#Also!!!! the dehumanization of him is So Clear here

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Hear No Evil - Chapter 4

Masterlist

Previous (Chapter 3) // Next (Chapter 5) (tbd)

CW: bbu, bbu-typical institutional slavery, panic attacks, implied prior noncon, it/its pronouns used to dehumanize

Rowan was relieved to see that the boy was capable of cleaning himself up. The shower had only run for a matter of minutes, but as Rowan lingered outside the bathroom to eavesdrop – just in case he was needed - he heard the tell-tale clicks of the shampoo bottle opening and closing. Water splashed rhythmically against freshly cleaned tiles in a hum that was barely muffled by the door. Rowan waited a few painstaking minutes after the water had turned off, seizing the opportunity to practice his patience, before he knocked and reentered.

Although it was a deeply unsettling sight to see the young man kneeling naked in his bathroom, Rowan could already see that the boy’s skin was cleaner, and his wet curls still seemed lighter than when they had been coated with grease, sweat, and blood.

The shower also made clear that some of the yellow patches on the boy’s skin were not dirt, as Rowan had foolishly hoped, but near-healed bruises. Some wounds that had been scabbed over before the shower were open now, glistening red with nascent blood as the skin tried to stitch itself back together. Bright white scars danced with blue bruising, and a single drop of crimson trailed down from a recently reopened leg wound. It seemed that the boy had interpreted the instruction to clean himself up as an instruction to rub his scabs away, scrubbing at his skin until his injuries were raw.

Rowan made a note to himself to speak more clearly in the future. The next thing Rowan noticed was that the mirror was bone-dry, no signs of steam or beading water at the top of the glass. No hints of humidity hung in the air either. He felt his lip turn down in spite of himself.

“You can use hot water next time, yeah?” He offered as hopefully as he could, though his gaze was not returned. “Seriously, you can use the hot water, as hot as you can stand it. This place is great, because I only pay a flat fee for utilities. No extra charge for those long, hot showers. Feel free to sit in the hot water as long as you want. I mean, I certainly do. Anyway, you’re looking a bit cleaner now, so maybe you want to try on some of those clothes? You’ve got to be freezing after that shower. Come on, follow me back to your room.”

And the boy followed, damp hands and knees finding purchase on vinyl tiles, an unfamiliar rhythm across the condo’s floors. Rowan winced again, making sure to hide his disappointment by looking towards the ceiling. They’d have to do something about the crawling, get him back on his feet and walking with confidence. They’d also have to get him eating and drinking on his own, comfortable enough to take showers in hot water, wearing clothes by default, acting of his own will and guided by his own desires…

Rowan bit back a sigh. There was a lot to work on.

They made it back across the hall, and Rowan walked over to the file cabinet that was currently doubling as the boy’s dresser. He slid the bottom drawer open as the steady shuffle-crawl followed in behind him. Rowan’s fingers thumbed through the sweaters that he’d hastily folded just hours earlier, one after the other, a stack of cotton and polyester and sherpa promising warmth. There was a sweatshirt he remembered specifically from his clothing haul, something lined with fleece, certainly thick enough to restore a bit of warmth after a cold shower. Hands still digging through the drawer, Rowan defaulted to his rambling once again.  

“I know I set out sweatpants and a sweatshirt earlier, but there might be a warmer sweater in here. I’m going to guess you’re cold, so let’s see if-“ and as Rowan turned to look back at his guest, just to see if he was listening, his heart dropped through his stomach.

There, on the bed, the young man was presenting himself with raised hips and a carefully arched back, eyes looking up through thick eyelashes to meet Rowan’s own-

“Fuck.” Rowan gasped, and he took a step back so fast that his shoulder slammed into the filing cabinet. His hand snapped up to shield his eyes while his voice bubbled up from his chest, words coming out as an inadvertent shout. “No! Jesus Christ, no! No. Stop doing- stop doing that. Fuck, get down from there, just get down. No, we’re not doing that. I’m not going to- we’re not- just- fuck-“

Before Rowan could speak another word, the young man bolted off the bed and down to the floor, throwing himself flat against the ground so hard that the nearby furniture trembled. The sound of his bony knees hitting the ground resounded like two gunshots. In the blink of an eye, Rowan’s outburst had caused the emaciated victim to expose his scar-riddled back to the sky.

It was clear that he was waiting for Rowan to rain blows down on his skin, whether with fists or with whips, another line written in the book of abuse written for all to see. He trembled, but he was silent, utterly silent. This was routine, a punishment he’d been subjected to before. It was something the boy expected, that he waited for, that was the natural consequence to someone raising their voice.

All because Rowan had been a bit uncomfortable, and all because he couldn’t keep that discomfort to himself. He’d been given a sliver of power, a shred of influence, and he’d already resorted to screaming.

Guilt washed over Rowan just as coldly as shock had moments earlier. The sight of the boy offering himself up for punishment, moments after he’d offered himself up for use, jolted Rowan’s consciousness back into his body. He’d yelled, one of the very few thingshe wasn’t supposed to do, and had undoubtedly terrified his guest in the process. The boy’s hands were trembling where they rested, palms up, in front of him. Short gasps came from his mouth, just soft enough that they weren’t quite whimpers, but Rowan could hear the tears he was swallowing back nonetheless.

Rowan pulled in a deep breath, surprised to find that his own eyes were stinging with emotion and moisture. This was all too much. He knew what the victims endured in their abuse, he knew that he had brought a Romantic into his home, he knew all of this from when he signed the papers and looked through the PLF rehabilitation materials. But it was one thing to read the words on a page, and it was another thing to have a battered young man on his bed offering himself up for abuse.

It was the closest Rowan had come, now by himself and in his very own home, to seeing just what he’d been fighting to have dismantled all these years. It was the closest he’d been to direct complicity, to participating in the cruelty of man. It was the closest he’d been to hell on earth.

I can fix this, Rowan thought to himself, forcing another deep breath into his lungs. I have to fix this. I can smooth this over, make it better. This is what I signed up for, this is what I’m here to fix, this is what I have to deal with. I fucked up, so I have to fix it.

What better way to start than with an apology?

“I’m sorry,” Rowan hissed through his teeth as he fought to control his volume. He wasn’t going to yell again, no matter how hot the adrenaline felt in his veins. “I shouldn’t have yelled, and you’re not in trouble. You’re not in trouble, I promise, it’s all okay. You’re okay. You’re alright. Everything’s alright.” Rowan’s heart was pounding so heavily in his chest that it was hard to swallow his volume back. His head felt heavy and his hands tingled with the panic seizing his nervous system.

Yet Rowan knew that he was not the most terrified person in the room. No matter how scared he was at the seemingly impossible challenges ahead, and no matter how worried he was that he’d already ruined everything, the boy was infinitely more afraid. If his first instinct after a shower was to offer his body up for sexual abuse, and if his first instinct after a shout was to offer that body for physical abuse, there was little question as to what horrors he’d endured before this point. He hadn’t even been in Rowan’s home for more than an hour, and he had resigned himself to the service of a stranger who owned his body, who held a title to his very life. There was no sign of the defiance, or disobedience, or even displeasure. It was fluid, seamless, undeniable recognition of ownership.

The boy hadn’t moved despite Rowan’s attempted placations. A perfect pet, entirely obedient, unmoved by gentleness. This was everything WRU wanted in its output, in its products. Simultaneously, it was everything that made Rowan sick to his stomach.

After a painstaking deep breath, Rowan grabbed the clothes he wanted from the file cabinet, and took a step towards the body trembling on the floor. He kept his steps slow, movements as glacial as he could muster, hoping that the boy wouldn’t expect a blow.

“Hey, I’m coming over now, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not even going to touch you. Just-“

The boy flinched nonetheless as Rowan lowered the clothes to the floor beside his outstretched palms.

“Here,” Rowan offered, voice as soft and level as he could manage, “these are for you. To get dressed. Please, get dressed. I’m going to leave you alone now, okay? Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be back later to check in. I think we both need… a minute, yeah? A minute to take a breather. Both of us. You’re not in trouble. Just, get dressed please.”

Rowan left as quickly as he could manage, shutting the door with a soft click behind him.

---

The pet could hardly choke back its tears. What had it done wrong? Had it erred by not offering to please Master first, settled square on its knees, eyes pointed upwards and an eager, open mouth? Had it not cleaned itself well enough, hair still damp from the shower, some wounds still raw and dripping blood? Had it not seen something obvious in this room that it should have found for Master’s use instead?

But the punishment it expected for its insolence and incorrect assumptions never came. Even though it had exposed its hands and its back, opening its skin for lashes or stomping boots, no such corrections came. It hadn’t been able to make out the precise words that Master had shouted, his precise displeasure lost to the ringing in the pet’s ears, but it knew anger from the tone alone. It always knew when its master was angry.

Anger, yet no correction. Shouting, but no punishment. Nothing but a bundle of clothes dropped on the ground beside it, a clear indication that it was supposed to get dressed.

And with that, Master left, closing the door behind him. The pet was left alone to cover its shameful body and await its uncertain future.

---

Rowan wasted no time in grabbing the now-wrinkled PLF Rehabilitation Manual from where he’d placed it on top of the fridge. He knew that if he didn’t separate it from the rest of the paperwork strewn across the kitchen counters, he’d certainly lose it amidst the chaos. On top of the fridge, placed alongside the boxes of now-stale cereal, was as safe a place as any.

He leaned the small of his back against the countertop and busied himself with thumbing through the pages. His eyes flicked quickly over the table of contents, then through the section headers in the body of the document. When he read the manual earlier, he swore he’d seen a few pages dedicated to fixing a fuck-up. That’s what this was, wasn’t it? It was a fuck up of fantastic proportions. Rowan hadn’t even made it two hours before he’d yelled at the abuse victim in his second bedroom, all but screamed at him, just for doing what he’d been so thoroughly trained to do.

He was the picture of a perfect pet, and Rowan had managed to get mad at that. In the boy’s mind, he’d done exactly as he was trained, and it still hadn’t been enough for Rowan. That was going to forever be his first impression of Rowan.

Some people are just more suited for fieldwork, the voice of his past mentor echoed in his ears. Rehabilitation and recovery isn’t for everyone. Just like Greyson has found his stride working on the administrative side of the PLF, you’re doing your best work out in the field. Rehabilitation is an entirely different skillset, a skillset that some people don’t excel in, and that’s fine. Everyone’s job is important here. Your job is important even if you don’t work directly with the victims, I promise.

And yet, despite years of being aware that he was most certainly not suited for rehabilitation work, he’d taken up this cross on little more than impulse. The only one who would pay for Rowan’s ignorance and impatience was the very person who needed him the most.

For the second time since he’d purchased the boy he felt his eyes sting. The weight of this new responsibility weighed on his shoulders now more than ever. There was so much that could go wrong, so much pain and misery he could unknowingly inflict. This time it was his own uncontrollable shock, something he should have been able to swallow back. What would it be next time? His impatience? His ignorance?

Rowan swallowed back the lump in his throat as he finally found the dog-eared page he’d been looking for. He’d dog-eared it, of course, because he’d been afraid he’d have to use it.

You Lost Your Temper – Now What?

In a perfect world, we’d never lose our temper when assisting the wards in our care. Much like we might lose our temper with friends, family, or colleagues, we might likewise lose our temper with our wards.

These moments, while less than ideal, present a learning opportunity for all parties involved. For you, the guardian, it is an opportunity to model sincere apologies and create a safe space for your ward to talk about how they feel. For your ward, it is an opportunity to learn that they deserve politeness and equal treatment from others. For both guardian and ward, it is the chance to discuss communication, expectations, and mutual respect.

Should you lose your temper with a ward in your care, take the time to collect yourself and your emotions. You might be feeling upset, disappointed, or even angry with yourself. You might even be upset with your ward for the actions that triggered the incident, even if you know those actions aren’t their fault. You might be upset with a ward who tested your boundaries, or exercised their freedom and autonomy, in a way that you aren’t comfortable with. These are normal and expected feelings. While it is healthy to process these emotions and acknowledge their impact on you, it is best to do them away from your ward early in the relationship, and in front of your ward later in the relationship. Both are opportunities to model behavioral processing in a healthy and focused way.

Once you have gathered yourself and recognized your own emotions, take some time to think about what caused that first negative feeling. Recognize the moment you lost your temper, recognize what triggered that initial negative emotion, and consider creating a plan to prevent a similar reaction in the future. Take as much time as needed for this process, and ideally, try to give your ward an adequate amount of time to process the event as well.

