongjoong, it's time to go lunch!" The fashion coordinator who was named Yeosang called out to the photographer.

"I'm not leaving until I'm finished with my subjects." Hongjoong muttered sternly at the fashion coordinator.

"You'll leave if I bring Seonghwa to get your ass taken care of! Your fatigue is showing and to put it mildly you look like shit because it's apparent that you're not sleeping." Yeosang folded his arms across his chest and you watched the scene unfold before you with your coworkers.

"Don't bring my boyfriend into this!" Hongjoong scowled, "And this is what happens during fashion week.

Pack fashion shows to photograph into your schedule and the ad campaigns for the following season and that equals little sleep but I'm not complaining about it." Hongjoong shrugged, returning his attention to you, Yunho and Mingi.

"But it still doesn't give you the right to burn yourself out. I'm calling Seonghwa so he can get you to at least eat something." Yeosang threatened, visibly worrying for his friend.

"Alright fine! Fuck it! I'll go for lunch and come back to my project." Hongjoong growled irritation while the fashion coordinator smirked in response to the photographer leaving quickly.

Yeosang followed after him and other personnel left, leaving you and the two male models alone.

"Should we go?" Mingi voiced his question to Yunho as he took notice in your extremely flustered appearance.

"We don't have to! I brought my own lunch! I would love to share it if you two are interested!" Yunho replied cheerfully.

You groaned quietly at your own state of undress, promptly plodding to the bed that was being used as a prop for the photoshoot.

"I'm good..." You replied, bringing the sheets to your chest and lying down on your stomach.

"I'm willing to share!" Yunho pouted, whacking your ass playfully with his hand. A far more erotic sound then you intended to release drifted from your lips and immediately you froze in place, regretting your vocalization immediately.

"Uhm..." Your eyes were wide with fright as you looked up at Yunho who looked equally as alarmed as you did.

"Shit... That sounded so hot." Mingi quirked an eyebrow at you as he carefully drew closer to you, supporting himself by leaning against a bedpost and proceeding to gaze down at you from where he stood.

"I'm- I'm..." You stuttered out, feeling embarrassed by your vocalized actions as lust involuntarily clouded your vision. Mingi immediately recognized the look in your eyes, leading him to move closer to you as he gauged your reaction.

"'m pathetic..." You mumbled under your breath, clinging to the sheets as you desperately tried to reel yourself in from losing yourself to the feelings that ran rampant in your body, fighting an inner war with yourself regarding weather you wanted him to get closer to you or for him to stay as far away from you as possible when he was eyeing you so dangerously.

"You've done well to resist this long. It's up to you baby if you want to continue resisting or taste what you're wanting to experience." Mingi touched your back with a firm touch, sending shivers down your spine as you moaned out loud without attempting to restrain it this time.

"She's so needy for us. I wonder how she got this way!" Yunho cooed while touching the other side of your back.

"She was squirming at the way that your crotch would occasionally brush against her backside and her body was so hot..." Mingi's hand languidly moved along the warmth of your skin, sensing the smoothness of your flesh beneath his fingertips.

"Hngh...~ p-please...~?" You whined, drawing a blank as to what you were begging for. Arousal freely seeped from between your legs and the intense craving to be filled was overwhelming your sensibility to preserve your dignity.

"I'm not going to do anything unless you tell me what it is that you want." Mingi smirked as he stopped his hand at the small of your back, feeling goosebumps form beneath his hand.

"W-want to be f-filled up..." You moaned out reluctantly, turning onto your back to seductively gaze up at the two males that stood above you.