Finally, talk to your ward directly. Make an appropriate apology for your reaction. For example, if you yelled, apologize for raising your voice. Take the opportunity to remind your ward that they should be treated with kindness and respect at all times, and acknowledge that you did not fulfill that basic expectation. You do not need to share the reason for your reaction – in fact, doing so can cause unnecessary fear and guilt in your ward, particularly early in the recovery process, and even more so if the triggering behavior was due to their trauma or conditioning. Instead, offer them comfort and an opportunity to discuss how the event made them feel.

The rest of the page was filled with sample conversations, language for new rehabilitators to use in such situations. Rowan studied them carefully, feeling himself grow calmer as he did so. He wasn’t the first rehabilitator to fuck up, and from the looks of the manual, he certainly wouldn’t be the last. While this did little to alleviate the guilt, it allowed for a small sliver of relief. There wasn’t anything uniquely wrong with him. Instead, his response was one rooted in human emotion, another byproduct of the system and its cruelty. His disgust was with systemic oppression, not with the boy himself.

I have to do better, Rowan reminded himself, and he took yet another deep breath. His hands were still shaking from the adrenaline that had dumped into his system.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine how the boy was affected if he himself was feeling the effects of his own temper so severely.

That was the next thought in his mind. He couldn’t simply refer to his guest as the boy forever. Part of developing autonomy, including the autonomy necessary to process scenarios such as the one that Rowan had just created, came from a sense of independent identity. Right now, the boy was just that: the boy in Rowan’s spare room, an object, a legal possession. To recover, he would have to become so much more than that. The manual had said as much: giving the ward a name as soon as possible was critical to developing a relationship of equals.

That would all have to come later, and it would hopefully come from the help of a rehabilitator that Rowan prayed was on the way his condo. Hope was doing a lot of heavy lifting as Rowan sat and stewed at his kitchen counter. He took a moment to check his phone, then he checked a second time to confirm there were no new messages, before placing it back on the granite.

His heart was still racing, so he looked back to the manual with a glance, then over to the closed door of the den, then back to the manual. If either of them were going to make it out of this intact, the least Rowan could do was take the manual’s word as gospel.

What emotion am I feeling? It burned hot, Rowan knew that much, and it had spurred him to yell when he rarely ever did so. Is it anger?

But instead of a tightness in his throat and a burning in his head that he would expect from anger, Rowan felt a tingling in his fingertips, a tugging in his chest, a queasiness in his stomach. It was like he was in grade school all over again, waiting for a teacher to pass out a test he hasn’t studied for. It was that heavy, burdensome dread that clung to him every time he walked onto the liquidation event sales floor.

Rowan knew he could name the feelings as soon as he took note of their home in his body. It was one that he was loathe to admit, even as old as he was, because of the stigma of weakness that clung to those words. No matter how many times he had conquered these feelings in the past, he struggled to confront them now.

But he had to. He had to, for the sake of the person in his care, the very soul that was counting on him to move past the discomfort. Rowan would have to now, and he would have to again, for the both of them.

What am I feeling? He asked himself again, biting down on his lip in spite of himself. Coppery blood washed over his tongue from the open wound. What am I really feeling?

Anxiety. Fear, dread, distress.

Those feelings were so much more than mere anger, and they were budding like a nascent ulcer in his stomach. Those were the feelings that had governed his actions since he’d signed the contract just over 24 hours prior. Adrenaline had made him run like prey, a panicked creature hunted by an unseen predator. Rowan was a gazelle on an endless savannah, running for his life, uncaring of his destination so long as it put distance between himself and the lion on his tail.

In Rowan’s case, the lion was the system itself, the weight of an industry that would crush him if it knew what he was doing. It was ruthless, it was nefarious, and it would readily kill him if it knew of his efforts to liberate people from its clutches. If so, he wouldn’t be the first liberationist to go missing under similar circumstances.

Of course Rowan was frightened, and of course he had every reason to be. There was legislation, there was law, there was unspeakable amounts of money and power that he was up against. The PLF had always been at a systemic disadvantage in this fight, as had all of its victims, all of its wards. They were fighting on the side of the underdogs, and they would be underdogs until a significant change in the public consciousness occurred.

I’m smarter than a gazelle, Rowan thought to himself, fist tight in his lap. And the lion’s only teeth are rich politicians with a vested interest in oppression. I’m not their fuckinggazelle. I’m braver, I’m smarter, and I’m stronger. I have to be. I refuse to be their prey.  

A few more moments of steady breathing were necessary for Rowan to compose himself. And just as the manual had mandated, he’d named his emotions, processed them, and acknowledged their trigger: a victim, a ward who could not consent, offering their body for sexual and physical abuse.

Another minute passed, and much to Rowan’s pleasant surprise, his breathing had levelled. The buzzing in his extremities had relaxed, and his heart no longer felt like it was being squeezed in an unforgiving fist.

The next step was to confront his ward, the boy still waiting and terrified in the spare bedroom.

“I can do this,” Rowan muttered under his breath, the soft escape of his internal dialogue. “I can apologize, I can name my feelings, and I can offer reassurance.”  

He paused and searched his thoughts for something to bridge the gap. What had the boy responded to the best in these last few hours?

After a moment of mulling, Rowan realized that it had been the water. The boy had grasped the glass as if it offered his only salvation. He’d swallowed it in the blink of an eye, disappearing before Rowan could have even come up with the words to stop him.

Of course, as Rowan knew from more than a decade of field work, the victims that were prepared for transit were both starved and dehydrated to reduce any potential resistance during transit or during their first few hours with their purchasers.

Such practices resulted in a non-zero number of transit deaths each year, some of which Rowan had documented firsthand.

Rowan went over to the pantry and took out another glass, paced over to the fridge, and poured another glass of cool water from the filter. He filled it just below the brim, tall enough that the boy would be able to drink his fill, but not so full that shaking hands would be unable to raise it to equally unsteady lips.

Glass in hand, Rowan walked back over to the second bedroom’s door.

He paused. A moment, a deep breath, a hand raised towards the faux-wood painted in landlord-eggshell. And he knocked, once, twice, knuckles on the paint making a hollow thunk with each hit.

No response was expected. None came. After another two long seconds, Rowan grasped the doorknob and pushed into the room.

---

The pet had gotten dressed. It had dressed itself in the clothes that Master had tossed beside it after he had yelled, the command obvious enough even without it understanding the precise language.

It knew it had messed up. It knew that something it had done – perhaps it was the position? Perhaps it was the assumption that it would be taken on the bed? – had made its master furious. It had made its master so furious that he had thrown clothes at it, commanded it to cover itself, and left it alone.

So the pet had obeyed as best as it could. It clothed itself in the linens – softer than it had ever been granted with its old master, and so much warmer too – and resumed its position kneeling in the center of the room. Master had placed it here for a reason, certainly, alone with nothing but its thoughts and the ringing in its ears.

Fully clad, from its ankles to its wrist, in pillow-like clothing, the pet felt the pull of sleep. Even the fear from its Master yelling was not enough to overcome the exhaustion of its travels and of its last moments with its handlers. It was so tired that it was nodding off where it knelt, knowing full well that such an action would earn it a lashing like no other.

But its body would only be pushed so far before it broke.

Adrenaline returned when the walls and floor trembled with slight vibrations. Ever since the ringing in its ears had begun in earnest, the pet had learned to pay attention to the way the surfaces around it sang. Now, the floorboards rumbled with the sound of its Master approaching. Light steps – none so heavy as its old master – but an insistent knocking that carried through the wood and laminate.

The pet wished it could shrink in on itself, become smaller, offer an adequate with just its body. But it was already as small as it could make itself, swallowed by the billowing fabric of the sweatshirt, sleeves coming down past its wrists and covering its bony knuckles.

There was almost a certain chance that it would be asked to remove the sweatshirt in short order, anyway.

As it expected, Master’s feet appeared before it moments later. It took deep breaths, listening to the steady hum of Master’s voice. He wasn’t shouting, not this time, back to that level-set rhythm that the pet already found so soothing. If there was supposed to be anger or frustration, the pet couldn’t hear it.

That wasn’t saying much, given that it couldn’t hear much at all.

Much to the pet’s surprise, Master leaned down and placed another glass in front of it. This glass was crystal-clear, filled nearly to the brim with water, its surface rippling from the movement. Although it had happily drank the earlier glass of water at its Master’s command, the pet was still parched. And although its stomach was still in knots from how Master had yelled at it, how it had been waiting for a punishment yet to come, the thirst once again prevailed.

It knew better than to grab the glass with its greedy hands. Waiting, patience, showed the very skills that it had been trained time and again to embody. So it waited, waited, until Master’s voice raised with a sharp uptick in volume.

Drink.

The pet did so without hesitation. It reached forward and it drank eagerly, trying to still the trembling of its hands as it did so. Although it had to raise its head to drink, it made sure to keep its eyes pointed downwards in as much respect and deference as it could display.

The water disappeared in a matter of moments, the pet ensuring that it showed its gratitude for the generosity by finishing it with haste. Carefully as it could manage it placed the glass back on the floor where Master had set it.

Its stomach was still tight with worry, filled with the sandwich and the first glass of water, but it was confident that it would keep the meal down. It had to – if it got sick now, there was no telling when it would get food again. This nutrition was more valuable than anything else at the moment, it was the only way it could hope to have the strength to carry on.

---

“That’s great,” Rowan praised, trying to keep his voice steady as he had been. It had already been stressful enough to raise it to give the command to drink, but the boy seemed unfazed. In fact, he finished the full glass in a matter of seconds, drinking eagerly and without hesitation.

Figuring out how to get the boy to drink on his own would be a challenge for another day. For now, even if Rowan had to command as much, drinking something was better than not at all.

Now, for the reason he’d come back into the room in the first place, when all he wanted to do was leave the boy alone long enough to decompress.

“Hey, uhm, I’m sorry for yelling,” Rowan said. The apology came easily and naturally enough, so he pushed on. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice at you. That was wrong of me, and you didn’t deserve it. You did nothing wrong. Really, you did nothing wrong. The fact that I yelled was my fault. I’m not angry at you. I’m not mad, and I’m not going to hurt you. Everything is okay.”

The boy didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t acknowledge a word beyond the command to drink. Just as all the other times Rowan had spoken, he seemed attentive, but didn’t react.

“I mean it,” Rowan pushed on. “I’m sorry. Everything is alright. You’re okay. You’re safe here, with me. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to ask you to do those things you had to do before. It caught me off guard, and my reaction was wrong. I shouldn’t have raised my voice”

Nothing. At this rate, it would be impossible to have the back-and-forth dialogue that the manual had encouraged, but Rowan knew that it was possibly asking too much for a first day, even a first week, or a first month. His one-sided apology was a start, at least.

“If you want to tell me how you feel, you can,” Rowan offered the floor up. “It’s okay. You can say how you feel – actually, you can talk, if you’d like, about anything. I haven’t heard you say anything yet, but you’re allowed. You’re allowed to talk as much as you want here. And- and you can get your own water, and your own food- ah. I’m getting ahead of myself, I think. The point I’m trying to make is that it’s okay, and you can talk to me. If I scared you, or upset you, you can tell me that. And if you tell me what’s wrong, I’ll do my best to make it better.”

As Rowan rambled on, self-conscious of the words spilling out of his mouth, he forced himself to look down at the boy kneeling before him. This was no way to talk to a victim like this, was it? Rowan was still towering above him, voice booming downwards, the power imbalance as visual as it was ingrained in the boy’s blood.

So, after another moment, Rowan sat.

He lowered himself to the floor in front of the boy and sat down, crossing his legs like he was a child again. A laugh almost escaped his mouth as he realized how much flexibility he’d lost, knees straining and thighs tugging, as he finally got his ankles close to one another.

The boy perked up immediately, looking through his hanging curls in Rowan’s direction with those bright doe-eyes that Rowan had only seen a glimpse of once so far. Rowan smiled in spite of himself.

“Hey, is this better for you? I think it’s better, at least for right now, if you don’t want to stand up yet. This will let us talk to each other like equals, yeah? We are, you know. Even if you don’t believe it yet. So, I’ll say it again, and maybe you can think about it some more. I’m sorry for yelling at you, and yelling was wrong of me. I never should have raised my voice. I wasn’t mad at you, I was just surprised, because I don’t want to do those sorts of things to you. I’m here to help you, not hurt you, especially not like that. I promise that you’re safe, and no harm is going to come to you here.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something. As Rowan spoke the boy’s weight shifted slightly forward, so slight that Rowan almost missed it entirely, and his eyes flitted from his knees towards Rowan’s face. He never quite made eye contact, still hidden behind the curtain of hair, but it was closer than Rowan had been able to achieve from a standing position.