"Filled up by whom?" Mingi was enjoying dragging it out, even with the risk of the staff returning to the photo studio was adding to the excitement of the moment. You looked at Yunho then at Mingi, "Both."

~~~~~~~

"Come here, doll." Mingi beckoned to you from where he lied down on the bed, his pants down to his ankles as his feet rested flat on the floor.

You had stripped off your jeans and was now fully naked and you felt little inhibition in the present moment as you sauntered over to Mingi and straddled him.

Heat flooded your body when you sensed Yunho moving up behind you, "You're beautiful as you are in every way imaginable." Yunho murmurs softly and reached between your legs to pet your pussy, gathering your slick on his fingers and moving on to massage your perineum and then your anal entrance with slow circles that gradually gained confidence with each desperate mewl that you uttered while on top of Mingi.

"Just like that, babygirl." Mingi growled as he cupped the back of your head with his hand and pulled you in for an aggressive kiss, easily blurring your consciousness as his tongue invaded your parted lips with a needy ferocity that left you weak in the knees as he brought you down on his hard cock with his free hand.

You whimpered vulnerably from the firm intrusion of his cock pushing inside of your dripping pussy, feeling pleased from how well he stretched you with his girth.

Yunho was groaning from the feeling of your entrance greedily sucking his fingers deeper inside of your ass.

"So good and tight. I wonder if anyone has ever done this to you before?" Yunho asked curiously, withdrawing his fingers from your stretched entrance and shortly afterwards replacing his fingers with his cock.

"A-ah~" You whimpered, being unable to speak because of the pleasurable sensation of Yunho stretching your ass with his length.

"Shit I can feel you, Yun! So tight for us, princess." Mingi groaned as he sucked amarking at your sensitive pulse point.

"I can feel you too, it's amazing! Her ass is perfect, taking my cock so well." Yunho slammed his hips into your body, following the same rhythm as Mingi had set which was a rough impatient one.

Sweet, sexual wails left your lips as you closed your eyes from the overwhelming bliss of your body being filled by cock and used for pleasure.

Your eyes slid shut as you felt your orgasm approaching after several moments of being stimulated beyond your wildest expectations and Mingi's cock was twitching erratically with each thrust that was growing sloppier and sloppier beneath your body.

His moans mixed with your high pitched cries and Yunho's erratic breaths as he gripped your hips and chased his climax.

"C-can I cum pl-please~?" You begged, uncertain as to who was responsible for giving you the go ahead as you helplessly took the pounding that both of their cocks were giving you.

"No, let's get back to work. You three can play later~" Hongjoong's amused tone froze the male models in their tracks and you felt your orgasm rip through you at that moment, the humiliation of being caught pushed you over the edge and both Mingi and Yunho were astounded just as much as the photographer was.

"F-fuck..." You whimpered as you shakily removed yourself from the males.

"You may rest a moment to calm yourself, Y/N. Then we're back to work." Hongjoong nonchalantly remarks as he converses with another staff member who seemed to be shaken by walking in on the three of you.

"Can we continue this later?" Mingi asks near your ear as he held you to comfort you after your unexpected climax.

"S-sure..." You smiled at him weakly and giggled when Yunho nuzzled into you.

"I'm glad! I wasn't ready to say goodbye!"

Tagging @yunhoes-twancings-nsfw and @hanatiny my lovely people I love you sm 💖💘💓

[xwasted-days]

𝖘𝖆𝖋𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖘𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉 || 𝖇.𝖍.

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Reader

A/N: It’s probably been done before, but I wanted to throw together a little song-fic based on Safe and Sound by Taylor Swift ft. The Civil Wars. I’m sappy and I like sad things. Also, this is my first tumblr fic, pls be nice. Requests are open and I have no tag-list, because it’s a new blog. 

Work Count: 2, 276

Complete Story Warnings: Major Character Death, Pure Angst, 10/10 sad. Also, probably language. 

The battle of Starcourt was turning in favor of the party and all therein, but war was never without casualty. 

Billy Hargrove had a questionable character and reputation among most in Hawkins. People wanted him as a friend or a fuck, and those that didn’t wanted him gone. Few succeeded in ever knowing Billy as more than the sad little king of his sad little hill, and even fewer knew the plights he faced at home. A minimal two: Max, the step sister, and Y/N, the girlfriend, who rushed into the center of the mall behind Mike Wheeler, unable to help as Billy threw himself in El’s path. Y/N moved before her mind could register: scrambling forward when Billy caught the mindflayer’s clawed gullet in his hands. Those beautiful, calloused hands with the feather-soft touch. She took another step forward, faltering as a tentacle dug into his left side, the sickening crunch of torn flesh and splintering ribs echoing in the building silence. The second hit came and she rushed forward again, slipping on fragments of broken glass. Y/N’s knees hit the ground hard, the sharp sting barely registering as the hits kept coming, clawing all around his torso. He screamed each time, every cry cutting off in a strangled garble at the sharp shock of another tentacle landing its blows. Billy screamed, daring the monster on, and Y/N screamed, begging it all to stop. 

The final blow landed in the center of Billy’s chest, silencing him. Max’s scream sounded somewhere behind her. 

As the mindflayer pulled away, thrashing, snarling, wailing in defeat, Y/N ran forward, slipping in rapidly pooling blood as she pulled Billy to her chest. 

I remember tears streaming down your face, when I said, “I’ll never let you go.”

The words, even as they left Y/N’s lips, felt like the deepest and most real thing she’d expressed since the moment he was taken by the mindflayer. 

Since the darkness had fallen over Hawkins, she’d felt vacant, plastic, unreal. She supposed the notion came first when Barb had gone missing; when the trio of sub-popular girls was first fractured. Everything seemed to fall apart until Y/N found out what really happened to Barb, what was haunting Will Byers, and what hunted the people of Hawkins.  

Life was a ceaseless ebb and flow of highs and lows; still, she never expected the tide to pull away as it was now. Nothing could compare to this feeling: her boyfriend tucked in her arms, fading away before her, was what would cause the tidal wave to break. 

Cool and fragile, the rapid thundering of his heart beneath Y/N’s palm, the salt of crystalline tears sliding off his angled pale, cheek, his hand gripping her arm as he clung to waning life. Billy opened his mouth, hoping for any words to form. None did. He felt the pain with each blow, but as the creature yanked itself away and Billy fell, there was no sensation. Nothing but an icy numbness. After his mom left, Billy prayed for nothing more than to lose his feeling, and now it was gone he wanted it back. 

He wanted it back because he wanted to stay with her. He’d always known he was a selfish bastard, but this instance wasn’t for himself. It was for her; his Y/N. The only girl he gave a shit about for longer than one night at a time. And now, he was going to lose her. “..I-” he struggled again, shivering in her arms. 

When all those shadows almost killed your light

“Shh,” Y/N cooed, bringing her hand up to brush sweaty, blonde curls off of his forehead, ignoring the scene that played out around them. Billy was never meant to get caught in this crossfire; he was meant to be as he always was: cocky, stupid, young and reckless. Seated atop his lifeguard seat, staring out over the crowds of Hawkins Community Pool as a king surveyed his kingdom. Instead, he was out there, vulnerable to to the upside down, taken as so many others had been.

Y/N glanced down at the gaping, bloody hole that forced the pale colored fabric of the shirt at Billy’s chest to dip inward, the rich, viscous, and sickly stain making her stomach churn. She bit hard on the inside of her cheek, a meager attempt at staunching her tears as she played strong for Billy’s sake. She felt his hand at her arm give a squeeze, her attentions drawing back toward the boy in her lap. Y/E/C eyes connecting to Billy’s steely blue ones again, she offered a shaky smile, her thumb smoothing along the arch of his cheek. 

I remember you said, "Don't leave me here alone…"

Billy’s voice was soft and hoarse, barely audible as the commotion of the party and the mindflayer fizzled on around them. The fair haired, beautiful boy Y/N had fallen so deeply for let out a soft grunt of protest at the ache, his body twitching involuntarily as pain coursed through him.

“Think you can get rid of me that easily, ya little shit?” Y/N asked with a gentle chuckle, keeping her shaky grin to ease Billy’s worry. Her tears flowed more freely now, slipping down her cheeks as she held him close. “Gotta try a whole helluva lot harder than that, Hargrove. You and me. California, remember?” 

The broken king of Hawkins High put on a woozy, pale-lipped smile and hiccupped on a sob, coughing after. A soft mist of blood peppered his lips and chin, staining his teeth crimson. California, their would-be paradise, far away from Indiana and all their worries. He’d sworn up and down that they would leave one day, go back to his home and flourish in ways unimaginable. His promise now seemed as broken as he was. He was fading. Y/N didn’t have enough time.

But all that's dead and gone and passed tonight.

The flutter of Billy’s heart was growing more and more faint, and the beats, which willed themselves with great difficulty, grew slower and slower in their efforts. 

Billy leaned his weight further into Y/N’s body, slack and woozy. All the coherency in his head fading. She had promised that wouldn’t leave, said she wouldn’t let go, but she had. Or hadn’t she? He could hardly tell, his vision fading in and out, gleams of purple and pink, the hazy sound of distant chatter. Billy felt his chest heave with a great gasp, and his jaw open and close with the effort of breath. It happened again, and again. He felt hands on his arms, squeezing, but he couldn’t register the effect of the sensation. He was cold, so cold. He wished so vehemently that he could ask Y/N what was going on, but Billy couldn’t seem to find his tongue. 

That’s a first, he thought, trying to squeeze back the person in his numbed fingers. Every bit of him was so cold, probably frozen from where he had been, lost in darkness with the delicate snowfall. He was sure another erratic breath would leave him in shards. His head lulled to the side, hardly-seeing eyes registering the plume of Y/H/C and a small streak of fiery red. He searched between them, hoping to register on either of the faces that peered down on him, but none came. He coughed, gagging on something oozing in his throat, feeling hands tighten and voices raise. 

Soft curls of blonde hair fell over her his forehead, even as Y/N pushed them away, shifting his weight so Billy’s head was more firmly pressed to her chest. He was growing more and more still, even as she and Max begged him to stay. The girl took a breath, fighting down the body-trembling sob that wedged in her throat. “Billy? Wake up, Billy, please?” She asked, watching a tear of her own fall down to slip against his cheek, rolling down onto his stubbled chin.

Billy took a deep, shuddering breath, so loud he scared himself. He'd forgotten to breathe, and the muted voices he heard in his haze kept him there. Her voice. The voice he listened to in the quiet solitude of a shared bedroom, or in the crowded halls of Hawkins High. The voice he grew to love before he could even remember what love felt like. The voice he wanted to hear for the rest of his life. 

He blinked, trying to clear the tears in his eyes, focusing on Y/N and Max hovering above him.

“....I’m sorry.” Billy shuddered as his eyes glossed over,  a sudden cloud overtaking his vision. The clarity of the world was fading into shapes, then shadows, and careening rapidly into darkness. There was a loud bang somewhere near him and had he retained the strength, he would have jumped. Another bang. And another. One, two. One, two. One. Two. One. Two, each pair of beats getting further and further apart. Billy breathed out, defeated, overcome by the realization that those noises were thuds of his heart stopping. He couldn't see, he couldn't feel, he couldn’t taste anything but the heavy black goop on his tongue, he could only smell the coppery, acrid stink of blood that clogged his sinuses. All that was left was hearing; Billy was caught listening to the terrible, awful rhythm of his once-small heart, stopping. He listened again, hoping to hear the voices, praying they would draw him out of it, but there was no sound. Nothing. Not even the beating of his heart. Just his remaining consciousness, slowly going black. Billy Hargrove was dead, he knew. He wanted to scream, to panic and cry, but nothing was there. 

He didn't see the light that everyone blathered about, he didn't feel the peace. He was the hollow, lifeless shell of a boy who could have been more than a lifeguard with an attitude problem. And he was dead. And he left her behind. 

His beautiful Y/N, whose voice and smiles and touches were forfeit to the darkness that consumed. 

Don't you dare look out your window, darling, everything's on fire. The war outside our door keeps raging on. Hold onto this lullaby, even when the music's gone. 

Y/N  felt the final, sickening beat of Billy’s heart beneath her hand. Another tear fell onto Billy’s face, then another. And another. Max whispered, begging her step brother to wake, her small hands shaking his bloodied shoulders to no avail. A hard, broken, centuries old sob tore through Y/N’s chest and echoed through the mall; the cry of everyone who had lost someone they loved for good. The cry that begged death to return a loved one to the land of the living that always fell on deaf ears. 

“Billy, please,” she whimpered, trembling fingers soothing the lifeless skin of the boy she loved. Every thought, hope, wish, and dream connected to him was gone, dead as he was. 

Jagged orange patterns began to dance on the ground all around them, and offered the girl nothing but a ghastly illumination along her lost lover’s gaunt, pale face. It made him look hollow, as if no happiness, no mischief, no curiosity had once been lurking behind those coy, gorgeous eyelids. His once tanned, golden flesh was sickly and pale, the adonis within snuffed out forever. Y/N  snarled and sobbed hard, holding Billy closer, hiding him from the sickening yellowed light of the fire that grew.

She heard feet scramble around as the party gathered, their footfalls echoing like hard beat of the drums of war.

Villains never prevailed. Heroes never lived. No one was ever truly saved. Y/N’s shoulders caved and shook as she sobbed, broken and holding onto Billy’s body. Stifling a hiccup, she sighed sadly and started humming and rocking him back and forth; their song mumbled on tear-stained lips. She was chained to her place on the ground, lost. 

She didn’t see the others there, she couldn’t hear their words. She didn’t take notice when Max hid her face in El’s shoulder and sobbed for her lost brother.  

The world around her was crumbling into vacant nothingness and Y/N felt herself heave with another sob. She leaned back, her blood stained fingers gently brushing the infallible, pure flesh of Billy’s cold cheek, smoothing the tears she’d left there away with another broken whimper. “I love you…” She whispered longingly, her voice needy and raspy. 

A hand pressed to Y/N’s shoulder. It didn’t matter whose it was. It wasn’t his. And she hated that it pulled her back. The distant thrum of helicopters rattling in the skies, the sobs that left Max as she cried, the soft sniffles that sounded from El as she sat in mourning solidarity with her friend. Steve’s voice low as sirens began to wail in the streets. 

“Y/N. We gotta go,” Steve said, joined at her flank by Robin, whose thin hand came to rest on Y/N’s arm. She didn’t move. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t leave him. Another sob leaving her, Robin leaned forward to rest her head on Y/N’s shoulder, rubbing her arm gently as she could, tears flooding her own eyes as she looked across to Steve’s battered face. 

Harrington hated Hargrove with all he had, but he didn’t deserve this. Y/N didn’t deserve this. Nostrils quivering as he fought to keep strong, he gave Robin a solemn nod. Together, they helped place Billy on the ground where he fell and pull Y/N back, consoling her as she cried. 