This was what had stood out to Rowan on the sales floor of the liquidation event. The boy seemed distant, but he was far from catatonic like some of the victims that were more difficult to rescue. There was a spark, an attentiveness, a willingness to listen and to obey. It was a flame that yearned for the chance to survive.

Rowan just had to figure out how to nurture that flame and reach through the glass between himself and the boy. They would have to break that barrier down if they were going to move towards healing.

“Yeah, we’re just having a conversation right now, that’s all.” He wasn’t sure how effective his soothing would be so soon after his yelling, but Rowan knew he had to try. “If you want to talk about how you’re feeling, you can do that, talk to me all you want. You can also just tell me to leave if you’d rather be alone right now.”

Nothing, still nothing.

“Can you nod for me if you want to be alone?” He asked, hoping to see some movement. Nothing. “Can you shake your head if you want me to stay?” Nothing again. 

A thought struck Rowan as he saw the boy’s eyes peek up again, still hunting, almost fixated on his lips. He tried again once he saw the boy look upwards.

“Can you nod your head for me?”

And just like that, the boy’s head moved slightly, once up, once down. It was short, but unmistakably the very nod that Rowan’s question had evoked. And once the nod had finished, the boy looked back down at the floor.

“Can you nod again?” He asked once more as soon as he was certain the boy was no longer looking.

No movement.

“Oh my god,” Rowan whispered out loud as realization flashed through him, and he clambered to his feet. He nearly tripped over himself as he did so, staggering to a standing position and darting behind the boy, back over to the far corner of the room, directly behind his ward. The boy was still kneeling, unmoving, his eyes were still pointed towards the door. Importantly, he was unable to see Rowan’s face even if he raised his eyes.  

Rowan snapped his fingers, a few times on his right, a few times on his left. No reaction. Then, after a pause to suppress the oncoming wave of guilt, he clapped his hands together with considerable force. The sound was sharp enough to echo throughout the small room.

This evoked a reaction. It was subtle, but he saw the boy’s shoulders twitch in some sort of anticipation. A fear response, automatic, but a response nonetheless.

“Holy shit,” Rowan muttered to himself, a hand running through his hair almost of its own accord. His epiphany was looking more and more like a plausible possibility.

“Hey, turn around,” he instructed. He made sure not to raise his voice, keeping it as neutral as possible, but still issuing the command with certainty. Again, no movement. He tried again, same tone, conversational volume. “Turn around, right now. Turn around and look at me.”

Nothing.

After a deep breath, and a final reminder that he was doing this for the boy’s own good, Rowan shouted.

“Turn around!”

And just like that the boy moved, turning on his knees in a swift, fluid motion. A blink later and he was kneeling in that same position, but this time pointed towards where Rowan stood at the back of the room.

A nervous chuckle slipped out before Rowan could swallow it. All of that pain, all of that suffering, the threat of death on the sales floor, it had all been under the guise of disobedience. Rowan was now certain it was anything but.

“Jesus Christ, kid, you’re not disobedient. You just can’t fucking hear me.”

There was a euphoria he couldn’t describe blossoming in his chest. This rescue wasn’t a hopeless mistake that he had made, this victim wasn’t beyond recovery or redemption. He simply couldn’t hear the very words that Rowan was speaking to him, commands or otherwise.

It was Rowan’s turn to drop to his knees, aging bones hitting the wood as he fell a mere foot from where the boy had stationed himself.

“It’s okay!” Rowan all but shouted, the boy’s flinch lost to the excitement. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s all okay.” His voice was as loud as he could make it without screaming.

“You’re safe. You’re safe now. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re home, you’re safe. It’s all going to be okay.”

A/N: Cheers to the rewrite for a chance to make it clear that Rowan's not an idiot, he's just out of his depth. That was one of the driving factors for the rewrite, actually. Sorry for those that hoped there'd be a few more chapters of misunderstanding and obliviousness from our well-meaning caretaker - it's important to me that Rowan is capable and aware of himself in this story, particularly given his role in other liberation efforts. But there will absolutely be other barriers to communication and understanding between the two, I can promise that much!

Taglist:

@honey-is-messi @octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @squishablesunbeam @tragedyinblue

@clairelsonao3 @den-of-evil @cepheusgalaxy @aswallowimprisoned @kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@honeycollectswhump @rekiroyalstraightprincemaru @whumpzone @peachy-panic @whumplr-reader

@dislexiher @cc1010foxy @onlybadendings @panstardalia @tempoghast

@dokidokisadness @anonfromcanada @starfields08000 @bloodredfountainpen @pumpkin-spice-whump

@maenr @whump-enthousiast @taterswhump @whump-me-harder

[bean-spring]

You can understand Helena's complexity, the reasons behind her actions and the inherent connection between her and Mark that is clearly there beyond questioning if she's Helly or not ("that sort of kinship carry over from innie to outie"), because at the end of the day, she is her (in different circumstances and enviornments).

But that doesn't mean that outside of the poetry and natural attraction between them there isn't the whole question of whether this is right or wrong. It isn't just "this is rape and she's inherently and utterly evil" or "they're the same person and she's also hurt, so it's okay" because that would minimize what the show is working so hard on. And that is fucking with our heads making us wonder who we truly are, what things would make us commit these actions, what truly is freedom, and at what point we stop being ourselves.

Let me make this clear (it's just my opinion): No, it wasn't consensual. Mark didn't consent to having sex with Helena. He thought it was Helly. That part is obvious to everyone. The whole "he said he doesn't care who she is outside, but he cares who she is with him, so it is consensual!" doesn't matter when he actually doesn't know who the fuck she is. He is being lied to. He said that because he thought he was talking to his Helly and didn't care who she was outside because, at the end of the day, despite being the same people, innies are practically born again (socially) and build a personality and experiences from the very beginning, from their very first memory that is appearing in the office (Dan literally refers to this point of their lives as "adolescense" while S1 was "childhood"). And they keep fighting for their rights and individual freedom.

I don't think we're giving this its proper depth, tbh. It isn't just "Helena wasn't Helly here". It's: Helena has way more knowledge than Mark has, while Mark believes they're both on the same page. Helena went there hoping for an experience in specific with him (selfishly), while for Mark it happened way more organically. Helena has said she doesn't view innies as human and has been watching them as if they were a Sims 4 gameplay. For Mark, it's Helly and the fact that their connection goes beyond that night while for Helena it's not that much about Mark himself. There is a clear, obvious power difference in here and she is, after all, for now, one of the antagonists. We can't forget that.

But it isn't just "evil" or "bad" or "cruel". Because Helena, due to the lack of freedom in her own life, is in the same place (in a different enviornment, though and turning that into power over others instead) as them. She longs for a human connection she has never experienced before. She is broken and torn apart about who she truly is. She uses Mark to experience this, yes, but at what point does that turn into real attraction? At what point her jealousy towards her innie and dehumanization of both herself and the group turns into her also realizing she's the same and understanding Mark? At what point does Mark fall for and embrace the kinship that connects Helly/Helena (that guilt and shame and lack of freedom and yearning for love) instead of just seeing double? At what point does Helena stop seeing a chance to experience love to start seeing... Just Mark?

And after ALL OF THAT it still doesn't make it okay to do what she did.

In the most natural, poetic, human perception of this scene, there is a connection between no matter who they are. But memories and shared experiences are also a huge part of ourselves, we do change with them. Both Mark and Helly have said multiple times that they don't see themselves as an extension of their outies and are their own selves. It doesn't matter whether they are the same or not, it's how they see it. Mark never agreed to share his body with Helena specifically and that's taking away from him the chance of choosing individually. His freedom.

In my opinion it was 100% rape but it's way deeper than just that. It's still awful, though, and we have to start learning to embrace complex characters and try to understand them without only being guided by our IRL moral compass.

[ewingstan]

Hrm. I'm aware that there's a common narrative that Ward suffered from wb steering the text to directly respond to people who gave Amy too much credit. I've already given my thoughts on the way Amy's character has been handled so far—I certainly understand how people would see Amy's increasing propensity to give weak excuses to her actions and read them as wb strawmanning their own reactions to the text. Strictly speaking though, it didn't have to be read that way— its possible, for instance, that Amy's development was driven by wb really wanting Breakthrough's struggles with becoming better people to be contrasted against a villain who's too prone to abdicate responsibility to grow. I have my misgivings about that as a theme, but it is in line with the broader focus of the text, and doesn't rely on an assumption that wb is writing her that way to pwn commenters.

Eric though. Eric really does just seem inexplicable unless you read him as wildbow getting frustrated at certain parts of his fanbase and wanting to dress them down. At least when Amy gave weak justifications for herself, it was for herself—there's a legible reason why she'd do it in the first place. And as I said, it served a thematic purpose of contrasting Breakthrough's attempts to get better by taking responsibility for their actions with Amy spiraling from a refusal to do the same. What similar thematic purpose is Eric showing? What purpose is he serving at all, outside of claiming that people who "defend" Amy are the type of people who don't face real hardship and stare at women's boobs?

The type of defense here is important to note, because the main thing he does is push back against Victoria reading everything Amy does in the worst possible light. This is behavior that makes sense in a comment section when you're trying to detangle your own feelings about a character from a narrator who has a justifiably hostile perspective towards her. It's not the behavior of someone responding to a current crisis event. And it's not the behavior of someone talking to Victoria rather than other readers, considering how obvious Vicky makes it that there's history between her and Amy. Yes, the oddity of that reaction is to some degree intentional, in that its supposed to make Victoria feel increasingly alienated from those around her—but Eric also seems to be getting posed as a synecdoche for non-capes in general here, a representative of a common type of thinking, rather than a wackadoodle who choose a very bad time to defend a stranger's intentions.

On that point. I don't think that wildbow is fully uncritical of Victoria's tendency to fully dehumanize some of her more heinous enemies, or her tendency to see the unpowered masses she's nominally acting in service of as just not understanding the Great Sacrifices™ and Tough Choices™ of their protectors. Ward has flirted with those attitudes in the past, but there's usually enough tension in the framing to suggest it's not fully the intended takeaway. And I don't want to overstate my case, because even here the framing pushes against some of what Victoria takes away from Eric—its made clear that Victoria's in a particularly ugly state of mind right now. The characterization of Larue right afterwards pushes back somewhat against her attitude towards non-capes, and the conversation with Jessica made the idea of seeing Amy's perspective on an issue, and the idea of denying a villain's full responsibility for their actions, seem less ridiculous on its face. Reading Eric's inclusion in the best possible light, I'd see him as the text introducing certain ideas in an unflattering light in order to make Jessica's later reaffirmation of the theme that everyone can act horribly in the right circumstances hit that much harder.

But Eric really feels like who'd you write when you wanted to complain about the bleeding hearts. His presentation is much more what I'd expect from a jingoistic action flick, the most unflattering caricature of someone who wants basic limitations on the actions of cops and soldier. Very "decadent ivory tower cultural relativist who wants you to consider the drug lord/terrorist/rapist degenerate's point of view," who's putting obstacles in the way of the action hero's righteous and necessary cleansing crusade against the subhuman hoards. Why the fuck is a character made to support the worldview of Dirty Harry or the fucking Turner Diaries in a wildbow novel?

[mithrun-house-of-kerensil]

Lately, I've been thinking about Mithrun and the ways he is dehumanized in canon.

Before I get started, we know that elven society is incredibly afraid of death and illness. This is obvious in how they look down on the short lived races and see them as weak and childlike. We also know that Mithrun himself had ableist views toward his brother and these values did not leave him once he, himself, became disabled. He is a product of the society that raised him, but I also think how Mithrun is currently being treated contributes to his view of himself.

Mithrun has had three different caretaking groups over the years. The first are the ones his brother hired for him. From what we can see, they did the job, but we can understand that they did not know what to do with him. No one had ever recovered from having their desires eaten so the focus was less on rehabilitation and more on keeping him alive.

Later we see Milsiril take an interest in him because of his desire to return to the dungeon. Since she did not bother to visit him for decades after finding him, we can assume that there is an ulterior motive here. Timeline-wise, this was when the majority of the canaries had just been wiped out. They needed more men, and Mithrun is set up to be the perfect single-focused soldier.

Honestly, we can assume that Milsiril doesn't really care about him or see him as a person. Mithrun is just a new project for her to play with. We can see this in how she's focused on superficial level concerns like the fact that he doesn't look nice and wanting him to be overly grateful toward her. She also talks about him like he's not in the room and can't hear her. This is a dehumanizing trait shared by many characters when talking about Mithrun.

When he finally does recover enough to return to the canaries, the military does not make any effort to accommodate his needs. We know the canaries are understaffed and the ethics are already bad, but they really did not even try to care about Mithrun's safety at all.

Entrusting a criminal with his care was questionable at best, especially when Cithis immediately took the opportunity to abuse her power over him and no one stopped her.

While acknowledging the light-hearted nature of the manga, it's uncomfortable that Mithrun was treated like a child and an animal by Cithis for her amusement. Regardless of her 'learning to respect him' later, the point is that Mithrun was taken advantage of and degraded because she believed he couldn't say no. No one bothered to do anything about this until Pattadol yelled at her.

Truly his treatment is summarized well by Milsiril here. Mithrun is extremely vulnerable to being abused by those taking care of him because he won't advocate for himself. He has one desire so he won't fight for himself in any other way.

It is obvious that Mithrun was not treated well by his caretakers and this has resulted in him identifying his needs through a disconnected and frankly, infantilizing lens.

I understand that it may have been a translator's decision, but I always thought it was interesting that Mithrun says that he's "not sleepy" which is a childish term. Otherwise, he speaks like everyone else, if not rather posh.

This, followed by the fact that he is responsive to Kabru treating him like a literal infant to get him to eat, paints a clear picture of the fact that Mithrun is not unfamiliar with being treated like this. He responds to it because he's used to it and has no desire to argue with being treated this way. When we consider the fact that the chapter started with Milsiril treating an older child Kabru in the same way, it is likely that she also did the same thing to Mithrun when he was under her care.

In these panels, we see that Mithrun does not believe that he can sleep without magical assistance, even though it is immediately refuted when Kabru takes the time to bundle him up and help him relax. Not only does he fully believe he can't sleep without external assistance, but he states directly that there is no point in him getting comfortable.

As Kabru observes, Mithrun's inability to recognize his needs applies to needs such as hunger and exhaustion, but it obviously also applies to emotional needs. Kabru just wanting to feed him something delicious and not wanting him to give up on life is the most consideration someone has given Mithrun in years.

The relationship they form over the course of a single week is enough to shape Mithrun's behaviour completely. Mithrun ignores Cithis's demand in favour of asking Kabru's opinion. It is Kabru's hand Mithrun takes to pull him out of his defeated state. It is Kabru Mithrun confessed his true desire to.

Do you realize how depressing that is? All it took was the new perspectives from Kabru and Senshi to make him consider the fact that he should keep living despite no longer needing to fulfill his duty. Being treated well could have helped Mithrun much sooner and this shift in the way he sees himself contributes to his recovery going forward.

TLDR: Mithrun has no desire to be respected, but why does that make people feel comfortable acting like he doesn't deserve it? Someone not caring about being treated well doesn't give you permission to treat them poorly. This feels like a playschool-level consent lesson: just because he's not saying no to a humiliating or degrading act doesn't mean it's a yes and therefore okay to do. Acknowledging this is the bare minimum of treating him as a person.

[anastacialy]

hello! first, i wanna say you're totally right here. all the points you made are correct, and i agree with your additions, as i agreed with your original post. i wouldn't reblog something to simply disagree in the tags! the tags were there as an addition and a slight rebuttal to opinions that opposed yours. for instance, when a lot of the fandom said colin should have to beg for penelope's forgiveness for saying he'd never court her, i disagreed wholeheartedly, and thought his scene of making amends was lovely, and more than made up for his actions. i don't like the way a lot of this fandom treats colin, and i'm sorry to have seemed to be doing the same. i think some of my tags and tone were misinterpreted here though, so i just want to clarify. i'm not great at communicating, so do try to read this post with the best and most lighthearted intentions. there's a character limit within a tag limit, so i can't always add everything i want to in the tags, and when i try to keep in concise, well, things like these tend to happen. when i said "yes it would be fun" that was meant to be read as, "yeah, yeah, i know you guys [the people who like angst] would like if this happened." which isn't totally disparaging the angst-loving people, by the way, as many actors and writers have confirmed that the original cut (pre-reshoots) of the season was angst-ier! even colin's crying and soft-spoken-ness during the whistledown reveal was unplanned, though it works entirely for his character and the two of them as a couple. the way it was written, he was meant to yell! shout! get angry! so that was my way of acknowledging that, before the second half of my tags were outright saying you were correct. imagine those subsequent tags as me going, "yeah, what they said! good point, boss!" behind you. i referenced like three or four other posts that were probably not read by you prior to this response, which is fair, since i post a whole lot. (there are fifty-five pages of bridgerton content on my blog. lmfao.) i use my tags to talk to myself and my followers, as was their original use (i've been rotting on tumblr since long before they showed up in the notes of a post), so i don't always give all the context in the world. it's kinda funny, i thought my referring to other posts for clarity was over-doing it! apparently not. i don't expect anyone who doesn't follow me to care to read my tags, but i know they're now served directly to the op, so i can see why you'd read them and disagree.

the "bite back" comment was in reference to this post, where i was commenting on the rest of the fandom's reaction to the scene. (in fact, someone reblogged that post with tags i disagree with, that seemed to miss the point of my post, ironically enough.) everyone was freaking out that he said something 'so mean' and i responded by saying, 'ok yes, if we wanted all the drama and messiness that came with the show's other couples, she'd have said something mean back to him there.' i imagined the rest of the scene playing out the same, though, where she apologizes quickly after realizing being rude to him isn't the right move. i'm not saying it would be healthy, nor better, and certainly not more in character. it was just a reference to a joke post i wrote at five in the morning after bingeing the series, and a reply to other people saying she should just call everything off in anger, which i don't agree with. the second post i was referencing was this heartbreaking drabble (which i fully thought i'd reblogged but didn't, so that one's my bad for sure) that has penelope call of the wedding for colin's sake. as in, her understanding she hurt him, and saying, 'i love you so much, i don't want to entrap you in a marriage where you'll be unhappy.' which, i did specify in the tags, by the way. this is just the annulment offer, but set earlier in the show. one thing we may disagree on, though, is that you say: "So if she said 'fine, no entrapment then, we're done' that is, realistically speaking, the death of their relationship." i personally do not think that would be the end of it. especially if, as in that fic and my tags, she called it off so as to not entrap him, to say 'no, you deserve happiness, even if it isn't with me.' i do think he'd be upset by her calling the wedding off. my interpretation of these scenes is that he still wants to marry her. when asked by kate, "does whatever new information you've learned [about penelope] truly negate [your relationship with her]?" [season 3 episode 7 timestamp 30:10] he shakes his head, no. i know this is later on in the show, but it is a feeling i think runs as an undercurrent to the feelings he shows in the scene we're discussing. so when i say his entrapment line is him "holding onto the marriage with his fingernails" i mean it is both him expressing his hurt, and him using propriety and "i am a gentleman" to keep the wedding on. this post i also referenced in the tags covers a lot of my feelings on the matter, though there are some nuances in my view there as well that i didn't bother rambling in the tags for, that time. and this one, and my tags on it, though that one's pretty /silly. but you share the same sentiment just in different words: "Yes, he still wants to marry her, not out of obligation, but because they have history and he has feelings for her." it is not truly obligation that i am arguing here, merely the illusion of obligation in order to hurt her in the moment, to hide his genuine desire to still marry her, and to deal with his more complicated feelings on his own.

also, when i say i want to write a fic about something, i mean it would be interesting to explore as an alternative to what happens in the show, to see how different actions might play out. i never, ever, in a million years think that the actual show should have changed, by the way. i make that clear in this joke post that i'm by no means the best writer. i'm also still waiting on my ao3 invite, so you're safe from my bad, ooc fanfics... for now. i was also referencing a very common joke post using the "please please please" line. i promise i don't actually think he'd say that, nor would it actually go in the fic. it's just a running joke at this point!

you extrapolated a lot about how i view penelope from these tags and, again, i understand why you would, as these are the only words of mine you've read. that's why im providing the context of my blog and other posts i'm referring to. the "no empathy" penelope you described is not at all the way i view penelope! i love her too much for that. she would be an awful partner if she behaved that way. but since we can understand colin lashed out in hurt, we can understand penelope might too, in theory, or in an au. but i understand you simply thought i was seriously saying the show should change or that this was the One True Interpretation, when i was not. context is important. uuu. [this is a joking reference to "prospects are important" and the little noise colin makes after he says his next line after that one. season 3 episode 3 "forces of nature" timestamp 8:57])

this is a great post i also recently reblogged on the topic too! and this one, which i have no clue why i didn't reblog yet. i may have been on mobile when i read it, hah. but they are saying the same thing as you here, and i agree! she truly hurt him, and he was completely within his rights to make a hurtful comment in that moment. i never said otherwise, and i certainly never said she should say or even imply that she didn't love him! i think both of us are also replying to the general fandom in this way. i genuinely love that, in canon, penelope met him with empathy and care right away. it's what he deserves! anyway, to reiterate: i agree with you! i think there were some misinterpretations of my tags and for that i apologize. i'd say agree to disagree, but i think it's mostly agree to agree (on most things) and agree to disagree (on a few small details i interpret slightly different than you) lmao! i hope this clears things up a bit!!

I guess what I find most funny about the 'She should call off the wedding because of Colin's entrapement line!' crowd is like. . .y'all really don't get Penelope at all, do you?

She has loved this man for YEARS. She's loved him through his engagement to someone else, she's loved him through him saying he wouldn't court her, she's loved him through multiple countries, through her family mocking their closeness, through a potential marriage to a Lord. She loved him so much she couldn't even DENY having feelings for him to save what she thought was her only chance of getting married. Do you know how easy it would have been for her to go 'No, we're just friends, I don't like him like that, you're proposing to me and that's what matters'? She couldn't denounce her feelings for him even THEN. Even when she doesn't think he reciprocates them and she's made peace with a life with Debling and is expecting his proposal. Colin was *always* first in her heart, through all those hurdles.

Because Colin has been kind in a cruel world, and he's made her laugh, and he encourages her confidence and he's warm and he's gorgeous and he centers her and he values her and he listens and makes her feel desired and beautiful. He's a good man, and her love for him makes her feel good, she treasures it. Even in the books she says it feels good to love a good person, whether he loved her back or not. And now she knows that he does and you think one line that Colin says in obvious hurt after finding out she's been hiding a secret persona for him is enough to shake that love? She spent what? Half a decade looking out her window pining for him and now on the eve of getting to live a life with him as husband and wife, she's going to chuck that away because of one sentence? How lowly do you think of her? How *stupid* do you think she is? To throw away the love of her life over what? Her pride? This fandom's OOC Fanon Pen is a disservice to Penelope's actual character.

Her love for Colin is steadfast. It's made of tougher stuff than all that. It has survived everything that has been thrown at it. Distance, other people, Portia. And y'all really, truly believe that a singular statement will make her go 'Naw, I don't want it anymore!' PUHLEASE. Even when she offers him that annulment, you KNOW she knows it's not on the table.

Stop playing. OF COURSE she didn't call off the wedding. Of COURSE she chose to understand where he was coming from and went 'I didn't mean to trap you, Colin, I love you'. Of course she asks what the marriage will be and is comforted by the fact that he still wants to go through with it.

Penelope Featherington has loved Colin most of her life. It has been one of the few constants in her existence. He has been good to her in said existence, consistently. He's listened, he's cared, he's apologized to her, he's taken ownership of his actions, he's invited her to be more open, he's joked with her, he's supported her, he saw her when she was invisible. She. Loves. Him. And for good reason.

It's not going away because of one line. Or two. Or three. Come back next time when you actually understand her.