Just close your eyes. The sun is going down You'll be alright.  No one can hurt you now Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound.

[witchofthescions]

It was Ernastral's own idea to go back to her apartment for the night, halfway across the world from where her companions were. And yet, even as she flopped onto her bed in the half-furnished room, she found herself deeply regretting her choice. But what else was she to do? She had no idea what it was like to lose a son, but the pain in Count de Fortemps's voice had been clear as day. It was far better to leave the poor man to grieve for his fallen son in peace, she felt.

"A smile better suits a hero."

Ernastral bit back a sob, burying her face in her pillow. Even to the last, he strove to keep everyone else's spirits up.

She was startled out of her thoughts by a knock at her door. Which was especially surprising because she had expressly said she didn't want random strangers popping in and out of her room. She sat up, wiping her face on her sleeve and grimacing at the makeup smudged across her sleeve. Oh dear... she'll have to worry about cleaning that up in the morning.

There was another knock at her door, this time a little more insistent.

"I'm coming, I'm coming, keep yer dang pants on," Ernastral called out as she crossed over to the door. She pulled it open and directed her gaze downward out of habit.

She blinked a few times at her visitor, completely dumbfounded. Alphinaud stared back at her, a faint, exhausted smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Good evening, Ernastral," he said. "I know we parted barely more than an hour ago, but I thought I'd..."

His smile faltered as he got a better look at her. Ernastral wiped her face again, glancing away somewhat self-consciously. Big sister instincts told her she shouldn't let Alphinaud see her like this. She had to be strong for the younger ones and all that.

"...Can I come in?"

Ernastral nodded and made way for Alphinaud, shutting the door behind him. He surveyed the room quietly, taking in the sparse furnishings. A bed, a dresser, some shelves, a couple mannequins and plant pots.

"It's rather bare," he remarked. He glanced over to the taller woman as she walked past him towards the bed, the only real place to sit. "But I suppose with our activities around Ishgard you've had precious little time to spend on furnishing this place."

"You could say that again," she said with a laugh.

Silence fell over them. Neither looked at the other. The events of the day weighed heavy on their minds. They'd succeeded at their primary objective, and yet... with the loss of such a good friend and the Archbishop's escape, it felt more like a net loss.

"I..." The usually eloquent Alphinaud seemed to struggle for the right words. "I could not stand there in silence, but..." Ernastral glanced over as she heard a sniffle. Alphinaud quickly wiped his eyes and attempted to put on a brave face. "When all others had forsaken us, Lord Haurchefant took us in. Our beacon of hope in a world of darkness."

"That's the mark of a noble man, I reckon," she said. "A truly noble man. Fighting and dying for a cause... that's easy."

"Says the adventurer who risks her life on the regular," Alphinaud said, arms folded over his chest and a teasing note to his voice.

"Well, it is! Dying's easy. Just ask any adventurer whose tale got cut short." Like that young man she met early in her career, the one who sought to follow in her footsteps and make a name for himself alongside his fiancée and their companions. The one who met an unfortunate end all too soon. "Being a beacon of hope is hard. Makin' sure your loved ones look after themselves, finding ways to help when you don't got much to offer..."

"I suppose when you put it that way you have a point."

"'Course I do." Ernastral finally gestured for Alphinaud to take a seat. "And speaking of lookin' after loved ones. Take a load off already."

Alphinaud let out a soft huff of a laugh before taking a seat on the bed near her. Though he quickly found his legs nearly dangled off the side of a bed that was not built for someone as small and slight as him. Ernastral declined to comment, instead taking another moment to smudge the remnants of her makeup off of her face.

"I've already sent Tataru off to continue her duties at the Forgotten Knight," Alphinaud informed her. "In the morning, we should speak with Ser Aymeric. I worry for his well-being, but it is best that we all have a chance to rest after today."

"Right, yeah," she mumbled. Another moment of silence passed between them, only broken by a soft sigh from Alphinaud.

"...I know your place is barely fit to house one person at the moment, but... could I trouble you to let me stay the night?"

She shot him a surprised look. Before she had a chance to rein it in, she blurted out, "You sure you want to stay in such a poorly-furnished place?"

"I-I meant no offense," he stammered, cheeks flushing red with obvious embarrassment.

Ernastral burst out laughing, reaching over to clap him on the shoulder. "Nah, nah, I ain't offended! You said it yourself, I ain't had much time to really get to furnishing this place." She took a moment to calm down from her laughing fit, wiping away a stray tear or two. "I don't mind if you stay. Honestly, I was startin' to regret the lack of company anyway."

"Thank you," Alphinaud said. He made like he was about to stand up, but Ernastral beat him to the punch.

"You're getting the bed, though."

"I- no, it's fine, I can-"

She held up a hand and cut him off. "Number one, you're my guest. I'd be a terrible host if I made you sleep on the floor. Number two..." She shot him a sly grin. "I'm older. Youngin's get priority when it comes to beds."

"That's hardly fair," Alphinaud huffed.

"It's the rules of siblings!" she retorted, already halfway across the room. "You've got a sister, you should know all this!"

"Twin sister, remember?"

"Details, details!" She rummaged through the dresser for some extra clothes she could use as a makeshift bed. She had so many extra robes lying around that it really wasn't too difficult. "Also, no boots on the bed!"

By the time she returned to the bed, Alphinaud had removed his boots and carefully sat them next to the bed. She laid out her makeshift bedding next to him and laid down, after making sure to dim the lights.

"It occurs to me that I don't know much about your family."

"Mine? Eh, there's not much to say. Just a bunch of farmers doing the best they can with what Abalathia has to offer."

"Ah... I hadn't realized. Ishgard must be the closest to home you've been in a while."

"Well, the Sea of Clouds is technically over my home. But yeah, it's the closest I've come since I left."

"I'm surprised you never followed your kin's tradition of translating your name into the common tongue."

Ernastral the proud let out a huff. "I want people to remember me by my real name. Not some watered-down bastardization. Ernastral, not Earnest Arrow. Or Estelar."

"Earnest Arrow," Alphinaud mused. "Either way, it suits you."

"It dang well better! It's been my name for the better part of two decades!"

Alphinaud laughed. "I suppose that's a fair point. There's something to be said for the power of a name."

"Nobles sure seem to put a lot of stock in 'em." Ernastral sighed and scowled up at the ceiling. "Maybe too much."

"On that we can agree." Alphinaud let out an audible yawn.

"We probably shouldn't stay up all night gabbing," Ernastral said. "Get some sleep."

"You should too, Ernastral." Another yawn from the young elezen. "Good night."

"Night, Alphinaud."

Despite insisting that he take the bed, sometime during the night Alphinaud opted to join her on the floor. Ernastral woke to find him curled up against her, back to back, the bedsheets pulled around them both.

It felt for a moment like she was right back home.

[rendevok]

are you still working on plenty of fish in the sea? I love your art style and the story's so cute ^^

Hi, dear anon. Thank you so much, I'm glad you seemed to like that particular project! However, I regret to inform that i dont really intend to finish the story any longer. It HAS been a year now after all, so my style and interests have vastly changed.

Still, i do believe i owe it to those interested to explain the story as it would have played out (in fact i had a stream on instagram last month where i explained it some), so without further ado... here is the story of Plenty of Fish in the Sea...

-

The story had been organized into words & themes, as you may have noticed. So here is that list and then, my notes on the projected story that eventually devolve into my specific brand of storytelling and very poorly thought out (but cheesy) dialogue. Try your best not to judge me since it would have likely been altered and improved once i worked my way through it, and keep in mind i am 100% an amateur.

cover/prologue

drown/savior

waking up/scale

sighting/caught - (i made it this far in terms of finished/posted art!)

storm/plunge

marooned/together

wound/care

curious/weak

gift/open

missing/heart to heart

ship in the night/hostage

in knots/jailbreak

savior/drown (ll)

scale/waking up (ll) - ^these were intentional mirrors of the first 2 main parts

heart on a string

plenty of fish in the sea

Here are my notes that follow these themes:

The story with a prologue, wherein, a young Lance saves a young Keith from drowning, and Keith is left with the memory of a boy and a brilliantly colored scale

Ffwd to the future, Keith is a sailor (not a captain, sorry) who is secretly hunting this mer with the scales that are impossibly valuable (or so he’s been told his whole life). Sure being a pirate gets him some riches but nothing like what the whole tail of scales would! Keith is not truly sure why he’s spent so much of his life fixated on this scale, but he has. So he’s done everything in his power to learn about mer people (what little there is known) to be able to properly track down and capture this mer.

One stormy night he is disturbed from his slumber, called to the deck for help and soon enough he sees the cause for alarm - a mer has been caught in their nets while the storm tossed it about. And of course its not just any mer, it’s the mer. Keith, being Keith, does what he can in the moment - he attempts to cut the nets free of the ship (after all, this is HIS mer to catch), but not a moment after succeeding in his attempt, the sloshing throws him overboard, and soon enough, he falls prey to the violent crashing of waves, sending him into a chilly darkness.

When he awakens, he finds himself on a shore, and soon enough he realizes its an island - he is in fact, marooned. He does what he knows he should first- look for sources of fresh water and food. He has some luck with the food, though not so much with the water (that has him concerned but not entirely hopeless). In his wanderings about the island, he finds that he is not alone. The merman is there with him, which would be a curious thing, were it not for the nets he’s still tangled in and a wide gash across his back. He attempts to approach to appraise the damage more closely, but is met with the hostile hissing of the merman. Keith does his best to try and reason with him, but he simply does not want his help

However, Keith is not really one to let things be. Never has been. He finds his own food, and a small amount of water. He offers some to the mer (who has managed to untangle himself, though still very much injured) responding with only hisses and glares. Keith leaves the food within reach. This process continues for a day or so, before the mer finally gives in and accepts the food. Keith finally asks again if he can help. The mer declines.

So this continues- Keith offers what food he can, the mer picks what he wants and leaves the rest. After a week of this, the mer disappears from his spot, and Keith assumes he’s finally left, only he is met with the mer in a different shore of the island (the one he had been spending his nights)

Now that he is mobile he seems much happier (though maybe not 100% active). He talks with Keith, and Keith cant really do much about it. He asks him things about humans, showing much more interest in humans than his first impression let on. Keith has his own burning questions, but most of them stem from all that time convincing himself he wanted to find this very mer and skin him alive.... kinda hard to imagine doing when he’s becoming much more human. Lance (as he has finally given his name) finally admits he cannot leave because he is still recovering. He can fish for small kills around the island, but he cant leave and swim out in the open ocean just yet. Keith internally feels a stone drop in his stomach. If only he had such a positive future to look forward to.

One day, Keith brings Lance a handful of oysters to feast on, and during he finds none other than a pearl tucked in the muscle of his meal. He is less ecstatic than Keith, who offers how rare and precious they are to humans. Lance gives him the pearl, which he tucks away with the scale that he keeps tucked by his heart in a small container on a string. Keith smiles quite a bit after receiving this gift, and Lance is left to feel conflicting positive emotions over it.

One sunset, after a quiet day (from Lance, he hadnt been very talkative) Keith notices him resting over by some rocks, back turned to Keith. Keith approaches and before he can keep Keith from seeing, he sees Lance is playing with a blank spot in his scales. Keith knows just what is missing but he asks whats wrong anyway. Lance is nervous but he responds: He lost a scale. He was still very young, and he saved a human from drowning - something he was scolded for back then. Interacting with humans is forbidden, but Lance wasnt about to let some kid like him die. However, while not completely unheard of for mer, losing a scale so young was not a good thing. He often felt ashamed for that blank spot in his tail - a reminder that he was missing a piece of himself - and this was just one of those times. Keith sits close and offers his condolences, and continues to say that saving someone was very kind and heroic of him - he only wishes humans were so kind to him as child. He lived most of his life as an orphan, finding a mentor only to have him leave on a ship and never return. Lance is sad to hear this. He misses his family right now, sure, but he knows he will find his way back. He will never miss them like Keith misses his. Lance might have a missing scale, but its nothing compared to the love Keith has been missing nearly all his life.

And so, tied up in the depths of Sendak ship, Keith sits with his guilt. He got Lance caught by the most ruthless hunters out there and was helpless to do anything about it. And he... he thinks that he would rather see Lance free. He’s a person, and he cares more than anyone he has ever met. He has a family. His life is worth more than anything a king could offer for his scales. He’s irreplaceable - especially to Keith. But now.. there isn’t hope. He’s stuck, and probably falling for a merman whos about to get skinned alive. He sheds a tear, hoping beyond anything that Lance somehow manages to escape.

Not a moment later, someone bursts through the door: Shiro. Keith is shocked to say the least, as is Shiro, but there really isn’t much time to spare seeing as how he’s being broken out. Keith grabs his belongings from the corner and shuffles out with him to the deck, where they emerge into the fray. Keith can see that all the mer are being kept on deck in cages, and sets off, blazing a trail through the fighting to go and free them.

He breaks through every chain, telling the mer to leave as soon as they can, he finally makes his way to Lance, who had been set apart from the others. Its closer to sendak, who is crossing swords with shiro. He slices through the chain one last time, freeing Lance, who is startled and tries to speak, but before he can, keith is being affronted by Sendak. They lock swords, Keith pushed to the rail, barely holding off. Sendak suddenly hisses - lance has picked up a sword and swiped at the back of his legs. Keith thinks this is his moment to slip from this position, but before he can move, Sendak kicks the wind out of him, and sends him overboard. He crashes into the icy waves, quickly choking on the water and struggling to find which way is up. Slowly, he chokes, he sinks, and finally, he gives into the creeping darkness. He sees a faint flash before his vision fades to black and he loses consciousness. At least, he thinks, that Lance has a chance at freedom.

To say he is surprised he opens his eyes again is an understatement. The sun glares and makes his head ache, his lungs and throat are sore and raw from the seawater, breathing is painful, but he’s alive. The sun is suddenly not so bright, and when he tries to see why- Lance is above him blocking it out. It reminds him of when he had been saved before. Lance is saying his name and it’s like an angel calling to him.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