[renshengs]

beyond evil (2021) occupies a very interesting space in the larger expanse of crime shows. like, it is a Cop Show. it is undeniably a Cop Show even if the two main characters, who are both cops for very different reasons, are handled with significantly greater awareness and intention than usual.

it is also, impressively, a show that pierces the real ugly rot of 1) police corruption and its overlap with capitalism 2) atrocious real-life lawmaking 3) the poor handling of femicide in stories. i cannot express how abruptly shocked i was to discover that i did not hate the way this show was carrying itself, despite its crime drama genre, narrative about two homoerotic cops, and its murder mystery premise featuring a plot about a serial killer with solely female victims. here is a story that understands its purpose and is so clear-eyed about it that i did in fact tentatively suspend all my wariness about Cop Shows to watch it—and what i got was a scathing response to every serial killer and true crime documentary out there. a narrative that said: enough. enough. look at the way grief rots people from the inside out. look at the way loss ruins lives. do not forget the sufferings of the innocent.

far too many crime dramas possess an incredibly dehumanizing analytical tone to them that goes, “what if these poor women died in brutal gruesome tragic ways? anyway, look at these men and their heroic journey for justice!” it’s why i can’t fucking stand to watch them for the sake of my blood pressure. while beyond evil is not exempt from using such gruesomeness as a part of its horror aspect, the women in this show, particularly the women who were murdered, occupy such a heavy weight over the narrative that it is impossible to reduce them to what they’re usually reduced to: numbers in files, or cold cases. and because the purpose of beyond evil is to examine the ways grief and loss bring about destruction to people’s lives and communities, these women cannot be seen as numbers. they need to be vivid and real; the audience needs to feel their loss as deeply and gnawingly as the townspeople do. as we would in real life.

personally i’m still surprised at myself for liking a Cop Show this much—because the law enforcement sympathy is unavoidable in a cop show—but then i’m also shocked at how immediately this show establishes its awareness of police power. i don’t mean it gives a passing nod, like a brief disclaimer. i mean that you watch until the end and you’re like: oh! the entire fucking show is about police power and its consequences! this entire goddamn show is about cops’ potential for harm and how it destroys lives! the main character only ever became a cop out of desperation because he realized it would protect him from suffering further at the hands of the police. because he realized it was the only way for him to get access to both the information and the legal power needed to take his own steps to solve his sister’s murder. it’s not radical—it’s a cop show. but it is novel. a cop whose relationship with his own occupation is bitterly resigned at best and traumatic at worst.

this is far from an original thought, but truly i think what makes beyond evil worth watching is that it is so incredibly careful with itself. its meta awareness of its own genre heightens it to a tier above other crime dramas—it knows and rejects voyeuristic perspectives into the lives of people who’ve suffered real loss and tragedy, and so it makes the loss inescapable. every direction you look, someone’s life has been irrevocably altered by the murders you learn about in the story. it gives you no space to push away the murder—no, you need to sit directly in its field of impact. all the fucking time. you are not watching the town suffer, you’re suffering with the town. the story sucks you in and makes you live alongside the rest of them; it's why the first watch hurts so raw. because the story refuses to let you take a true-crime approach. because it refuses to prioritize the narratives of perpetrators over human lives. you are there, and you are hurting.

man. really, if you're going to watch anything, watch this.

[ihavemanyhusbands]

Bloodhound

Also on AO3

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem!Reader

Summary: Before meeting the ghoul, you worked as a courier. After striking a mutually beneficial deal with him, you become a bounty hunter, but it’s clear that your dynamic is much more complicated than that.

WC: 2.5k words

Warnings: MINORS DNI THIS FIC IS 18+, pet play (implied), porn with little plot, dom/sub dynamics, mentions of violence, both praise and degradation, light dehumanization, the ghoul calls you ‘mutt’, unprotected p in v (DO NOT), radiated creampie (dw they use radaway after the fic is over lmao), oral (m receiving), aaaand thats all i can think of but lmk if i missed anything!

A/N: Shoutout to @finniestoncrane who posted an amazing fic w/ the same kink that made me feel brave enough to post this dirty lil fic i could not get out of my head these past weeks :D

——————

A loud, high pitched whistle made you pause mid-sentence. You recognized it as a sign that time was almost up, and you better get some answers before he lost his patience altogether.

You sighed, closing your eyes for a moment before looking back at the small shop’s vendor. 

“You said you heard he was going north?” You asked.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes, heard him mention something about one of those mini-marts. You know the kind. There’s two on the way to Shady Sands that might be worth checking.”

You swallowed hard, but hid your discomfort. “And he was gone yesterday morning? Alone?”

“Yeah, as far as I know he arrived alone, too.”

“You weren’t curious enough to ask?”

“Not the kind to ask raiders more questions than I need to.”

You stared at him for a moment, trying to gauge if he was telling the truth or not. He had no reason to be helping raiders, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have other reasons to lie. 

He cleared his throat and looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. He’d been eyeing the clunky, collar-like tracking device around your neck, unsure of what it meant or who exactly was tracking you. Clearly, he didn’t intend to find out.

“Alright, I’ve told you enough. You better get out of here before anyone else starts asking questions.”

You nodded once, knowing better than to push your luck. You took three caps out of a hidden pouch on your belt and tossed them at him. 

“Thanks,” you said, turning on your heel and making your way back out of the narrow alleyway.

The ghoul was leaning against the wall just out of view, the brim of his hat pulled low. You caught the edge of his grin as you approached, and he pushed off the wall to fall into step next to you.

“Well?” He asked, keeping his voice low and casual.

You relayed the information you’d acquired about the target — a bounty he’d picked up a few days earlier, at another settlement. A raider had wreaked havoc there and killed two in the process, so the families were looking for some justice.

Easy enough to take care of, the ghoul had figured, and all for a decent price. So he’d immediately put you on his trail, as he always did. Much easier for smoothies to be asking questions and actually get some answers — Not everyone tolerated his kind.

You had a few opinions on what to do next, but you kept them to yourself, knowing he wouldn’t want them unless he’d specifically asked. He hummed, the gears in his mind already turning. 

You peered at him sideways, wondering what his strategy would be. He didn’t often let you in on them unless it was necessary, but based on what you’d experienced so far, you at least trusted his cleverness.

“Good girl, that’s real useful,” he said finally, seemingly satisfied with what he was coming up with.

He flicked your chin up with his knuckle in what could almost be called affection, but not quite. You carefully hid the secret pleasure you felt at his praise, averting your gaze. Somehow, even at his meanest, he always managed to make it sound so good — at least in the same way a bruise felt good.

Formerly, in your life as a courier, you’d been severely underestimated many times. Traveling alone, especially, had its disadvantages, but it wasn’t brute strength that had so far kept you alive. You were cunning too, in your own way. 

Always keenly observant of your surroundings, picking up clues that most would miss. You were generally pretty reserved anyway, preferring to stay quiet and listen. It was easy for you to blend in with your surroundings, seemingly harmless, and people often let their guard down around you. Big mistake on their part.

The ghoul had taken notice of you, though. It had been months ago, at some repurposed saloon further up north, where there was a lot of foot traffic. It was really easy to get jobs there, or exchange information, so you often passed through. As it happened, so did he, and he’d kept an eye out after you initially caught his attention.

Once he’d learned just how useful you’d actually be to him, well… he just couldn’t pass up an opportunity like that. He had a certain way with words, exuding charm, knowing very well how to get what he wanted. Despite most people’s apprehension of ghouls, you didn’t really mind them as long as they weren’t feral and trying to bite your face off. 

Clearly, he wasn’t that type. So, you’d made an agreement of sorts with him, splitting the profits sixty-forty for every bounty fulfilled. Easy money, you figured, and some company to boot. More safety in numbers, after all, especially with someone as skilled as him. 

But from the get go, he always made it abundantly clear that he was the one calling the shots. There had been no room for argument on that, though strangely enough, you had felt a certain sense of freedom by submitting to it.

The tracking device he’d clasped around your neck soon after was just a little extra precaution, he had said. You had relatively free rein, but still he didn’t let you stray too far. And if you did, then his lasso would work as a makeshift leash to drag you back. 

Later on, when you’d developed a system of communication without words – especially for greater distances – you realized it’d felt more like training, in a way. Bending you to his will, sometimes with more charm, others with what he called discipline. And soon enough, after nights of growing closeness and a simmering tension, rewards also came into play. 

In the end, it all worked out, and before you knew it, the two of you were running like a well oiled machine. The hunter and his bloodhound. 

You started the trek north, taking advantage of the daylight. You kept your eyes peeled for any distinct tracks or other clues. When you saw an old, rundown shack in the near distance, you glanced back at him and then trotted off as soon as he nodded. 

Once you’d cleared it, you returned to where he was and continued on your way. Three more times, you checked abandoned buildings, but there was nothing of note in any of them. 

The first mini-mart you arrived at turned out to be more useful. The ghoul helped you interrogate a couple of raiders you’d found holing up there. They weren’t very forthcoming at first, but you left the jostling to him, given that it was his specialty. 

Soon enough, he managed to knock a couple of answers out of them, and then you were on your way again. You settled in an abandoned, half-collapsed house for the evening, a fire burning before the sun even finished setting. 

He sat on the other side of it, silently sharpening his machete, lost in thought. You looked off into the middle distance, unbothered by the quiet. It was a welcome reprieve after a long day, when all you wanted to do was unwind.

But that wasn’t to say it was always easy, even if you were on the brink of exhaustion. Sometimes you just needed a little extra help to get you there.

The ghoul noticed the tense set of your shoulders and your restless shifting. He heard the soft sighs you weren’t even aware you were letting out, short and almost impatient. But what could you possibly be waiting for?

His eyes lingered pensively on the tracking device, like a mark of his ownership, before trailing lower, towards your chest. He licked his lips, a few ideas coming to mind. 

“Say… how would you like a little treat for doin’ such a good job today?” He drawled, a roguish grin on his face as one of his hands came to rest heavily on his belt buckle.

Your attention was drawn there, but you quickly looked back up at his face. Instead of giving in to the impulse to nod eagerly, you bit your lip and decided to test the waters just a little bit.

“A treat, hmm?” you said, slightly tilting your head to one side, a sly smile tugging at your lips.

He nodded, adjusting his position lazily, hips bucking. “Oh yes, I’m feelin’ quite generous today, and you’ve earned it.”

This time you couldn’t hide the effect his words had on you, and he chuckled. Truth be told, you’d had this in mind all day, a craving that would not go away until you had him. It was why you’d gone the extra mile, knowing it wouldn’t escape his notice. He’d gotten real good at reading your moods, after all.

“Come sit pretty for me over here, why don’t’cha?” He said and tapped his foot on the ground, spurs jingling softly. 

You made your way over to him and knelt at his feet. He bent forward, looming over you, and grasped your chin with a gloved hand. 

“Well, ain’t you just the most obedient little thing? I’ve got you well trained, don’t I?” he said, his eyes roaming over your face. “Go on now, get your treat.”

He let go of your face and leaned back, adjusting his hips to bring them closer to you. Your fingers shook only slightly as you deftly undid his belt, then bent your head to undo the zipper with your teeth. There was a low sound of approval in his throat as you tugged his pants down, along with his underwear.

Your mouth watered at the sight of his hardening cock, the head of it lazily resting against his lower abdomen. You were about to curl your fingers around the shaft, but he shook his head.

“No hands,” he said, clicking his tongue. “You don’t need to use your hands anymore.”

You nodded, sticking out your tongue as your head dipped once more. You licked a long, languid stripe up the length of it, making it twitch in response. He sighed a rough good girl as his legs widened to adjust his position, a gloved hand resting on your head. 

Your lips wrapped around the tip, teasing it with little flicks of your tongue. He grunted, his hips jutting upwards. Your mouth was warm and wet and inviting as his cock slid inside it with ease. His head tipped back in ecstasy for a moment before he looked back down to watch you take it deeper into your throat. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he said, his voice thick with lust. “I must’ve been real lucky to find such a good lil cocksucker like you.”

You moaned around him, shifting your knees as you felt yourself growing wetter. Your head bobbed up and down at an almost hypnotic pace, hands straining at your sides to keep yourself from using them.

When you reached the base, his cock fully sheathed in your throat, he kept your head down for a moment. You fought the urge to gag, breathing slowly through your nose. 

Then he let you come up for air, the lower half of your face a slobbery mess as you panted. Your eyes were glazed over with desire as you looked up at him, and his cock twitched. 

“Such a pretty mutt, aren’t’cha? I bet you’re all soaked and ready for me,” he rasped, holding your gaze as your tongue lavished his balls with some attention. 

He sucked in a breath through his teeth, feeling himself start to near the edge. But he didn’t want to get there quite yet, and he didn’t want it to be in your mouth this time.

Still, he allowed himself a moment longer, his hand pushing your head to press your face against his cock, hips rocking slightly. Your tongue was still out, trying to catch whatever skin it could, and he let out a deep groan.

“Alright, don’t get too excited now. Turn around and let me take a look.”

You did as told, hastily pulling your pants and underwear down to your knees and presenting yourself for him. You watched him tug his gloves off over your shoulder, appraising you with hungry eyes, and then he knelt behind you.

“My, oh my…” he said as some of your arousal dripped onto the ground. “Just as I thought… Let’s see if she’s ready for me.”

You felt the head of his cock prodding at your entrance, slowly pushing inside. Eagerly, you pushed your hips back to take more of him, but he stopped you by grabbing your hips.

“Easy, easy,” he chuckled. “You want me to fuck you that bad, huh?”

You nodded, whimpering a little as he thrusted shallowly, stretching you further to accommodate him.  

“Please,” you breathed, your voice broken by desperation, and he pushed your head to the ground.

“It’s cute when you whine like a bitch in heat,” he cooed, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. “Now stay there and take it like the good girl I know y’are.”

Once he was able to fully slide in and out of you with little pushback, his thrusts gradually got faster. You moaned with each rough snap of his hips, deliriously chanting fuck, fuck, fuck under your breath.

He felt impossibly deep at that angle, practically driving you into the ground. One of his hands cracked down on your ass, making you flinch from surprise, your cunt squeezing him hard.

He growled at that, fucking you harder while tugging your hips backwards to meet his thrusts. He was repeatedly hitting a sensitive spot that had your vision going white, eclipsing everything else.

“God damn, this pussy’s so good to me,” he groaned, smacking your ass once more. “You enjoyin’ your treat? Huh?”

“Yes,” you gasped, legs kicking slightly at the intensity, eyes rolling to the back of your head. “I-I’m gonna… Can I cum? Please?”

He was pleased that you’d still thought to ask, but he was too keen on pleasing you at that moment to deny you. “Go on, I’ve got you. Come all over my cock.”

The orgasm rocked throughout your body, every one of your muscles taut as you unraveled. His name spilling from your lips as a whimper, something to cling onto. The way your cunt greedily, and oh so sweetly, squeezed his cock then had him right behind you. 

A rough, feral sound escaped him as his hips snapped against you one last time, spilling hotly inside of you. Your walls continued to flutter in the aftermath, milking out his own pleasure. 

After, he pulled out to get a look at the mess he’d made of you. Hummed with self satisfaction as he saw his spend trickling out of you, like another mark of his ownership.

Your head swam as if you were drunk, but still you smiled at him over your shoulder beatifically. Mischief danced in your eyes, but he’d already known it had been your plan to end up there all along.

“Always so eager to please.” He returned the grin slyly. “Maybe I ought to give you treats more often, if you keep it up.”

Perhaps it hadn’t been his intention, but you took those words as a challenge all the same. 

--------

[lilbardrhi]

"Broken", Not Stupid - 4: There Are Worse Options

Pairing: alpha!Simon "Ghost" Riley x unusual omega!OC (13)

CW: Omegaverse; cult-like situation; dehumanization

Author's Note: I can't stop. Oops. If you want to be on the tag list, drop a comment to let me know <3 Also, I feel the need to warn you that CoD fic is what got me into Omegaverse and this is the first time I've written it lol

Thirteen hours.

It took thirteen hours for the paperwork to be filled out and processed. They'd dragged Simon off immediately to fill out the paperwork and I was "escourted" (dragged) to my space to wait.

The last thirteen hours have been spent with staff members pampering me. Bathing me, doing my hair and makeup, dressing me in clothes that aren't Salvation's omega dresscode - all of it. There was even something of a literal photoshoot?

I don't know why they needed photos of me, but I always knew these people were weird.

However, all of that lead to me being prettily posed in the room they keep omegas in while they wait for their new alphas to arrive. Specifically at 10:30 pm. I almost want to shoot Simon for the insistence of immediate pick-up.

Could be asleep by now.

A knock at the door pulls me from my whirlwind of thoughts and I sit up straighter, putting on my best "submissive omega" impression for whoever enters.

"UK-009-0013? Your alpha has arrived," an employee calls from the other side of the door.

I stand quickly and tug gently at the way-too-big black skull tshirt that they ended up putting me in at some point.

"Come in."

The door creaks open and reveals Jenny - who looks way too happy - and Simon.

"There she is, sir. In the clothes you dropped off, as you requested," Jenny says a bit too proudly.

"I can see that."

I have to suppress my laugh at the look of hurt on Jenny's face at Simon's lack of praise. Instead, I continue my "submissive omega" act and begin fidgeting with the edge of the tshirt while looking up at Simon through my lashes. The more smitten I appear the better.

"Simon," I call to him softly, meekly.

He wastes no time crossing the room and scooping me into his arms at the sound of my voice. My arms wrap tightly around him and I grab fistfuls of the back of his hoodie.

"Anyway you can tone that shit down a bit?" he whispers into my ear, voice a bit strained.

"Not if you want any chance of getting me out of here without roadblocks," I whisper back with my face burried against his neck. "Don't make it weird."

I'm acting, to him, like I'm unphased by having an alpha but the seemingly-dormant omega portion of my brain seems to be waking up. She's still drowsy and unsure what's happening, but with my face shoved against his neck...

I can smell him.

I've never been this close, physically, to any alpha before. The fact that doing so is triggering the omega part of my brain is royally pissing me off. Thankfully, Simon loosens his grip on me and steps back. One of his hands drops to mine, his fingers lacing through mine.

"Everything is settled. Correct?" Simon addresses Jenny agan as he turns. "I'd like to take my future mate home now."

My cheeks warm slightly at the comment and the implications, but I remind myself that it's part of the act to get me (and hopefully other omegas) out of Salvation's grasp.

"Of course! Everything is settled and you're both free to go." Jenny's smile is unsettling, as per usual, but so is her choice in wording. It's clear from the way Simon's grip tightens around my hand that he also finds it strange. However, as promised, we are allowed to leave with no problems.

As soon as we're out of view of the property, I feel my entire body relax. My muscles ache from being tense for so long - literal years - and I'm tearing up out of relief.

Bless Simon, though. If he noticed my change in demeanor, he didn't comment or react.

"Are these... your clothes?" I ask once I manage to force the tears back.

He stays quiet for so long I start to think he didn't even hear me.

"Would it bother you if I said yes?"

Not... the response I was expecting, but alright.

"Not really, no. It'd be expected. Giving me things with your scent and all that." I toy with the strings on the sweatpants. They're long and hang low from how tightly I had to tie them to get the pants to stay up.

"This, whatever it is, doesn't have to be like that." His voice is gentle, unlike what it has been 99% of the time. Even when we were playing our parts to get me out of there there was a mostly gruff, gravely tone to his voice. I glance at him, confused as all hell, but his eyes are trained on the road.

"Didn't you go to Salvation to find an omega? A mate?"

"Yeah, I guess," he shrugs, eyes forward still. "But there are more important things in the world than finding a mate and reproducing for the sake of having a mate and reproducing. Like rights and safety. Especially that of omegas."

The omega in my mind seems sad at his offer and point of view of our situation, but I couldn't be happier. Salvation is not what it implies and I knew I would never get out of there or be able to help my fellow omegas while stuck in their grasp.

An alpha who seems to actually care about the wellbeing of others. Even if he is a bit... odd.

Things could be worse. A lot worse.

Masterlist | CoD Masterlist | Part One

Tag List: @lucienofthelakes @lostintransist @demothers-empty-blog @scaredyspooks

[callmelittlebuttercup]

Man Up - One Shot

Pairing: Jackson!Joel x f!Reader

Summary: After hearing from his brother, maria, and Ellie that Joel likes you, you confront him and tell him that he needs to “man up”.

Warnings: Fluff!! Menacing!Joel, use of problematic language, Joel and reader are emotionally stunted, rom-com type flirtiness, Joel is "happy" and all of the Ellie stuff never happened and they're living happily ever after because I said so! :))))))