Lance makes a confused coo “I’m pretty sure the last time, you were the one to find me.”

Keith lets out a small laugh, which is painful, so he smiles instead. “I was the child you saved. Thats what i was trying to tell you before...”. When he looks at Lance, even in his tired state he can see the wheels turning in Lance’s head. Keith sits up, to face him better.

“I didn’t know for sure until you told me you saved a human all that time ago. If you’re not convinced, I think this should be convincing enough” and he pulls his little bottle out to let it display it’s contents: the pearl, and of course, a glimmering scale, it’s beauty only rivaled by the tail it once was a part of, sitting a few feet away.

“You-”

Keith opens the bottle, and takes it out, to hold and admire in his open palm.

“For a long time, this was my only belonging. People tried to take it, to buy it from me. They told me it was worth more money than i could ever imagine, but... I could never bring myself to sell it.” He looks up then to see Lance stunned into silence. Keith smiles, in a sorrowful sort of understanding. “I’m glad I didn’t.”

He then holds his hand out to Lance, offering him the scale he said was like a missing piece of him.

Lance lifts shaky hands and settles them on Keith’s one, not touching the scale. Keith continues:

“Thank you, Lance. For saving me then, and now.”

After a long moment of silence between them (the shushing of the beach hardly audible) Lance finally speaks.

“I never thought I’d see this again,” he speaks quietly, as he stares down at his scale in Keith’s hand. “But knowing that you found it, cherished it, took care of it, and kept it safe.... I know it’s where it belongs.”

Lance gently closes Keith’s palm around the scale and kisses his knuckles. “Keep it,” Lance looks up, and when he looks into Keith’s eyes, its like he can feel his heart and soul pouring out, “and promise me you’ll think of me every once in a while.” Lance smiles rather sadly.

Gaze flicking back to his hand, where the scale lies, Keith’s heart flutters at the implication behind his action, but stutters at the thought of Lance going away forever (as the words seemed to imply). He takes a deep breath, looks back into Lance’s eyes, their depths calling to him, as though this is the only moment he will ever have to express himself. Maybe it is. His hand reaches up to caress his face, and hold his gaze.

“You’ve saved me from drowning twice. I could hardly manage to forget you before I really even knew you. I’ve been looking for you for what feels like my whole life, and now that I’ve found you... you think i could somehow manage to not think of you every day?” Keith leans in, and kisses his cheek.

“I’ll always have a piece of you here,” he brings his closed fist to his chest, “right by my heart. I am the one who should ask to be remembered.”

“Though...” his thoughts trail as he looks down at Lance’s lips, “I selfishly wish I wouldn’t have to.” Lance breaks his stunned silence, hand coming up to hold Keith’s on his cheek. “Keith....”

Keith lets out a small pained laugh as his heart constricts, removing his hand to help replace the scale to its place in the bottle, and around his neck. He looks at it fondly and softly speaks, “There is this saying we have - about finding love - ‘There are plenty of fish in the sea’ -and it’s true. There are plenty of people I could learn to love, but... the one I want is you.”

The relief Lance feels upon hearing this has his heart swelling, pushing him forward to crash their lips together. Keith is startled at first, but quickly melts into the kiss, moving to wrap his arms around Lance’s neck. They kiss until Keith feels like he’s drowning again, though this time he’s not opposed to it.

And THAT, dear anon, is why you should never be afraid to ask questions. I hope this maybe gave you a little peace, a laugh, something to stir your little klancer heart.

[chuffyfan87]

Hiding. Part 31c

Trigger warnings for discussion of abuse and assault.

-x-

"The lack of swelling is concerning as its a pretty nasty knock." Josh commented as he ran a torch across Duffy's eyes.

Charlie nodded, he glanced at Andrew who was still out of it.

"Come on Duffy, keep your eyes open for me!" Josh encouraged.

Duffy was obviously struggling with the simple request.

Josh clearly noticed something as he quickly but gently lowered Duffy to the ground and moved back slightly, pushing Charlie with him.

Before Charlie had chance to speak Duffy began to have a seizure.

Charlie began to panic further. “I shouldn’t have left her.” He muttered.

"I don't understand." Josh replied as he studied his watch to time the seizure.

“I headed back inside. I shouldn’t have. I knew Andrew would be waiting for her, it didn’t go to plan.”

"You couldn't have predicted he'd attack her in broad daylight outside a court." Josh replied, moving back towards Duffy as she began to come out of the seizure.

“Is he alive?” Charlie asked, indicating to Andrew.

"Yeh, he'll be fine. You bust his jaw pretty good though." The other paramedic replied.

“Good.” He replied.

"Duffy, can you hear me?" Josh asked her.

She mumbled incoherently.

Charlie felt sick with worry. “Duffy, darling. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.”

"Let's get her to hospital. She needs a scan to check what's going on."

Charlie nodded. He took a deep breath. They waited for a second ambulance crew, before taking both Andrew and Duffy to hospital.

After a flurry of activity at the hospital Max eventually came to find Charlie in his office about an hour later.

His fingertips stroking over a picture of him and Duffy that was on his desk. In his own little world.

"The scan results are back."

“Is she ok?”

"Given time she should be. We'll know more once she's fully conscious. She has a compressed skull fracture. The seizure complicates matters. It's not the first one she's had according to her notes."

“What? She’s had this before?” Charlie frowned, “She never mentioned it...”

"There's two prior seizures listed on her notes. One last December and then another one dating back to when she was approximately 17 years old."

“I knew about the one when she was pregnant with the twins but I didn’t know about the first.” He replied. “Can I see her?”

"Of course you can." Max replied.

“Thank you.” He whispered as he put the photograph down and followed Max.

"According to the notes she was admitted to a+e after a fall. That's when she had the first seizure." Max explained quietly.

“What kind of fall?” Charlie frowned.

"She fell from a wall."

“How high?”

"Four feet. Seems she was highly intoxicated at the time."

Charlie nodded, “Thank you.”

"You'll have to ask her for more details."

“I will.”

Max held the resus doors open for Charlie and ushered him in.

He stepped into the room. God he’d seen this room too much in the last year and a half and not just on a professional level either.

The only noise in the room was the beeps and humming of the monitors. Duffy lay on her side quietly sleeping.

Before he sat down on the chair beside the bed, he tucked her up with the blanket.

She stirred slightly at the movement but didn't awaken fully.

He sat beside her and just watched her sleeping. He’d already contacted Kate and told her what had happened.

Kate had reacted with horror and terror but he'd managed to convince her to stay at the house with the kids.

“One day, I will stop him from hurting you.” Charlie said quietly. “I’ve just not quite done that yet.”

Her fingers twitched slightly against his.

“I’m sorry I didn’t protect you... again.” He sighed.

Her fingers moved again.

“I’m sorry sweetheart.”

She poked her nail into his palm.

He swallowed hard, “Everything bad that happens is usually because of me.” He whispered sadly.

She pinched his hand.

“Ouch.” He said quietly feeling the pinch.

She was still sleeping but he could have sworn there was a tiny smile on her face.

He kissed her forehead. “I have so many things to ask you.” He whispered.

She lapsed in and out of consciousness for most of the day, the periods of lucidity increasing as the afternoon and evening wore on. She'd been moved up to a ward and settled into a side room around 6pm.

Finally around mid-morning the next day she seemed to be doing a lot better.

Charlie had reassured the boys that their mum was ok and she just needed a rest but she’d be home soon. They went to school. Charlie brought the younger 3 to see their mum. The younger two in the pram and Emily in a sling on Charlie’s back. She was giggling hysterically.

The youngster's giggles succeeded in waking her mum. Duffy groaned softly.

The twins are asleep, they’d had a feed before the walk here. Emily continued to giggle. Charlie took her out of the sling, the twins in the corner of the room. Seeing her mum, Emily began to babble.

Duffy reached her hand out towards her daughter. "What happened?" She asked.

“Andrew assaulted you. You had a seizure.” Charlie explained. Emily snuggled into her mum once in her arms.

"Oh." Her voice lacked any note of surprise at the news.

“You’re not surprised?”

Realising she'd been caught out she sighed. "No."

“Over Andrew’s assault or the seizure?”

"Both." She admitted.

“You’ve had seizures before?”

"A few times."

“Why have you never mentioned them to me before?”

"Its nothing." She shrugged.

“Yes it is!”

"It just happens when I bang my head. Doctors don't really know why. They think something about the first time must have triggered it."

“When you fell from the wall?”

"Yeh... That's right..." Her tone revealed her surprise that he knew.

“Max told me.” He sighed, “Did you accidentally fall or...”

"Did I jump?" She finished his question.

He nodded.

"Honestly?" She asked.

“Yes.”

"I'm not totally sure. I wasn't exactly myself at the time..."

He nodded. “Can I ask you a question?” He sat down on the bed facing her.

"Sure."

“Have you ever felt suicidal?”

"No." She paused for a moment. "I was a stupid kid and it keeps coming back to bite me." She sighed.

He nodded, “OK. I just wanted to make sure. Would you tell me if you were?”

"Of course." She chewed her lip. "Do you want to know about that night?"

“Please, if you’d like to talk to me?”

"I'd had a row with my mum. I stormed out the house to hang out with some friends. There was a bottle of vodka. Usual Friday night on the council estate stuff. Except this night was different..."

“What made it different?” He asked gently.

"I was really wound up. One of the lads handed me a joint, said it would calm me down. That's all I remember til I woke up in the hospital to the sound of my mum screaming blue murder."

He stroked her cheek which Emily mimicked and did the same, except she prodded her mum’s cheek and giggled. “Possible reaction to the joint?”

"Possibly. It's just my luck really - I get high once and all it gets me is a twisted ankle, broken wrist, concussion and intermittent seizures for the rest of my life. So not worth it!"

“No.” He stroked her cheek again. “I’ve erm... got something to tell you.”

"What?"

“I’ve had a caution from the police.”

"For yesterday?" She paused. "It was yesterday right?" She asked.

He nodded, “Yeah.”

"What was the charge?"

“Assault.”

"Please tell me that Andrew has been charged too?"

“Yes he has on this occasion.”

"What for?"

“Assault same as me.”

"So I'll be getting a visit from the police before long then?" She sighed.

“Most likely, yes. Sorry.” He kissed her forehead, “I broke his jaw.”

"Charlie!"

“I was angry.” He looked down, “He was going to rape you! You think I was going to let that happen again to you?”

"It wasn't your fault."

“Yes it was. I shouldn’t have left you.”

"I'm a big girl Charlie."

He sighed. “I know.” He paused, “I’m not sorry I broke his jaw. If it was up to me, I’d have killed him.”

"Oh Charlie..." She sighed.

He sighed, “I know you’re probably ashamed of me right now.”

"You had the best of intentions."

He still didn’t make eye contact with her.

"Charlie, please..!"

He looked up and caught her gaze, “I’m sorry.”

"For protecting me?"

“No because I don’t want you to think I’m just like Andrew.”

"I know you're nothing like him."

“Even if sometimes I lose my temper?”

"We all lose our temper from time to time Charlie."

He nodded, “Again, I’m sorry.” He kissed her tenderly. “How are you feeling?”

"I'll be OK. It's you I'm worried about."

[ewatsonia]

Friends on the Other Side

The absurd multiverse that is the bnha au will never die. Terrifying Universe Ian has some words with Luke. [Ao3 Version]

The moment he walked into his dorm room, a gut feeling told Luke he’d made a mistake. The room was the same as he’d left it before going to class, everything was in its proper place, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.  He took a deep breath in and he could just feel it in his lungs.

Luke trusted his instincts, he needed to leave.

He spun on his heel and turned around. He reached for the doorknob.

The door opened and Luke’s entire world was pain. He clamped his hands over his ears as they filled with an overwhelming uproar of static and ringing.

A tickle and numbness slowly spread across his chest, but when he tried coughing it away all the air was replaced with pins and needles stabbing into his lungs and he collapsed to his knees hacking and wheezing, trying to get them out of there but succeeding only in hurting his throat.

The static in his ears died down, and he heard the door shut with a gentle thud. Luke looked in that direction and saw a pair of sneakers, heard a small chuckle.

“Well that was stupid.” said a familiar distorted voice that made it even harder for Luke to breathe.

Against his better judgement, even though he knows what he’s going to see, Luke lifted his head up.

Leaning against the door, arms crossed loosely and oh so casual, like he still lived here, was Ian. He wore a cruel smirk and his eyes were dark voids with television snow dancing behind them. He stared down Luke like a cat about to pounce on a mouse.

“Hello Luke.”  he said, grinning wider. Between blinks, Ian’s eyes returned to normal and he took in his surroundings. There was still no light in them. “Haven’t been here in a while...I see you kept my side of the room the same, I’m flattered.”

Another weak cough escaped Luke, but he could feel the pins and needles fading. He slowly pulled himself off the ground, begging for air.

Air. He could breathe now, which also meant he could sing.

Even with everything Ian had done now, a pang of preemptive guilt shot through Luke. He’d never dreamed of using his powers to hypnotize one of his friends but he had to remind himself Ian wasn’t his friend anymore. He breathed in. “You-”

The pins and needles were back, worse than before, knocking Luke onto all fours. The only thing out of Luke’s mouth was another round of coughing and pinpricks of blood and saliva.

“Now now, no need to use your quirk.” Ian scolded, squatting down in front of him. He chuckled at his ex-friend’s plight. “Did you really think I didn’t see that coming Luke? We both know I’m smarter than that.”

His one chance at an upper hand ripped away from him, Luke trembled and held his head down. All the training, all the strategies were escaping him. He was completely at Ian’s mercy and he didn’t know what to do.  His mind flashed to a battle not that long ago, Ian viciously tearing through other villains, lightning from Ian’s blood lust cracking at Jimmy’s fingertips as he turned to his former club mates.

“Nobody touches Hidden Block but me!”

Chills swept down Luke’s spine. What was Ian going to do to him?

An arm reached down and spindly fingers grabbed Luke by the chin. He fought back a wince and Ian tilted it up, forcing Luke to meet his gaze. Ian’s eyes narrowed and he studied him with curiosity dancing them. They widened with realization and Ian laughed.

“You’re scared of me.”

Luke said nothing—he wouldn’t dream of it even if he could—but internally he agreed. He hated that he did, and he hated how smug Ian was about it. How had one of his best friends turned into this?

Ian let go of Luke’s chin and got up, looming over him. “There’s an easy way to fix that though. ”

Luke was still as a statue, tensing up to keep himself from shaking. He was a hero. It was going to be his job someday to fight villains far scarier than this. He needed to be calm in the face of it all, even if every fiber of his being wanted to give in to his feelings and tremble. The villain being an old friend didn’t change that.

“Join me.”

A hand extended down towards Luke, an offer to help him up. Luke stared at it, lifting his eyebrows and mouth dropping open. Was Ian for real?  After everything that had happened, did he expect Luke to take that hand?

He directed his disbelief at Ian and shook his head.

“Come on Luke…” Ian coaxed, not moving his hand an inch, because yes, he did expect Luke to take it. “Don’t be difficult. Don’t make me do this the hard way. Do you really want to keep this up? Fighting with an old friend you know will beat you every time?”

Luke clenched his teeth, trying to ignore the flashes of battles that corroborated Ian’s point.  

“It gets old for me too you know.” Ian pulled the hand back and crossed his arms, prowling around Luke, daring him to move with a predatory gleam in his eye. This was fun for him. “I don’t want to fight, I want us to be friends. I want us to work together again, I miss that.”

“Some day the heroes are going to lose Luke, for good. I’d hate to see you wasting your talents being one of them. After all…”  Ian crouched in front of Luke again, getting in close.

A smile missing the earlier malice spread across Ian’s face, an echo of his old self that was painful to look at. “Heroes don’t hypnotize people, and don’t you want the world to hear your music?”

Pangs of hurt hit Luke right in the heart, hearing words he’d spoken to Ian in moments of vulnerability thrown back at him as a weapon. That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t fair. Tears crept into the corners of his eyes out of his control.

“Say something. Without your Quirk.”

Even knowing his wasn’t particularly threatening, Luke glared. “You’re out of your freaking mind. I’m not joining you, not in a million years.”

The distortion in Ian’s voice picked up in a way Luke had scarce heard before. “You might wanna reconsider that answer.”  

“No!” barked Luke.

There was a growl of annoyance at Luke’s defiance and with it came the static again, filling his ears, crackling and stabbing Luke’s lungs from the inside out. They started to feel numb, and he gasped for air that did nothing for him.

“You’re not leaving this room unless you say yes!”  Ian screeched, voice layered over itself in different pitches, so loud that it should’ve been audible to the rest of the building. For a moment, Luke had a glimmer of hope that it would attract someone’s attention and they’d come to help him.

But nobody came.

The tears in his eyes spilled over in pain as Luke coughed and wretched, trying to clear his lungs and breathe but it felt like the presence of the Void only got stronger the more and more he fought. His vision dimmed and red flashed behind closed eyelids with each cough. They opened when he realized something was coming out of his mouth, though no relief was carried with it.

A large splotch of blood stained the carpet in front of him, and more dripped from his mouth.

A moment of clarity allowed Luke to catch a breath.

He did what his instincts screamed, and charged to tackle Ian. In the back of his head he knew Ian had been one of the best hand-to-hand combatants in their year and this was incredibly stupid. But it was fight or flight, and he had nowhere to run.

It caught Ian off guard, and he stumbled back into the door, reeling from the sudden attack. His eyes were wide. Luke had the upper hand for just a moment. The moment didn’t last.

Luke struggled as Ian twisted the situation to his favor, using their proximity to grab him. He lifted Luke up and into a hold with one arm tight around his chest, impeding his breathing further, and the other hand gripping the bottom of his chin.

A slight movement from Ian and Luke’s neck would snap.

"I've not seen such bravery-too bad you're wasting it on the wrong side." Ian whispered in Luke’s ear. The hand on Luke’s chin twitched and nudged, just the slightest bit, like it was aching to move more.

Oh my god I’m going to die.

Tears streamed down his face and his breathing turning into choked sobs. His heart was practically beating out of his chest that still stung with lingering static. Luke was only sixteen, but this was it. He closed his eyes, waiting, wondering if this fate was a better than one spent with the villain alliance.

It had to be. Anything was better than that, and in his last moments Luke wished Ian could’ve realized the same thing. Luke wanted them on the same side just as much as Ian did...just not the one Ian was thinking.

Then Ian dropped him, letting Luke fall face down onto the ground with a thud.

Luke could hear Ian’s footsteps. He kept his eyes closed, figuring that maybe Ian had just decided that snapping his neck wasn’t fun enough. He half expected to feel the pressure of Ian’s shoe on his back. Nothing of the sort happened and Luke noted that it sounded like Ian was stepping back.

Hesitantly, Luke peered back over his shoulder.

Ian’s shoulders were slack, making himself look smaller. His hands were open and in front of him, very still. His eyes went back to normal and the presence of the Void was fading from the room.

"I wasn't going to...I just want us on the same side."

Slowly, projecting all his movements, Ian went to the door, opened it, and slipped behind it. There was a flash of intensity from the Void, until the door shut again and Ian took it with him.

Breathing clearly for the first time since Ian had gotten there, Luke picked himself off the ground. Nothing but sweet, sweet air filled his lungs now, but his throat still burned, raw and torn up. Luke’s head was still light too. He needed to get out of his room and get to the nurse.

Cautiously, Luke opened the door, afraid of a repeat of earlier. There was no onslaught of static this time, and he sighed with relief when he saw the hallway outside his room. He had a feeling it hadn’t been there for a while.

He made it all but a few steps before consciousness started to slip from him and he went crashing down to the wood floor of the hall.

Distantly, he heard someone asking if he was okay before he blacked out.

[flyswhumpcenter]

Bad Things Happen Bingo! The event where you send me I give myself self-indulgent requests according to this marvelous card!

Me? Writing for ideas that was trendy a decade ago and have been done to death since then? Of course! Originality is sin after all, amirite? (Of course not, but y’know.. Gotta ironize on my lack of creativity sometimes)

Also the title was gonna be deep and stuff but in the end it’s just a shitty pun with myself m8

Weeping Angel

Summary: As proud as she is of her ability to mostly prevent her emotions for taking over her when she assists operating on a patient or dealing with stressful situations, there is one time where Angie really thought the world was out to get her and extract out of her unwanted tears. Stressed, anxious and terrified, everything is there for disaster... or is it?

Fandom: Trauma Cebter (Second Opinion timeline) Ships: Implied Derek/Angie

Wordcount: 2.2K words

Event hosted by @badthingshappenbingo

AO3 version available here.

Angie didn’t cry.

 A professional needed to keep their emotions to themselves. One of the first lessons a nurse learns is not to get her feelings overwhelm her to the point of being unresponsive, if not useless, in the line of medicine and saving lives. The stress coming with the vocation of saving lives was natural and almost coming with any important positions, making it so the surgeon and their assistant had to always be sharp, focused and keen. Emotions disturbed the process by making one more vulnerable to outside elements and their own psyche. However, no mistake was allowed, in the OR, and she knew that perfectly.

Well, “perfectly” may have been an overstatement.

In all truths, Angie had let herself get consumed by her feelings once before. It was in a darker time, in more sombre settings in her life, readjusting to a new life and social circle. She had panicked because, for the first time, someone’s life was in her hands, yet her hands couldn’t do anything about it because her mind had blanked as soon as she saw the patient flatlining. He had saved the man’s life and her job, back there, had extracted her from the depths of her streams of consciousness overflowing from their beds.

 Angie was rather obsessed with trying not to cry, she supposed. From a young age, seeing her father leave her mother and her behind with no given motive or reason had broken her heart, a gesture that must have had an impact somewhere in her want to look invulnerable, unbreakable. She had fixed herself with time, discovering where her father had gone and what he had been up to, his want to repent himself having somewhat comforted her into believing in the world again. Perhaps that fix had been a bad idea, in hindsight, as it was now her biggest flaw as an individual who saved lives daily.

Despite having that obsession with never crying, her emotions usually got the better of her. If she was angry, she’d act upon it, sometimes yell and more often than not for bad reasons or too harshly for the situation. If she was nervous, she’d lash out more easily, no matter the reason. If she was happy, she’d be grinning and more tolerant, even with the dashes of impatience she’d sometimes experience. She was born too emotional, she’d suppose, but she had also trained herself to be able to endure stress, anxiety and fear, how to get over herself and focus on what was for the greater good.

 With the GUILT worldwide crisis hitting the USA and later on the rest of the planet, Angie had to strengthen her grip over her own feelings even further, to the point of pretending to herself that she was almost a robot, someone programmed not to feel anything that wasn’t related to a surgery or any procedure. It had mostly succeeded until they had arrived in Europe, having even powered through her father almost dying on the doctor she had been assigned to and her in a Delphi facility. She had gained pride in her growing ability to master her impulses and overcoming the biggest obstacles…

…a pride she was currently gulping down, hard.

 Everything about that day of early spring in England had made her want to cry. Everything was against her. Everything had tried to rip her away from what made her happy and proud to be who she was. Everything had gone wrong in the span of instants, of eyes beating, right under the noses of everyone around her. Everything in the world had tried hurting everything and everyone she had ever loved, in a way, but this day took the cake. Everything had turned against her today. Everything.

She knew whining to herself – cry pity upon herself – was as useless as trying to save someone from blood loss with a piece of bread to absorb the haemorrhage. The only thing she could do to fix anything to a drastic situation wasn’t even direct, yet still remained in her hands, her skills, her experience not as a person but as a nurse: assist someone who could handle the task of saving someone from the sharpest claws of death, the trap humanity had set upon itself in Greek letters from days long gone.

In short, she was useless for the time being.

 First flap of a butterfly’s wings: how had she not seen it coming? Every single aspect of the Tetarti patient had looked wrong at best and utterly suspicious at worse. A specifically contagious case of Tetarti? How could that doctor have been so sure about that? How could he have been right of that, how could have something like that slipped from everyone’s vigilance and carefulness? That hadn’t made sense from square one and yet she, someone who claimed to have sharp eyes and to have a never-ceasing attention paid to detail, hadn’t suspected anything!

The signs kept showing up, more and more, until her own throat had been strangled by her doubts, worries and concerns. At first, it had been for the patient: despite the number of cases of GUILT they had treated together, the spectre of the late Mr Anderson still floated on her mind as she thought to herself “never again”. Failure was still and had always been a possibility. However, her eyes had quickly shifted to Derek and how… weird he seemed. It was as if, as soon as the operation had begun, his own attention span had decreased and, by the end of the procedure, she almost prayed for him not to stab the serum blindly into the patient’s liver, noticing his hands trembling more and more as minutes flew by.

 Second sign: Derek, in his entirety.

Sure, they had been colleague for the great time span of a year. That wasn’t much, all things considered, but when you fought against a worldwide menace trying to claim hundreds if not thousands of lives daily, you were bound to create strong bonds with the people you spent almost each of your conscious moments with. She’d evidently feel close to the man she had assisted throughout so much operations, cases and life stories they had allowed to continue for days, weeks, months, years longer. She didn’t see herself without him, at least not for a while, not when that quest for global health hadn’t been fully completed.

She couldn’t bear to lose him or even consider the risk of such a thing. Her mind had been so set on the fact they’d always be all right that, as soon as he showed signs of fatigue or coming down with something on that operation, seeming more and more disoriented until he’d reply with a considerable jetlag, she internally panicked and there went her first want to cry. She was worried and it only worsened when, seemingly out of nowhere, his hand had started clawing into his chest and he had emitted a cry of pain, struggling to breathe properly as he collapsed to the ground for the second time since they had known each other.

To that, more tears threatened to spill out from her eyes.

 Third time: the diagnostic. The situation had been tensed and, like every time she was tense, Angie felt the urge to cry, let out some of her growing anxiety. Compared to the predicament she had found herself suddenly thrown in, every single other stress she had experienced on the GUILT scene was nothing, everything felt different and threatening to touch. A thousand negative questions pestered her mind: what if the procedure failed? What if it was too much strain on Derek’s body and that it’d give out? What if it was some kind of new strain of GUILT they had never heard from?

The diagnosis hadn’t failed to provide her with more reasons to cry. One could even say with iron certainty that it had made it even worse. In the past year, Derek and she had never operated on more than one strain of Delphi’s favourite bioweapon at the same time. While Dr Kimishima seemed far less anxious than she was, almost as if she had gone through that kind of procedure before, Angie was losing the ground under her feet: how was one supposed to deal with that? What if one of the strains went rogue and that it was too late to fight it? She wanted to cry already: seeing the two different patterns draw themselves on the chiral test simply was one more stab in her chest bleeding in worry all over the place.

Despite her best efforts to stop them, the tears exited when she heard what the two strains were and where they happened to be festering: Kyriaki, Paraskevi, the heart. The symbolism behind the infection was a sick joke all in itself, obviously, but the risk was there. Paraskevi was a one-hit death arrow on that zone, unlike all other operations on it they had treated before. They had fought against it flowing to the heart of their patients, and yet she couldn’t have done anything to stop the worm from reaching her dearest friend’s most vital organ. Something was off, something was wrong, but she managed to keep herself together as much as possible as Naomi told her to calm down. Words of wisdom went through her head at last, reminding her to stabilize herself at once.

 The procedure in itself was tense. No error would be spared on Dr Kimishima’s behalf, making Angie go back as much as possible to her robotic mode. Tool after tool, she checked the vitals, subconsciously filling a syringe with stabilizer every time she saw the numbers on their screen drop significantly, afraid 50 would turn into a 0 before they’d know it. No tear was allowed in the operating room, so she kept them all to herself, vision blurring slightly at times, but never failing her. She was too tense to let herself go from the reflexes keeping Derek in the realm of the living until something’d go terribly, terribly wrong.

By the time Naomi sutured the last Kyriaki slash and closed the patient’s torso, Angie wasn’t sure if she was still technically human. All her emotions made sure to crash back on her like a tall wave on an unsuspecting beach when the wound was closed and a gurney had left the room. Sniffling pathetically as the last patient of the day left the room, taking down her mask but still biting her lip in a hope not to melt into tears on the spot, she still thought she had words to say before she could allow herself to cry in the private jurisdiction of Derek’s very-much-unexpected temporary bedroom.

 “…Thank you… (Her voice sounded terrible, as expected, full of sorrow and trembling in her vocal cords). Naomi.”

She barely lifted her eyes to see the surgeon smirk gently.

“I was just doing my job; no need to thank me.”

Her expression did change to something more emphatic, if not sympathetic, as she seemed to study the nurse’s face and body expressions, cancelling Angie’s efforts to look presentable and not shed all the tears she had stored inside of herself for too long, rubbing her eyes as if that was going to make anything better.

“…But, why would you want to hide your tears from him?”

Naomi’s voice had shifted to what sounded like genuine concern and curiosity, all the while she eyed the door to the OR.