BEFORE YOU READ: I do not condone telling ANYONE of any gender to “man up” because I know it is a hurtful and dehumanizing term. However, in this context, both the reader and Joel are extremely emotionally stunted and the reader is only using the term to get a rise out of Joel (which is still toxic, but is anything with Joel Miller ever going to be non-toxic? Let’s be real with ourselves LOL.) With that being said, keep in mind this is fiction, it is being said “for the plot”, and I do not condone the use of this language towards anyone else. I love you guys and enjoy!  

~~~~~~

“He’s into you. You really can’t see it?” Maria asked as she watched you finish washing your hands in the bathroom of the Tipsy Bison. “I don’t know, Maria. It’s been so long since someone’s been ‘into me’ or I’ve been ‘into someone’... It’s also just so confusing. Plus it’s fucking Joel Miller. The guy hates everyone.” You lamented. “Everyone but you!” Ellie chimed in as she opened the door to her stall and joined you at the sink. “See?” Maria said, gesturing towards Ellie, “Even the person who’s known him the longest says so.” You rolled your eyes.  “Well, she’s not even supposed to be here. It’s a bar and she’s 16 years old.” You pointed out. The three of you laughed as you took Ellie into a playful headlock. “But she’s cute so I made an exception.” Maria chuckled. You and Ellie broke away from each other, smiling. “For fear of embarrassment, I’ve been trying to let him make the first move.” You said, leaning against the sink. “Maybe he’s doing the same.” Maria suggested. “Guess we’ll never know.” You sighed dramatically and moved to exit the bathroom. The two of them followed behind you. “What is there to lose?” Ellie questioned. “My patrol partner, my… friend?” You answered smartly. “But the world has already ended, girl, I think that’s enough of a reason to say fuck it and just ask him out. I had to make the first move with Tommy.” Maria paused and then continued, “The Millers are all rough and tumble, until it comes to feelings, then they run away with their tail between their legs.” Ellie laughed, “That’s for sure.” Soon enough, you guys neared the table that you three and the two brothers had taken for yourselves, you whispered under your breath, “Well, he needs to man up.” 

Joel locked eyes with you as you approached and quickly slid over in the booth to make room for you. You clocked this and filed it in the “evidence that Joel likes me” file in your brain, and proceeded to sit down next to him. The four of you drank and talked while Ellie played pool with Dina. Every so often you’d hear a playful argument break out between the two and you’d catch sight of Joel’s smile. He was happy Ellie had a friend, and so were you. 

After you downed the last of your drink, you sat up from your slump in the booth and grabbed your coat. “Well, I think I’m gonna turn in. Gotta be up tomorrow for patrol.” You said as you stood at the end of the table awkwardly. “Do you want us to walk you home?” Tommy asked, gesturing to him and Maria. “Joel will, right Joel?” Ellie asked with a mischievous glint in her eye. Joel cleared his throat and shot Ellie a look, “Who will take your sorry ass home then?” He asked. “We will,” Maria chimed in, “I don’t mind doin’ a switch off.” This time you shot her a look. You were tipsy and on the brink of getting a headache and the last thing you wanted to do was force a conversation with a brick wall named Joel Miller. Though much to your surprise, he stood up and began to shepherd you out of the bar. “See you guys later!” You called back to the group. “Get home safe!” Maria called. “Don’t do anythin’ I wouldn’t do!” Tommy called. You caught sight of Ellie making kissy faces at you and you promptly stuck your tongue out at her. Joel caught sight of you and said, “Don’t make faces at my kid.” You saw the half smile on his face and chuckled. “Your kid’s making faces at me.” You said drunkenly. 

Joel pushed the door open and you practically stumbled out into the chilling winter air. The sun had set long ago, leaving only the thousands of stars to contrast against the pitch black sky. You hadn’t realized that you’d stopped to stare until Joel broke your focus, “You comin’ or what?” He asked impatiently. “Yeah,” you said groggily, “Sorry.” You hurried to catch up and matched his stride. “God… I’m drunk.” You sighed, mostly to yourself. “I know.” Joel mumbled. “Y’know I can walk myself home.” You said defensively. “You just said it yourself, you’re drunk. Not safe.” He argued. “Yeah well at least if I was by myself there’d be better conversation.” You joked. “Ah, so you’re a belligerent, mumbling drunk.” He said, keeping his proud gaze on the streets ahead. “At least I’m the same exact person but just a little more talkative when I’m drunk like you.” You argued. “Shut up.” He chuffed, a small smile crinkled his eyes. You nudged your shoulder into his arm, sending him a few steps to the side, “You shut up.” 

He rolled his eyes, but the smile on his face disappeared when you arrived at the steps of your house. He followed you up and waited patiently as you fumbled in your pockets for your keys. “Want coffee or anythin’?” You asked. He thought for a moment, then nodded, “Sure. Could use some for the walk home.” Once you practically busted the door open, the two of you walked to your kitchen and Joel perched himself on a stool at the counter as he watched you sloppily make a pot of coffee. “I’m glad Ellie met Dina. She seems real happy since hanging out with her.” You said, attempting to break through the awkward silence. Joel nodded, “She’s a good friend. They compete a lot in school which helps with her uh… performance or whatever.” You nodded and handed him the steaming mug. 

After the two of you sipped your coffees and talked about practically nothing in small spurts between silence, Joel placed his mug in the sink and picked his coat up off of the chair before sliding it over his shoulders. You watched as he made his way to the door, and  you nodded in agreement when he said “I should head home. I’ll see you in the mornin’ for patrols.” But something burned inside you. Something you could only guess was impatience. You decided that now, the time where you had some liquid courage warming your stomach and caffeine pumping through your veins, would be as good a time as any to get an answer out of Joel. 

“When are you gonna man up?” You blurted just before Joel could place his hand on the doorknob. He whirled around angrily. “Excuse me?” He sneered. There was no going back now, so you crossed your arms over your chest and repeated yourself, slower this time. “When are you going to man up?” He stared at you in disbelief for a moment and you watched as his eyes studied you, waiting for you to take back your words. “Man up?” He scoffed. “Yeah.” You confirmed anxiously. Your heart jumped to your throat as he began to walk back towards you  slowly. “Man up… and what?” He asked as he backed you against the wall, causing you to nearly lose your footing. You looked above your head at the veins pulsing in his forearm which was now planted against the wall. His face was inches from yours and you could smell the whiskey you’d shared on his breath. You gulped, “And- and admit you like me.” Your stomach dropped when he let out a dead eyed laugh. “Like you? What- is this middle school? We whisperin’ about crushes now?” He mocked. Embarrassment filled your chest and all you wanted to do was push him away, run up stairs and wrap yourself in the covers of your bed. “Fuck,” you said under your breath, “just forget it. Fuck.” You pressed your hands against his chest and tried to push him off, but he wasn’t budging. “‘Course I like you.” he finally said and pressed your arms down in an attempt to get you to stop pushing him away. You locked eyes with him again, “What?” You blurted. You were confused from being pushed in so many directions that you didn’t know what to think at this point. “I ain’t the best with words… but I’ve been tryin’ to show you.” He whispered. 

His soft stare was healing every wound that had been inflicted by his sharp one earlier.  Your breath caught in your throat as he leaned down to press his lips to yours. A feeling of tv static coursed through your veins. From the top of your neck, down through your fingertips and toes. Adrenaline caused your hands to start shaking, but Joel grabbed them and pushed them around his neck before he wrapped his arms around your waist, pressing further into the kiss. When he pulled away, your foreheads pressed together. “That man enough for you?” He asked, a small smirk twisting the corner of his lips upward. You smiled lightly and played with a tuft of hair at the base of his skull before tugging it lightly. “Congratulations, Mr. Miller. You’ve officially grown a pair.” You teased before pulling him into you for an even deeper kiss. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

a/n: Hiiii! I hope you enjoyed this little rom-com-esque vibe. As always, thank you for reading and please comment below to be on the tag-list or with any requests! <3

Taglist: @ashleyfilm @pastelpinkflowerlife @orcasoul

[shallowseeker]

And yeah, it sucks, and Dean was cruel and murderous and dehumanizing, but on the other hand, 14 days isn't very long.

And yet, at 14 days, things were already starting to repair and heal with Jack just a little bit, even before Cas came back.

(I've seen it said that this didn't occur till after Cas came back, but in 13x04, Jack's behavior and personality are what began to thaw Dean out and, per the script, "put chinks in his armor.”)

///

Interestingly, even back in 13x02, Dean’s body language doesn't match his words. Here it reads as "move behind me."

///

By the end of 13x04, Dean and Jack are tentatively starting to like each other. They're even a little bit alike in this scene:

*THEM: not looking directly at each other as they say HEY awkwardly*

Jack: Hey.

*Dean, doing the same thing*

This is also maybe the first time Dean calls Jack by his name? (I'd have to check, but I think so.)

*Dean’s eyes flitting around nervously*

Dean: “You did good today (pause) Jack”

Yeah, I think you can make a well-argued case for something-something “conditional love.”

But given the Kelly-Cas brainwashing and everything else that came before, I’d say it’s not unreasonable for Jack to like having established trust. To have earned trust.

Earning trust is important in all relationships, not necessarily always an evil “conditional” thing.

///

Then Dean goes and apologizes to Sam, saying that he was out of line during the therapy session and that he's sorry for being a dick lately.

It's sweet, but also, no one is being very empathetic to Dean and his losses. But I think by this point in Dean's life, Dean's not really expecting that either.

He’s only able to get that support from one person in his life right now: Jody Mills. (13x03) Which is part of why he felt comfy taking the case with her, I think.

Later in this scene, in a break with his past tendencies, Dean will actually try to rely on Sam:

///

DEAN: And he tapped his power and saved our asses, so that's a win.

Sam was right about one thing, though. It wasn't Jack’s powers that impressed Dean, or even being saved. It was the effort.

(Jack's personality was already thawing Dean, too.)

///

The rest of the scene is sweet. Dean tries to see Sam's perspective, and Sam tries to see Dean's.

It's a trading of strength and hope, which is how real families are, too. Our strength and resilience wax and wane, and we share our burdens, but we try to share our hope, too.

This is a rare occasion: Dean is trying to share a burden; he lets Sam know how bad it really is.

(Dundundun! Ellen Harvelle would be proud.)

Dean is accepting that Sam isn't going to get there on his own. So he spells out his despair for him. The Cas of it all.

And Sam seems to get that it’s a Cas thing. That's clear in his behavior in the next episode. And Sam wants to be there for Dean, I don't think that's a lie, but…

Sam ALWAYS wants Dean to tell him stuff like this, to talk out the big stuff. But one of Sam’s hopes is that talking things out will fix them.

(Classic Type-A kinda mentality.)

But THIS? Cas’s death isn't fixable, not quite as nebulous as the mom-in-Apocalypse-World-problem is. (In fact, I wouldn't put it past Sam to have been up all night researching, finding NO way to get Cas back. Alternatively, the constant casework could represent just utter denial.)

Anyhoo, Sam's grieving the losses too, but Dean is different. And unfortunately for Sam, John Winchester's grief was so horrendous and frightening that seeing Dean's, uh, particular kind of grief triggers Sam's panic response.

Just look at Sam’s face here.

SAM's BRAIN: brrrrrrrr RED ALERT brrrrr RED ALERT

*Meanwhile*

///

Next episode (13x05):

We find Sam in a state of near-panic. Just look at that face:

And actually, looking at Sam's D8> here…

..I think it's possible that he TOTALLY knew what the PB&J stuff was about, and his brain went into a meat grinder of:

OH NO FUCK NO NO NOT THIS--I RECOGNIZE THIS. THIS KIND OF GRIEF RUINED MY CHILDHOOD!!!!!111

{8[

Don't Grieve in Front of Me Dean (analysis)

Don't Grieve in Front of Me Dean Redux (s7 analysis)

///

So.

Sam finds a case about best friends. Makes you wonder what he was googling to find it...

And Sam’s distress surrounding the case is interesting, because he is behaving so DIFFERENTLY than he was in 13x02 and 13x03:

Dean: *cue surprise*

Dean is weirded out. Maybe he figured Sam would let him take a real break, or maybe it's just that the timing of Sam’s suggestion of leaving Jack behind feels weird now.

They’ve switched places.

Dean was eager to leave Jack in 13x03, and Sam was the one insisting on them staying with Jack to help him “learn to control his powers.”

Now, in about two weeks’ time, Sam’s like—“Jack has TV! We’ll put up extra warding! It’ll be fiiiine!”

Dean’s brain, probably: Hmmm. Sam is trying to cheer me up, but wow are these about-faces on what's bad parenting and what's good parenting kinda fucked up.

///

And at the end of the episode, Dean tries again to tell Sam just how bad it is (mirroring Mary's willingness to offer up “not being okay” in s12):

And Sam is pretty much at sea.

[mhinnui]

here's my little analysis on vere havinf commitment+attachment issues for the 3 people who asked.. love you guys

um beforehand I want it to be known if I got anything wrong please correct me, and alot of this was from my friend heidienui on tt🤞🤞🤞kinda long

——

Literally his entire character is being so mysterious and lying to the point the entire main cast (except Ais I fear) is annoyed by him and wants nothing to do with him. He makes it clear he wants nothing to do with a relationship—and I'd believe it's partly because he wouldn't want to be chained down in THAT part of his life as well (along with the senobium chaining him)—but I also believe it's because he feels a bit ashamed of it?? Yes, he's strong, but would you honest to god want to try to form a genuine connection when you are treated like a freak and a hunting dog? Even Mhin says how dehumanizing it is. "There are monsters living on every other street, but he's the only one who needs a muzzle before being taken on a walk."

He lies about most, if not anything, and gets mad when asked too many questions (if I'm correct even in his demo end he kills the MC after you ask about the main cast). He deviates the subject through sexual innuendos and jokes, and I'd like to emphasize kuras in particular. I read all his relationship charts, he only seems to be afraid of Kuras (who showed his true form to him). He only deviates the topic in such a way that becomes noticeable with Kuras. Thought that was an interesting detail

Bringing back the idea of a relationship being the only aspect of his life not 'tying him down', I really do think that's why he has commitment issues. He already had the Senobium put him on some magic collar and chain, and he's bound by their will til the day he dies—Why would he want to lock himself down with a single person, too? (+my friend heki even added that he wouldn't want to tie himself down in fears that it'll be come one sided, like his feelings towards the senobium)

Basically in summary he lies abt everything and has difficulty trusting others and gaining an actual, genuine connection with people (he only really does hookups, not real affection),,, umm and he hates commitment because it's the only freedom he truly has left

[aquaquadrant]

from eden, part IX (act II)

Word count: 15,401 Warnings: Self-deprecating thoughts (not really, Jimmy’s just a listener and doesn’t know it), strong language, internalized racism, past abuse/experimentation, dehumanization, self-hatred, kissing, mature implications (fade to black), voluntary decapitation Summary: The Double Lifers have successfully thwarted the invasion by Hels Tek, but not unscathed. Now that Tango’s been outed as Bravo’s doppelgänger, the remaining threads are starting to unravel, and Jimmy suddenly finds himself fighting to save Tango from his own inner demons. Can their love survive the fallout?