“You think he doesn’t already know? The man deserves to know how you feel.”

 In a way, Naomi was right. For how close they were, Angie had never fully allowed to express what she thought in front of Derek, even if it was in private, and that pained her to realize. He wasn’t just anyone, far from it… but, on another hand, did she really want him to see how ugly she was when she cried? Did she wanted anyone to see her cry? Of course not, but nobody does. It was this strange paradox of feeling comfortable enough to cry in front of someone, but never allowing oneself to do it because of shame or not wanting to show one’s weaknesses and vulnerabilities.

Moreover, did he really need to see that when he’d be recovering from almost dying to two dangerous parasites sitting on his heart for who knew how long? Asking herself the question, she still made her way to his room, keeping the water from dripping to the floor as much as possible, albeit her hiccups betrayed her enough for the local nurses passing by in the corridors to turn their heads to her in confusion or concern.

 In the end, she crashed in a chair put at the side of her dearest friend’s bed as she realized the phrase “dearest friend” didn’t quite fit him anymore. Her chest heaving, Angie looked at the man sleeping through her worries and the noise of the outside world, wondering what could have happened would Naomi not have been there, would have they failed; but her brain locked itself and stopped providing her with information she thought she desperately needed despite the interrogations constantly nagging at her brain.

In a moment where she allowed herself to show her weaknesses in front of him, Angie cried in fear, anxiety, stress and relief all at once, because nobody would see her cry except for herself.

[bluewatsons]

Simon Hattenstone, Mike Tyson: 'I'm ashamed of so many things I've done, The Guardian (March 20, 2009)

The temperature seems to drop by 20 degrees when Mike Tyson and his minders enter the room. "Have I got to be nice to this guy?" he asks the film-maker James Toback. "No," Toback replies. "You can be as hostile as you like."

Yet Tyson doesn't seem to have the energy to muster up much hostility. He is wearing a baggy pinstripe suit that fails to disguise what's going on underneath. His belly squeezes out of his black shirt, and he can barely drag his size 15 feet along with him. His almost-beard, white flecked, is more oversight than design. His head slumps to the side as if his massive pit bull neck can't quite bear its weight. Everything is such an effort. He speaks quietly, lethargically, like a man who has been on a heavy dose of antidepressants for too long. His Maori facial tattoo, once so warrior-like, looks benign today. He could be Lennie in Of Mice And Men, the half-gentle giant who strokes the things he loves to death.

"Hello, legend," I say. Tyson looks confused, uneasy, says he doesn't take compliments well. But, for good or bad, Mike Tyson is a legend. Many experts would argue that he was the greatest heavyweight boxing champion - or at least should have been. Sure, he didn't have Muhammad Ali's wit or grace, but as a knockout puncher, none could match Iron Mike. He won his first 19 professional fights by a knockout, he was the youngest world heavyweight champion at 20, unbeaten in three years, so far ahead of the pack that there were no rivals. Then things started to go wrong.

His wife, the actor Robin Givens, went on television in 1988 alongside him and announced that he was a terrifying manic depressive and that their marriage was pure hell. In 1990 he lost his first fight to 42-1 underdog Buster Douglas. He'd become lazy and complacent, seduced by alcohol and drugs. In 1992 he was convicted of rape and deviant sexual misconduct, and served three years in jail. It should have destroyed him, and he might well argue that it did, but, amazingly, within a year of his release he regained his world title. Then, once again, he chucked it all away.

Since retiring four years ago, Tyson has done little with his life. He has boxed in a few exhibitions, put on more weight, got in trouble with the law again: in 2007, he was convicted of drink-driving after almost crashing into a police car. Three bags of cocaine were found on him, and he was given a day in jail, three years' probation and ordered into rehab. That is when Toback, an old friend, asked Tyson, now 42, if he could make a film about his life.

The result is extraordinary - pretty much a 90-minute monologue, some of it stream of consciousness. What emerges is a man who finds it impossible to censor himself. He talks vividly about growing up with a promiscuous mother who might have been a prostitute and about a father he never knew, stealing drugs from dealers as a 12-year-old, detention centre and being taken under the wing of the boxing coach Cus D'Amato, all while he was barely into his teens. Tyson is not a man who went off the rails. He was born on the skids. Somehow, and all too briefly, he managed to transcend his traumatic destiny

We arrange to meet in the Hollywood Hills at the opulent house of another film-maker friend, Brett Ratner. There are Warhols in the loo, Bacons in the kitchen, Giacomettis on the sideboard, Toback at the centre of the conversation, but as yet no Tyson. "We could be here a while - Mike's been held up." Toback and his entourage grin at each other. It's not the first time the boxer has delayed them.

Toback is disarmingly honest about why Tyson makes such a great subject. "The movie is like the aftermath of an earthquake. It's Mike standing there amid the rubble and wondering why he has survived. Ultimately, what I feel comes through is a struggle to justify his continuing existence because the highlights of his life are gone. Usually tragedy ends in death, but here's a tragic figure who has survived. And now that I'm here, what do I do?"

Their friendship goes back 23 years. Toback, an experimental film-maker obsessed with all things sexual, had just finished making The Pick-Up Artist with Robert Downey Jr when Tyson popped into the wrap party. "He was 18, hadn't become world champion yet. He'd heard about the orgies in [American footballer] Jim Brown's house and he was like, 'Tell me about those orgies.'" Then there were the acid trips. Toback felt that young Tyson was almost too curious.

Tyson arrives a couple of hours late. Years ago, there would have been dozens in his entourage, now there are only three. One stands over me, legs splayed, eyeballing me as I talk to Tyson. It's intimidating, but also quite funny - rather than protecting Tyson, he seems to be making sure I don't escape. It's a hot winter's day in LA. We are in the garden, the sun is beating and a rivulet of sweat is running down Tyson's nose. I ask what he has learned about himself from the film.

"When I watched it alone, I realised why people had certain opinions about me. When I was upset, I got upset like everybody else, but I'm an extremist, so when I got upset, I took it to the next level. I took it to the level of being almost violently upset. And I realise, if I was sitting next to that guy, he'd make me nervous. That guy was impulsive. Unpredictable." He wants to believe - he has to believe - that is the old Tyson.

What shocked him most? "I thought I was a dick when I was crying." This is Tyson the macho man speaking, wary of losing face in front of his buddies. But that's one of the most moving moments in the film, I say - he's talking about how he was bullied as a boy. "Well, that's your opinion, of course. Only." He talks quietly, with that familiar lisp, but the answer carries a hint of menace.

As a boy, Tyson was small, fat and bespectacled, weak with asthma and alone but for the pigeons he bought with stolen money. When kids picked on him, he just ran away. One day an older bully took one of his pigeons and popped its neck in front of him. That was the first time Tyson hit out. He surprised himself because he was good at fighting, enjoyed it, found it empowering. After that, he says, people wanted to be his friend.

"I'm a good guy, I'm a good brother. There's nothing wrong with me. Just don't push me too far, you know. I'm sure everyone has a breaking point in their lives." It's hard to know whether he's addressing the old bullies or me. Tyson's speech has a hypnotic, incantatory rhythm to it.

It was D'Amato who transformed his life. After being picked up by police at 12 with $1,500 in his pockets, Tyson was sent to a detention centre, where he learned to box. On his release he was put in touch with D'Amato, a Bronx-born coach in his 70s who had discovered Rocky Marciano and Floyd Patterson. D'Amato welcomed him into his home, fed him, educated him, trained him, disciplined him, loved him. Tyson had never known anybody like this. The two became inseparable.

"Me and Cus were two megalomaniacs sitting there talking about our future, what we could do. You understand? Two guys - we didn't have anything - talking about what we could do. I imagine myself being 13, 14, watching a great fighter fight, talking about why he is a great fighter, and asking Cus, 'Cus, how could I beat that guy if I was to fight him? What would you tell me to do to beat that guy?' " D'Amato told him that becoming a champion was more a mental and spiritual discipline than a physical one.

In 1982, aged 14, Tyson went to the junior Olympics and broke any number of records, including the fastest knockout (eight seconds). D'Amato told him he needn't worry about being bullied again, and Tyson knew he was right. He chokes on his tears. "Coz I knew I would fuckin' kill them if they fucked with me."

The most important thing he learned, he says, is that he wasn't dependent on others for his survival. "I didn't need to take the handouts. It was just psychological motivation, refusing to accept what you had always accepted, refusing to accept welfare, refusing to accept being bullied any more, refusing to live your life unlawfully." As he talks, the who man minutes ago was paralysed by uncertainty radiates a frightening conviction. "I took it to extreme levels. Success is something you work hard at, you put your nose to the grindstone and you do everything you can. You're hungry, you're grinding, and you're still not guaranteed success. So I took it to another level. I said, I'm going to die to get this. I'm going to dedicate my whole life to it. Second place is not going to do it, I'm going to be champion. And being champion is not going to do it, I have to be the champion that nobody will ever forget to the end of this planet."

Millions dream of being champion. Did it feel good being one of the few who succeeded? The diffidence returns: "That's where it gets complex. It gets tricky. I think anybody can do it because I don't think much of myself. I think if I can do it, anybody can do it." The trouble is, he says, he hears so many voices in his head, and they are so often at war with each other.

I ask if he feels more pride for the great things he achieved or shame for the bad things. "I don't know. Both become irrelevant. By thinking about the bad things, I start to feel really low and depressed. When I start to think about the good things, I just get pride and egotistical. So I try to leave them both alone."

Maybe the great tragedy in Tyson's life is that by the time he became world champion, D'Amato had died. He lost his moral compass and found himself surrounded by acolytes who encouraged his excess. He bought houses by the dozen, he had more than 130 cars, he bought lavish gifts (usually cars and jewellery) for women who had sweet-talked him for a couple of minutes. At his peak, he could command $30m for a night's work, and he earned more than $300m in his career. By 2003, he was bankrupt.

Now, he worries the film might be too successful and he will end up with "too much money and pussy" again. "It's pretty dangerous. I become accustomed to it." He has either had no money or a ridiculous amount in his life, and he feels safer with none. Does he miss the drama of his old life? "No, I was addicted to drama."

In the film he calls Desiree Washington, the woman he was convicted of raping, "that wretched swine of a woman" and insists he was not guilty.

Yet he talks explicitly, often alarmingly, about his sexual preferences and how he has treated women. "I like strong women, not necessarily masculine women, say a woman who runs an organisation, I like a woman with massive confidence and then I want to dominate her sexually. I like to watch her like a tiger watches their prey after they wound them. I want her to keep her distance for at least 20-30 minutes before I devour them and take them to the point of ecstasy. I love saying no when making love. What I want is extreme. Normally what they want is not as extreme as what I want. I want to ravish them. Completely... I may have taken advantage of women before, but I never took advantage of her [Washington]."

At times Tyson paints himself as a victim - of circumstance, of liggers, of women on the make - but in the end he says he has nobody to blame but himself. I say that the strength of the film is he doesn't absolve himself: "You say you didn't do the rape, but you did some bad things to women."

"I know. The fact is, I'm not trying to win no friends. I don't want you to think I'm doing this to try to get a clean-up job, or I want people to like me. I don't care." It's true, you don't feel he's trying to pull the wool over your eyes.

Tyson shakes his troubled head. "No... sometimes my mind tells me, you think you've got these white people fooled, that they like you - you're a fucking fraud." Now he's talking with visceral intensity. "My mind is not my friend: 'You're a fraud, you're trying to fool these white people.' And I have to contain that. That's the addict talking. That's the guy who wants to get high. The guy who wants to drink the Hennessy, the guy who wants to gallivant in the street with a bunch of crude women, that's that guy talking right now. That's not you talking, Mike."

He pauses, the sweat dripping from his head. "When you go to a doctor or a psychiatrist, and they say, 'Do you hear voices?' of course we say no, because if you say, I hear voices, they go, 'Have that guy straitjacketed' and you go to hospital. But we do hear voices. Our mind does tell us things. So your mind is not your friend if you don't discipline it and control it." He tries hard now to filter his thoughts, but he worries that it's a form of lying. Thankfully, he says, he doesn't have the same intensity of feeling any more. Maybe the antidepressants have made things easier. In 2001, he told reporters, "I'm on the Zoloft to keep me from killing y'all."

When Tyson went into rehab in 2007, he admitted being addicted to cocaine and alcohol. "I'll never beat that. That's going to be a till-the-day-I-die job. That's an inside job. Nothing to do with anything else. That's just a disease I have received hereditarily."

"Simon, keep the questions to the movie," says a minder. "We don't want to talk about stuff."

"OK, I'm sorry," Tyson replies meekly, but then goes on to ignore him. "Listen, I'll talk about anything. I'm not ashamed of who I am. I understand I've got to be sold in a certain way, but I'm not ashamed of anything I've done in my life. After all, my journey, I know who I am. And I'm cool with who I am." For a second, he believes it.

But there are so many incidents in his life that he knows he can't begin to justify. On his release from prison in 1995, by now a Muslim with the name Malik Abdul Aziz and his body tattooed with images of Mao and Che Guevara, he launched the following tirade on a reporter who suggested he should be in a straitjacket. "I'll put your mother in a straitjacket, you punk-ass white boy. Come here and tell me that, and I'll fuck you in your ass, you punk white boy, you faggot... I'll eat your asshole alive, you bitch... You scared, coward, you're not man enough to fuck with me, you can't last two minutes in my world, bitch. Look at you, scared now, you ho. Scared like a little white pussy, scared of the real man. I'll fuck you till you love me, faggot." It didn't help his protestations of innocence.

After being headbutted by Evander Holyfield in 1997, he bit off part of the boxer's ear in the rematch seven months later and spat it out into the ring. Tyson was fined a maximum $3m and had his licence revoked. But boxing needed Tyson as much as he needed boxing, and a year later he was given a final opportunity. By now, though, he had lost the pace, accuracy and hunger. His sense of fair play had also gone for a burton. In 1999, he was accused of trying to break Frans Botha's arms in the ring. That same year he was sentenced to a year's imprisonment after assaulting two motorists following a traffic accident. On his release, he fought Orlin Norris and knocked him down after the bell rang. A win in 2000 over Andrzej Golota was overturned when Tyson tested positive for marijuana. His second wife, Monica Turner, the mother of two of his six children, divorced him in 2003. In his final fight, against the journeyman boxer Kevin McBride, he was a pitiful figure - slumped in a corner, legs splayed, unable or unwilling to stand himself up. Straight afterwards, Tyson announced his retirement. "I don't have the stomach for this kind of thing any more. I don't have that ferocity. I'm not an animal any more. I'm not going to disrespect the sport by losing to this calibre of fighter."

When he talks about biting Holyfield's ear or beating up boxing promoter Don King in public, for example, he simply says he was insane.

Does he think the boxing led to that type of instability? "Boxing is nothing to do with madness, it's all about control and discipline. Madness has nothing to do with it. It's what you do with the discipline, it can drive you mad, but it depends on the individual, whether they allow it to drive them mad."

Today, Tyson lives by himself in a modest house in Las Vegas. A friend, Darryl, spends a lot of time with him and manages his affairs. His great hope for the future is that he catches up with his children, and becomes the kind of father he should have been years ago. "They never had a chance to hang out with me, like all these freeloaders did. 'Dad's an awesome guy, he's a fun guy, he's a goofy guy, he likes to make people laugh, he likes to buy gifts for people and stuff' - I never experienced that with them. I've worked hard all my life to give them a great life, and I never enjoy it with them. They get to go on all these great trips to Europe, and I should be with them."

Are they seeing a different you, the goofy guy? "I don't know - they tell me that I'm funny. Ha! I don't know. I'm just glad my 11-year-old kid doesn't have to live the life I did when I was 11."

Does he box? "Oh man, no, this guy's an erudite, he's not a boxer."

And if he got into boxing? "Let him go. There's nothing more humbling. Trust me, he'd become humble." Why? "Because it's for uniquely special individuals to do that stuff. You know, you got to strike a guy, you've got to attack the guy, but you're not mad at them, they didn't say nothing bad about your mother, then you're going and your objective is to dismantle him."

Looking back, he says, perhaps the biggest problem was achieving so much so young. "If you want to see a tragedy, just take a kid who's 19, 20 years old - some kid from the hood who's got some talent - and give them $50m. I didn't know what to do. By society's standards, you reach that level and people bow down to you. I never understood that."

Is there a danger in people treating you as a god? "No, there's a danger in that I might believe it. It's not dangerous that they say it. It depends what side of the bed I wake up on, I might believe it, then it's all downhill again, and I'm in for a big crash."

Moments later he's über-man, telling me just what made him a winner: he turned apparent disadvantages (such as his height: 5ft 11in, short for a heavyweight) into pluses (surprising challengers with his upward punching); he won fights before they started by staring out the opposition. "When you look at me, you think I'm a tough guy. I'm not a tough guy. I'm a smart guy. This is not a tough guy's sport. A tough guy gets hurt in this sport. This is a thinking man's sport. You see what happens to the tough guys; you see how they start talking, you see how they start looking. Later, they become more decrepit. This is serious stuff at the highest level. This is a brutal game."

What does he think D'Amato would say to him if he saw the film and knew how his life had panned out? " 'You swear too much!' " He grins. "I never swore in front of him."

A while later, Toback calls me over, and asks me to look at the film's trailer. It's early evening, the sun is setting and the sky is a salmon pink. The trailer is book-ended by Tyson quoting Oscar Wilde's The Ballad Of Reading Gaol:

Yet each man kills the thing he loves

By each let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

The brave man with a sword!

Tyson says it was Toback's idea to read the poem, but he is a fan of Wilde's. "Do you know who his lover was?" he asks. "The Marquess of Queensberry's son, and you know it was the Marquess of Queensberry who invented the rules of boxing. How strange is that?"

He seems exhausted. By the afternoon, by his life, by his mind, by everything. He says he thinks it is unlikely he will ever have anything to do with boxing again. I ask why he hasn't considered television commentary. He thinks some time before answering. "I am ashamed of so many of the things I have done." In boxing or in his private life? "In the ring, too."

It's not so long ago that he told me there was nothing he was ashamed of. He smiles, and points to his head, suggesting that the last thing you should ever expect from Mike Tyson is consistency. "There's a committee going on up there." And he laughs, a little desperately. "A committee! A committee going on up there! Oh God help me!"

[such-as-it-is]

The World is round - Chapter 2

There were times when Maro would climb as high as she could through the canopy of the swamp, only to be disappointed with the sight of nothing but tree tops and the hills which surrounded the swamp and kept all the water and the life forms of the swamp captives within. Never did Maro imagine the day where she would be on top of one of these hills looking across out into her freedom. Alas, that day would be today. The climb upon the mountains was a treacherous one, but nothing the young lady could not handle on her own.

So, without further ado, she made the final stretch onto the hills peak and climbed up to meet her fate. When finally she hit the peak, awaiting her was the most awe striking site she had ever witnessed to that day. Bewildered, she took a minute to take it all in, and yet another moment it realise what she was to do with it.

To the east, lay the coast of which she had planned her journey around. Taking in the ocean was something particularly difficult, for to bare witness on such a body of water without any obstructions was such a contradiction to what Maro was used too. Being raised in a swamp, meant water was everywhere, but the only idea she had of water was the one she had been given by the swamp itself.

Directly north lay grasslands. Rocky and terrain with the occasional small cliff here and there and every now and then lay a tree or some bushes.

In the very distance Maro though she could see a village. ‘That has to be my first destination’ she thought. Conveniently enough, to the west lay a thin stream that looked like it would go to the village. Maro assumed it was her best bet to follow the stream, because it did not look like the coast would take her to her newly decided temporary destination.

The northern hill face was smooth, laced with grass rather than mud and sharp rocks like on the other side. Maro took one of the large swamp leaves from her backpack and smiled as she placed it on the ground, while hopping onto it.

The ride was sensational. The wind in her her, the sun coming down on her, the rush of the speed. When Maro hit the bottom, she roared with laughter and joy until she could no longer muster any breath. A final tear was shed for Ora as she got her swag together and began her way to the stream.

‘This is no waterway...’ she thought to herself as she finally made it. It was now around midday and despite all that walking and not having eaten anything that day, she was still energised. And she was right too, this indeed was no waterway. This was a river. And if the moon could make some of the waterways in the swamp flow, then by the spirits, it could make the rivers flow. Such power presented in the water had never been seen by this young lady. She walked by the stream as it plowed through itself, causing currents so strong, it looked like it could have swept away everyone in the swamp all at once.

After walking along side of it for sometime with admiration, Maro was struck with an idea. This idea which was sparked by a lone branch witnessed floating down the river at a high pace. She continued walking along the river collecting large sticks and carrying them along with her. After she deemed she had enough she separated them into two piles and tied them up with vines, along with the leaf she used to get down the hill, neatly lined up between the two piles. She had now constructed herself a little raft.

She grabbed it from either side and held it up in front of her. She took a couple of steps back, and then with a run up, she jumped into the roaring river, face first with the raft underneath her.

She let out a high pitched shriek as she hit the water and was pulled with the force of an angry parent down the river. Terrified out of her wits, her heart raced as the tips of her fingers started to ache from latching onto the raft so hard. She was too scared to keep her eyes open, but to scared to close them, ripping down the river at speeds she never even thought where possible, the world around nothing but a blur. After what seemed like an eternity of being swept away, her worst nightmare came to play before her eyes.

Rapids. Large sharp rock sticking their way in the path to try and account for a difference in land height. There was no time to think, let alone act and yet that didn’t stop Maro from letting go of the raft and waving her arms in front of her in the attempt to waterbend the raft to her will. The raft did in fact turn around, however, it kept its course the same, resulting it to smash itself directly into one of the rocks ahead. Maro was thrown as full force at the pile of sticks which bound the raft as it too was thrown onto the rocks. Large cracking noises could be heard by Maro, but the next thing she knew was total darkness.

It seemed like she was just floating around in the darkness, waiting for her to be transported into whatever came after death. And it came. In fact, in stated tugging on her legs. This made Maro uneasy and she struggled against it, but as she did so, she found that she no longer was able to breathe and starting to feel pain in her ears and nose. The pulling succeeded as she was brought out. The world once again came into focus around her. Could this be a new life? No… The river came into focus and so did the net that was stretched out across it. As she was dragged across the land she started punching and kicking the air while coughing violently.

“Calm down now… You’ll choke” said a deep male voice from above. Maro took his advice and started tried to calm down, still coughing out all the river water left in her system. She sat up and vomited into the ground. Maro tried to catch a glimpse of the person who saved her, but he was already at the river.

“This raft thing of yours in going to kill the fish!” He said with a hearty chuckle at the end as she retrieved all the tangled bits of sticks and leaf from the net.

“S-So-...” said Maro, but she was cut off.

“‘Was only fooling around. You just make sure you’re alright and get all that water out of ya” said the man who was big, burly and hairy, looking like he could have been in his late 30s. He was wearing battered, torn up clothes that were stained with dirt and filth. His hair was short and as black as the night.

“What’s going on here then?” Said another male voice from behind the the lady. She turned around to see another burly man, only taller. From the front she could see his deep brown eyes and wearing the same kind of clothes and the first man. His skin was black from drit and muck, so it’s true shade was hard to determine, although he looked to be around the same age..

“I think I found our solution” said the first man.

“What? She’s so small…”

“So is Matts. And anyway, we don’t really need a big one for this”

Maro mustered the energy to get up on her feet. As she did so she found that her chest and neck started to ache dearly.

“I’m sorry about any trouble I’ve caused. I’ll just be on my way th--” she started coughing uncontrollably. Each cough was agony to her now frail neck. The first man came closer to her.

“You’re not going anywhere in your condition” he said firmly looking up at her for he was slightly shorter than she was despite his brawn. “I insist ya come to my house. ‘ave a spare bed ya can sleep in”

Maro examined her surroundings for the first time. It now seemed like she was in the heart of the village, for there were wooden buildings everywhere and people and carts walking along a dirt road parallel to the river. Houses and shops and markets and wanderers moving around, getting on with their daily routine, but only on the east side of the lake, for that’s where the village stopped.

Maro tried to muster a reply but failed and instead collapsed on the ground losing her consciousness.

For the third time on this adventure, the world around Maro came into focus as she woke up. But this was no world, this, was a room. Softness of such as bed was unknown to Maro as she hurled her blanket onto the other side of the room and leapt out of her bed. She was feeling quite a bit better now. She examined her body to assess any damages. The first thing that came into mind was the scabs left behind on her left forearm from when she fell in the swamp. They were about healed now. On the bed Maro noticed some blood stains. Although her neck suffered the most pain, some of which was still echoing now, no exterior damage was to be found upon it. On her chest, right above her right breast, lay is whole bunch of bleeding scratches and one really deep cut leaning to her center, and to the young lady's absolute horror, there was a small thin string curling up around her cut. Eeeeek! She shuddered just looking at it. She took her hand and tugged on it to see if it would come out, but it just felt super surreal, like there was a tiny little elbow leach inside of her. She decided the best thing to do would be to just ignore it.

Blood was stained upon her silly excuse for clothes, most of which become torn and she was pretty revealed. The door creaked as she opened it. Maro took a moment to appreciate that someone had built this house while her eyes scanned their surroundings and all the details became apparent. In Maro’s entire experience, such an intricate structure was astonishing and utterly profound.

“This way honey” came a gruff female voice from the right side of the corridor. While Maro had no idea why the voice would be called for honey to come, she thought she might go and find out what the deal with that was. She walked along the narrow corridor of rosewood admiring every door she passed as she made it to a large room with a table, some chairs and the source of the voice.

“Oh dear, that river fucked you up something good” said the woman. She looked like she was in her late thirties, with a long narrow face white flushed out eyes.

“You’ve been out cold for a solid day” She continued. “Please siddown, help yourself”.

On the table there was a variety of different meats and vegetables, as well as something which Maro had only ever heard about and always wanted to eat. Bread.

It was at this point when Maro had realised how truly hungry she was. She had figured that is her body was trying to signal how hungry she was, the signal may as well have been an earthquake. Or at least, that’s how it felt. Maro quickly took a plate, and before filling it she said “Thank you so much for looking after me. If you didn't pull me out of that river I would have died”

“Hush now… Eat”

Maro smiled warmly at the woman as she started to nom on the exotic variety of a meal that was on her plate. Meats from things that she had never even seen before let alone tasted, and the warm bread which went spectacularly with the meat was treat of it’s own.

“You dropped this on your little trip here. It was the only thing in the wreckage that we could recover. This is real good quality with its oil paints… Kept the water right out” she laughed softly and put the world map on the table, still neatly sealed with it’s red ribbon.

“My name is Fay and my husband who saved you is Takip” said the strange woman. “Welcome to Forgaway. We are a small mining village a couple of days away from Omashu.”

“Mining?” said Maro with interest. But then, the door opened, and in came Takip.

“Yes mining” he said in his deep voice. How he heard what was being said, Maro would never know. His skin was now clean so Maro could see the light shade of brown that it was. He was carrying his pickaxe, which he put up on a hook next to some other pickaxes. Through the open door Maro could see more houses and brown skinned people as they walked on by. Takip closed the door and sat down.

“My name is Maro” She started with a firm voice. “I am a traveler, but I am out of money right now”. Maro thought it would be a good idea to hide her swamp origins.

“You have a very interesting way of traveling” said Takip and then Maro blushed and compressed herself in her seat.

Takip sat himself down at the table and started filling his own plate.

“And what the spirits are you wearing?” he asked, taking a good look at Maro.

“My clothes did not survive my journey here. I had to improvise on the way”

“I’ve never seen leaves so big before” said Takip

“Where are you headed to, anyway?” asked Fay

“The Northern Water Tribe” replied Maro with confidence.

“Well you can’t leave here with clothes like that…” said Fay.

“That right. You can work in the mines. We pay handsomely for good work, and there happens to be a couple of openings right now” said Takip.

“Well that sounds great!” said Maro happy that it was this easy for her to find a job. “But what’s a mine?” She asked.

Takip laughed. “From an isolated place eh? Well, mining is the start of society, you see”

“Oh spirits, not this lecture again” said Fay rolling her eyes as she ate.

Takip ignored her. “Mining is where the cycle of money starts. People receive money for providing goods and services and also give their money to receive such things as well. The mines are a large network of tunnels that we built and dig in order to obtain the precious metal from which money is formed.”

“I see. And you want me to help you dig?”

“Errrrr… No. You’re much too small for that. Mining is really tough work, even for large people like me. That’s why not everyone can do it and why not everyone can just make tonnes of money strait up. Here’s the thing though, maintaining a mine requires more than just mining it. I want you to help build the scaffolding that keeps the mine walls from collapsing. It’s just putting up wooden boards and nailing them together”

“Sounds good to me” said Maro optimistically and smiled.

“Great. You can start when you feel up to it, and stay here until then”

And so, the sun set and rose again, and a new day came. Maro got up from her blood stained bed and went with Takip into the mines and learned how to build and maintain the scaffolding of the tunnels.

“Are you sure you’re ready to start? I think you need to do a bit more recovery”

Maro agreed with Takip’s statement. “Maybe, but I’d really rather start”

“Why so eager? Rest up!”

“As much as I value your hospitality, I find it hard to swallow knowing that I haven't earned it”

All the hammering and carrying the boards and nails around was tough work for Maro. And she always tried to stay out of the way of the miners. Witnessing the earthbenders loading and carrying the minecarts along the rails was always a particular treat. She loved to observe how different earth bending was to water bending. However, she was slow at her duty and as a couple of days went by she decided she needed some over time.

When the town had gone to sleep and the moon came out, Maro rose from her bed, grabbed her torch and treaded down deep into the mines to where she was building the scaffolds. But on the way something most interesting and unexpected happened. She was at an intersection carrying some boards, nails and her hammer trying to remember which way she needed to go, when a man came up from behind her. He was startled as she quickly turned around.  

“Hello” she said wondering what his business was at this hour. He was a young man, about 3-6 years older than Maro. He had a handsome face glowing in the torchlight which hazel eyes and short hair, as black as the night. He was carrying a pickaxe.

“Do you have unfinished work here too?” She asked.

He nodded and shuffled into the middle of the 3 terminals while Maro had just remembered to take the left. Never again did she see the man in the mines nor did she never talk about it.

The days went by as Maro worked proficiently in the mines, especially now that she had a proper understanding of intricacies the carpentering work. She lived in the village like a local, always exchanging greetings with the folks and discussing gossip. She used her mine money to buy proper clothes which made her look like a true earth kingdom citizen, except for her skin tone, which was otherwise a dead giveaway. She bought a compass, and Fay had taught her how to use it. She bought a new backpack, more or less the same size of her own makeshift one, but with more compartments. Eventually she moved out of Takip and Fay’s house and started staying in an inn in the center of town, where she would pay her own board. The men and women of the village loved to spend afternoons in the inn, drinking, singing and discussing gossip. She even started to learn the names of the caravan traders who stopped by as well as the cartmen who would transport gold into Omashu in return for properly fashioned money as well as other goods. Maro once tried the ale that the villagers drank and decided she never wanted any of that again. As the nights grew older the men grew more weary but also more lively. She started to learn the songs and joined in with the songs and the conversations. She heard all sort of rumors, such as the one about the underground earth rumble pit and the one about how the mines would mine themselves and the gold piles would sometimes rise in between days. They had named the spirit which would do this for them Benyi, and they loved Benyi and treated him as their own. Of course, no one has ever seen or heard from Benyi, he was just a Forgaway Legend that was pretty new. People however had knows those who would earn some kind of respect through the illegal fights in the pit. As well as all that, she also heard news from Omashu, which was apparently a big city. They had some fire nation diplomacy issues there, but that didn’t really interest Maro and figured it wasn't a big deal anyway since the 100 year war ended before she was born. She made friends with many in Forgaway and heard many stories about the world. People who used the be soldiers and those who traveled the world seeking glory. Just like the villagers in the inn Maro grew weary and lively over the course of her stay at Forgaway. Finally the social life was hers to cherish and eventually she would be let into a local secret and got to see matches in the pit. But not once did she lose sight of her bigger picture. In fact, she started to form such bonds of the villagers that she did not want to leave, and It was at this point she realised she had to do it now. And so, she chose to leave without saying goodbye to anyone, thinking that this would be the most efficient way.

It was a sunny afternoon, similar to the one that she had came to Forgaway on. The villagers were getting along on their day and Maro, who was supposed to turn up to the mines that day had her bags packed and ready to go. She Walked along the village traveling north east until she was stopped by Takip. She stood idly just staring at him and him at her. After a long silence he finally said something. “So that’s it then? You got what you needed and you’re off now”

“Come now, it’s not like that. I couldn’t bare to say goodbye to anyone” she said.

“Don’t worry. You owe us nothing”

“No, I owe you everything” she said, tears starting to form in her eyes

“I told you many stories Maro. But there was one I neglected” He started

“Fay and I used to have a son, you see…” And so he started telling a story about a boy with hazel eyes and hair as black as night who was not quite the strongest, but what he lacked in strength, made up for in witt. Takip spoke of him as though he had died long ago but as it happened, he was excommunicated from his family for failing to live up to the expectations of his father (amongst other mistakes).

Ever since Maro came to the village she had never really stopped crying about anything. About injuries in the mine, about memories of her past and even about sad stories she would hear from the villagers. But to see Takip starting to shed tears himself was indeed unheard of. And yet here it was, happening before her.

Takip had never since seen his son again. He spoke of how taking care of Maro was his own way to making up for the fact that he failed his own son. He said that if he could take back his decision, he would do so instantly.

He told the story with such detail and emotion, that by the time he had finished up, darkness already fell on the world.

“It’s night time already. Won't you stay one more night and leave in the morning?” he said, not stuttering as he spoke anymore.

“I’m afraid I can’t bare to bring myself to see the village folk once again, Takip. I will travel through the night. But can you please do me one last favour”

“Anything”

“I think I left a beam in the east wing unstable. Could you fix it up for me before morning?”

Takip smiled. “Right away. Oh and if you ever see him, send him my way” he said as he hugged Maro and she turned around, walking off into the night, not daring to look back

[midknife]

Spinnache vol. Weight Bear

I remember walking everywhere. To me, it was meditative, the preferred mode of transport, a pleasure. I took pride in walking. It was as much a part of me as my legs which, incidentally, have almost always been strong. And time being of its ephemeral nature, I've always been aware that one day I will not be able to walk. Until then, every step is a gift. 

I touched it for the first time during a random palpatory scan of my lower extremity. I felt a slight rise on the inside of side of my left knee, just under my knee cap. Sure, it concerned me, but I tempered it with an overconfident, "I'm sure it's nothing. Perhaps a harmless calcium buildup." I let it leave my mind.

My hand couldn't forget as easily. I would routinely give a little feel; round and hard, kind of like the top third of a foosball. Over the course of months, it grew slowly and gradually. It didn't hurt and never caused any kind of loss in function. I snubbed it superficially, but not profoundly. I couldn't ignore totally because this lump in my knee was telling me something. It didn't talk. It didn't make noise. But it was there, silently eliciting a response. 

The discovery of this little thing in my knee came at a pivotal time. Before I had children, before I was married. Previously, I worked as a writer in various capacities — a career I enjoyed for the pure distilled ideas, for the fonts, for the unashamed cigarettes and late nights and creation. Near the end, though, there was very little of myself left to give. The tank was empty. I needed to significantly shift my career path to focus my energy on helping people directly to ideally contribute to a better functioning society. I decided to pursue a masters degree in occupational therapy. At that time, career prospects were good; solid jobs with suitable pay and high satisfaction abounded. 

"It's the right thing to do," I said to myself. 

I began the mental and procedural shift. It started well enough. Of course, transitioning to the world of science at a "prestigious" university had a significant learning curve, one fraught with opportunity and ego that made it slipperier than I anticipated. It was the hardest thing I'd ever done in my life. Yet, somehow, I persevered and passed. I succeeded. 

With me all along this road was still the undiagnosed concretion in my leg. Never lessening, I started to worry. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility that this could've been cancer. Worst case scenarios started clomping through my mind. 

"I'm going to lose my leg! I'm going to never walk again," I said. "What'll my kids think? I'll be only one peg up on Captain Dan." 

Thankfully, that was not the case. After multiple appointments and many x-rays, it turns out it was an osteochondroma, a common benign noncancerous overgrowth – aka. tumour – of bone and/or cartilage that often occurs at the end of a bone. In my case, it took root at the end of my left femur. While troubling, it was relatively harmless. With a sigh of relief, I had an elective surgery scheduled. 

Months passed. The tumour grew. I had a boy, got married, had another boy. My love for my family grew each day. Despite a battle with the Quebec language police and an surprisingly unwelcoming job market that lasted a year and a half, I finally was certified and employed. I had a new road. 

The surgery was cancelled and rescheduled numerous times for various reasons. I worked and I didn't. My mind wandered. My heart did, too. My hand often found the foosball. I could feel the knots in my knee tighten as if the stress of everything was concentrating on that one spot. The deep dull pain that inhabited my leg grew louder. It echoed through my bones. 

The night before the operation, I couldn't sleep. Eyes wide open 2:30 am, it was not nerves that kept me awake. It was that feeling in my gut that it just was not right. Something was not right. Not with the impending operation, you see. I was ready. Frankly, I was looking forward to getting this thing out. But the brooding feeling stationed the whole situation — it was as if I didn't quite know whose knee this was. 

In the early morning, I went in for surgery. I arrived early, taking the extra 20 minutes before admission to sit outside. The hospital in southwest Montreal is by a canal, from which one can pick up that delightfully murky, depleted ozone waft of urban waterways in early summer morning. Back inside, the anesthesiologist gave me options for pain. I chose the sedation/spinal package because he compared the initial sedation to having a half a bottle of wine. "Make it a Pinot Noir, good sir!" I joked. He said no. 

I remember the hexagonal surgical light above me. It reminded me of some impressive emerald and azure Christmas light display that rich people might have in their foyer. The papery blue curtain on my chest dividing my head from the operation below looked strange in this light. I remember remarking there were nice functional shelves in that operating room. I noticed I couldn't feel my legs. Not long after, they were smashing my leg bone with a chisel and hammer that jarred my floppy doped-up arms from the stretcher. Through my muddled consciousness, I figured this violence was the motion to ultimately dislodge the tumour on my knee from the rest of my being. 

Then the violence stopped. I vaguely remember some person sticking a clinical metal dish near my nose — a purple, wrinkly mass about two inches wide was resting on the north side of the dish, clinking as he panned it around like a walnut in a cheap frying pan. 

There it was. The little lumpy lamprey that had lived in my knee for years, riding me through this chapter in my life that made me feel foreign to myself. Now it was staring at me, still not talking. Where we'd once been connected through bone and silence, now there was distance and sound between us. 

Staring at it for less than one hazy minute, it was whisked away, gone forever. I asked to take it home, but apparently that's illegal. Instead, I like to think they examine it then they burn it. In a flighty moment, I imagined a massive ritual of fire and holy water, raging torches and pagan masks, the walls coating with oily black soot as my deathly tumour carbonized, unleashing forth biblical magnitude demons. Really, they probably just threw it on the pile of gross stuff some intern had to shovel into an industrial incinerator before skulking off to do homework. 

I woke up to the news all had gone well. Eventually, my body thawed and that brings us up to the moment, the one where I am now chopped up, knee bulging and red, with head foggy from painkillers and irregular sleep, my career at another precipice of uncertainty. 

Without going into necessary detail, the career shift did not work out. It left me with debt, anxiety, and insight. I now know the field in its formal setting was in large part unsuitable for me. In many ways, I realize now I was naïve to have blind faith in its inherent promise and my place in it. It is no fault of its own. I think I may have put too much stock it what it could accomplish for me. Perhaps I am too salted to believe everything can be good all the time. Perhaps I've seen too much to buy narrow lines anymore. Since I embarked on this career shift, the jobs have dried up everywhere but where I probably wouldn't want to be, the competition has become more fierce and wily, and it has become a buyer's market for employers. Same as it ever was, I suppose. 

In this moment, I remember I used to walk everywhere. I took pride in walking. My legs have always been strong, individually and in unison. Since I started my new career, I have had to sit more than I would have liked. Not that the tumour stopped me from walking, but it certainly didn't help — it just made it a touch more uncomfortable and worrisome. As a result, my legs have weakened. 

It makes me ask myself what else is askew. Well, I miss the love of pursuit. I miss the air of trees. I miss the freedom to say the bad and funny things in my heart. I miss spit balling. I miss jumping off cliffs and struggling to swim to shore. I miss reveling in the power I am because I feel like I had none. All of these things, in one way or another, involve my left knee. 

It's seven days post surgery. I've removed the bandage. The wound has healed nicely. It's still swollen and a little yellowish grey, but I can bend my knee and bear my weight. It's more itchy than painful. It hurts to stand. 

Russ Cooper  August 18, 2017