A/N: This chapter had to get split into two parts bc Tumblr sucks, here's a link to the first half if u missed it. Hope y'all enjoy, please reblog/comment if you do!

Also please don’t think too hard abt the technical portal/redstone junk. I’m throwin a lotta random terms and conditions out there in the hopes of creating a feasible explanation for how portal travel works, and how Hels differs from other worlds in that regard. It’s possible there are contradictions or other things that I didn’t fully think through, but these details aren’t really important. Just try to suspend ur disbelief. - Aqua

~*~

from eden, part IX (act II) - no tired sighs, no rolling eyes, no irony

~*~

“Right then. Uh, thank you all for coming on short notice.”

Grian’s tentative welcome is met with a chorus of rather subdued greetings from the Double Lifers. Everyone is gathered in a loose semicircle around spawn, standing in their respective soulbound pairs and groups. Jimmy would’ve preferred to have this conversation sitting down, inside somewhere, but Tango had insisted on spawn.

Only now does Jimmy realize that the open nature of the forest clearing at spawn is less enclosed than a room filled with fourteen people would feel, and he understands.

Tango hadn’t been very talkative on the way over. But every time he said something, it was with that same forced ‘Everything’s fine!’ kind of attitude. It’s really starting to frustrate Jimmy, making him want to grab Tango by the shoulders and shout, ‘No, actually, everything’s not fine, and that’s okay!’

But he doesn’t think that’d be well received at the moment.

Tango, standing beside Jimmy, is still maintaining his fake nonchalance. To an untrained observer, he’d actually look quite casual. Simply standing with his hands in his pockets, listening intently to Grian with a plain, but not unpleasant, expression. The only indication Jimmy has that he’s at all uncomfortable is the complete lack of movement.

He doesn’t fidget, doesn’t pace, doesn’t shift his weight- all things that might otherwise be taken as signs of anxiety, but are usually normal for Tango. The stillness, though subtle, is concerning. It means he’s tense and on-guard. As if expecting an attack at any second. Which, to be fair, Jimmy doesn’t blame him for. 

But more concerning is the fact that Tango can so easily and convincingly pretend that everything’s fine. He must’ve had a lot of practice.

(Ten years, remember?)

(Of course he’s a good liar.)

(Surprise, surprise.)

Grian clears his throat. “So, as we all know… there was an attack yesterday by some strange fellas who came in through a hacked portal of some sort. I’ve locked the world down for the moment, but until we know all the who’s, why’s, and how’s, I’m afraid that’s only a temporary solution… since I’m sure you all don’t wanna be stuck here forever.” 

He says it matter-of-factly, not a hint of any frustration, annoyance, or other ill-feeling in his voice. But Jimmy sees Tango’s face twitch anyway. Unsurprisingly, the guilt is getting to him.

“But that’s why we’re here,” Grian continues, taking a more upbeat tone. “Tango has kindly agreed to explain a little better what’s goin’ on, so hopefully, we can get to the bottom of this and uh… come up with a plan for moving forward.” He gestures invitingly towards Tango. “Tango?”

(Here we go…)

Tango clears his throat. “Right, yeah, thanks.” He takes a small step forward, casting a quick glance around the clearing. “Okay, so here’s the deal. I spawned in a world called Hels, where every player is sort of an evil counterpart to an overworld player elsewhere in the universe. At least, that’s what I’ve gathered from the Helsknight fiasco.”

Jimmy can actually see the sudden realization that settles over all the present Hermits- minus Pearl, who seems as out of the loop as the others.

Grian’s eyes widen. “Oh my gosh, that makes so much sense…”

“Oh, dudes,” Ren breathes, running a clawed hand through his hair. “Not gonna lie, I completely forgot about that…”

“Same here,” Impulse says, looking stunned. “I mean, it was over and done with so fast, and Wels didn’t seem worried, so I guess none of us really thought to look into it? Man…”

Scott puts a hand up. “Um, what’s tha’ Helsknight fiasco?” he asks, frowning.

“Oh, right.” Tango scratches the back of his head. “So, you guys know of Welsknight, right? One of our fellow hermits?” At the group’s hesitant nods, he continues, “On Hermitcraft’s seventh world, there was this player who randomly joined and attacked Wels. None of us ever saw him, but when Wels explained the situation later… he said Helsknight was some kinda evil clone, and that he came from a place called Hels.”

Murmurs of surprise and confusion ripple through the group. Jimmy longs to put a hand on Tango’s shoulder as a reassurance, but based on how tense he is, that’d probably set him off.

“Wait, really?” Pearl asks, her antennae curling in surprise. “What’re the chances of that?”

“I know,” Cleo agrees, “it was really strange, in hindsight…”

“So this Helsknight guy,” Joel says, knitting his brows together. “He’s what Bravo was talkin’ about, one of those Hels players? Like all the other people that came through the portal?”

“Yeah,” Martyn chimes in, “I- I noticed a lot of uh, ‘Hels’ in the names in chat. Or like, ones with ‘bad’ or ‘evil’ kinda vibes.”

“Yep.” Tango nods stiffly. “Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t know Helsknight or- or how he joined Hermitcraft, but it was obvious he was Wels’s counterpart. I mean, he said he was ‘all the darkest parts’ of Wels, right?” He folds his arms. “Well, I’m that for Bravo. A sort of uh- a personification of his badness, I guess.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Bigb cuts in, holding his hands up. “So- so you’re sayin’ that we all have these… Hels versions of ourselves?”

“Evil doppelgängers, yeah,” Tango amends. “I mean, I don’t know why it’d only be for some players and not others, and Hels is plenty big enough for every player in the universe to have a counterpart. You go to any of the major cities around spawn, and it’ll definitely feel that way.”

“What’s this… Hels world like?” Pearl asks, her red eyes wide with a sort of morbid fascination.

Tango’s expression darkens. “It’s an ancient world, infinite and deadly. The overworld and nether are fused into one crazy, messed-up realm full of these weird hybrid kinda biomes, and- and you can’t access the end. The bedrock ceiling makes it so hostile mobs spawn basically everywhere, but you can’t find naturally spawning passive mobs for like, hundreds of thousands of blocks around spawn, ‘cause the early players murdered them all. And no portal travel in or out- at least, that’s what we thought.”

Jimmy’s starting to see why Bravo described Hels as ‘an inescapable prison of horrific violence and suffering.’ 

Grian raises his eyebrows. “No end?”

“No portals?” Bdubs echoes disbelievingly.

Etho, who’s been listening with rapt attention, tilts his head. “That Bravo guy, he mentioned something about my, uh… my doppelgänger?”

Tango shrugs. “He must’ve met them at some point in the last ten years, yeah. I- I dunno, I never did.” He pauses, creasing his brows as he glances around the circle again. “Actually, I don’t think I ever met any of your guys’s Hels. Or, if I did, I don’t remember.”

That makes Jimmy frown. “What do you mean?”

Tango gives Jimmy a sidelong look. “I uh, I wasn’t really that social for most of my time there, I spent my childhood being a general menace- most kids do, actually. There’s no infrastructure to look after kids, we- they’re basically on their own. So you can imagine it’s- it’s an interesting world to grow up in.” Idly, he kicks at a clump of grass. “Bunch’a little monsters runnin’ around unsupervised, causing chaos, trying not to get brutally killed by hostile mobs and players, it was great.”

Horror seizes Jimmy. “That’s awful.”

“That’s just how it was,” Tango says bluntly. “I mean, try setting something like that up without an admin, right? See how that goes.”

“Wait, Hels doesn’t have an admin?” Grian repeats.

“Nope. At least, not when I was there.” Tango shrugs. “They hadn’t for a long time before I even spawned, so- so the whole place was basically anarchy, every player for themself.”

Aghast, Scar shakes his head. “What in the world…”

“How long did you spend living like that?” Impulse asks softly, his eyes sad.

Tango’s avoiding everyone’s eyes now, staring off somewhere into the middle distance. “Oh, probably ‘til I was like… fifteen or sixteen? Somewhere in the teen stage? That’s when I met Atlas.” A bitter smile splits across his face. “He told me he was recruiting for his redstone company, Hels Tek, and- and of course he threw in lots of cheap flattery, blah blah blah, and in my young, naive stupidity, I fell hook, line, and sinker. Turns out all he wanted me for was a blaze farm.”

There’s a brief silence.

“What?” Jimmy asks, confused. Is that what Atlas had meant about a farm design? Did they just want to force Tango to make farms for them? He knows Tango’s a bit of an innovator in that regard, but that’s an awful lot of trouble to go through for something that could easily be done by someone else.

“He… wanted you to build a blaze farm?” Impulse asks slowly, brows knitting together.

Tango laughs; a sharp, dry exhale. “No, no. Not to build one. To be one.” He reaches a hand up to tap one of the blaze rods hovering around his head. “I uh, I dunno if you guys have noticed, but these things here aren’t just for show. They’re real, functional blaze rods, and they just so happen to be respawnable.”

Jimmy’s stomach drops.

Oh.

(There we go, now they’ve got it.)

(Makes sense, right?)

(Honestly, it’s so obvious…)

The clearing is deathly silent now. All Jimmy can hear is his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Everything is clicking into place, all the strange things he’s seen and heard suddenly making perfect, horrible sense.

They used Tango as a blaze farm. An actual sentient player, reduced to nothing more than a simple mob. A player with complex thoughts and feelings, with creative ideas and passions, with hopes and fears and dreams. They locked him up like an animal to use for profit- and even now, ten years later, he still can’t fully escape from it.

Jimmy has a sinking feeling he knows what Tango’s nightmares are about.

Tango keeps talking. “They didn’t start with that, of course.” There’s a bored sort of quality to his voice, like he’s merely commentating on the weather. “There was this uhh awkward phase where I thought I was helping with redstone experiments, when actually I was the test subject.”

It’s kind of surreal, actually. To be standing here and talking about this so casually. It’s like Jimmy’s having a nightmare he can’t wake up from.

“And once I caught on, well, they uh- they didn’t exactly have to play nice anymore,” Tango laughs. “That’s where I got these fabulous accessories.” He waves a hand, cuff jangling around his wrist.

Jimmy feels sick. They put the cuffs on Tango to lock him in a farm. To think he’s still had those on him, all this time-

“After that,” Tango continues briskly, “it still took, like, another year of testing for them to develop the most optimized farm.” He delivers the information almost disinterestedly, studying his claws. “It was a pretty smart design, nice and compact.”

Jimmy glances around the clearing. Amidst the shocked, horrified faces, he finds Impulse- who seems to be focused on taking slow, deep breaths, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

(Uh oh, no Impulse to the rescue…)

“Wither roses dealt constant damage,” Tango rattles off, “triggering my blaze rods to respawn as quickly as they could be skadoodled away by hoppers, and they had regen on an automatic clock to keep me alive- though there was a backup respawn anchor for any accidents.”

Wither roses. Of course. Jimmy can picture it, in his mind’s eye; Tango chained up among the ashen flowers. What must it have felt like, to be withering all the time? His health constantly wavering between the icy blackness and the regeneration, every minute of every day. How absolutely miserable.

Jimmy somehow finds his voice again. “How… how long did you spend like that?” he asks hoarsely, stepping next to Tango.

Tango won’t look at him- though he’s carefully watching out of the corner of his eye. “Oh, I dunno… four or five months, maybe?” 

Months. Jimmy’s heart aches. He can’t even begin to imagine what that existence was like. To spend all day trapped in a farm that’s constantly hurting him- and by wither effect, no less. Not to mention how dehumanizing the entire concept is on its own.

“How’d you get out?” Jimmy asks tentatively. “If- if you don’t mind.”

Tango snorts. “Yeah, so, one day, the charge on my anchor ran out when no one was around, so I was able to kill myself to get back to world spawn. And that’s when the portal to Hermitcraft appeared.”

Etho steps forward. “I thought Hels didn’t allow portals?” he asks, his voice as cool and unreadable as his partially-concealed expression.

Jimmy’s taken aback, his feathers puffing up unwittingly. He doesn’t understand how Etho can grill Tango about technical details in such an upsetting situation. In fact, he’d almost think that Etho doesn’t care at all- except the question makes Tango pause. In his expression, Jimmy can see his mind working, and realizes what Etho has done.

By circling back to a scientific topic, he’s provided Tango a distraction. Something less personal for his mind to focus on, and take everyone else’s focus off of him. Already, Jimmy can see that Tango’s less tense as he starts to explain.

“We didn’t have portals in Hels, but we knew the concept from data-mining.” Tango spreads his hands. “Locked comm commands, hidden recipes. But portals to Hermitcraft are made by the universe, right? So- so whatever is preventing Hels players from making portals, it- the universe can circumvent it. ‘Course, at the time, I didn’t know how it appeared or where it was gonna take me, but I went through. And apparently, somehow, a portal appeared in front of Bravo that took him to Hels at the same time. The universe must’ve tried to send Bravo to Hermitcraft, glitched ‘cause of Hels’s wonky portal technology, and swapped us by mistake.”

Etho hums noncommittally. “So it was an accident.”

(Oh, sure.)

(That’s what they think…)

(Yeah, he ‘accidentally’ didn’t tell anyone the truth for ten years.)

Jimmy angrily pushes the thoughts away. So long as Tango didn’t intend to strand Bravo in Hels, that’s all that matters to him.

Tango gives Etho a funny look. “I mean, that’s not the point? Bravo’s been trapped in Hels ever since, ‘cause of me. This whole invasion thing was my fault, they were tryin’ to get me back for the farm and help Bravo escape Hels, and... I dunno, get back to his life? Or, the life I stole from him ten years ago.” He shrugs. “So yeah. Secret’s out, sorry I’ve been lying to some of you for a decade, now, and- and sorry you all got dragged into my mess. I didn’t mean t- well, anyway, that’s- that’s what happened.”

“God, Tango,” Jimmy breathes, reaching a hand out, “I- I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?” Tango asks incredulously, jerking away from Jimmy. “Wh- for what? That’s just what Hels is like, okay, if it wasn’t the farm it’d have been some other terrible thing, so y’know, it’s- it’s whatever.” He lets out another harsh laugh, raking his claws through his hair. “If anything, I’m the one who should be sorry, I mean, I- I’ve been lyin’ for ten years and-”

“They put you in a farm?!”

Everyone jumps. Impulse’s voice is suddenly several octaves lower, quite a bit louder, and warped with distortion into something truly demonic. His pupils have eaten up the rest of his eyes, turning them solid black. The teeth bared in a scowl look bigger and sharper than they used to, and the hands at his sides have sprouted claws. His horns and tail have grown longer, too, and Jimmy can see what looks like dark, leathery wings sprouting up behind him. His entire body is outlined by a bright golden glow, like his skin has abruptly become as hot as lava, and the absolute fury in his expression burns even fiercer.

Ah. This must be ‘full demon’ mode.

Bdubs quickly jumps in front of Impulse, grabbing him by the shoulders to ground him. Jimmy instinctively steps in front of Tango, wings snapping out to shield him from view.

But the damage is already done. Jimmy hears footsteps, and by the time he looks over his shoulder, Tango is gone.

“Tango, wait!” Jimmy turns to follow him, but a hand suddenly grabs his arm.

Martyn is there. “Don’t chase him,” he says lowly, “he’ll only panic more.”

Jimmy wants to argue, but the severity in Martyn’s solitary eye sobers him. “Alright,” he relents, folding his wings. “I… guess I’ll give him a few minutes to calm down…”

“Right, then.” Martyn gives a short nod, putting his hands on his hips. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

“Tell me about it,” Jimmy mutters, gazing back over the clearing.

Impulse is starting to settle back down, Bdubs in front speaking to him in low tones while Etho and Joel each hang onto an arm. It looks like his extra demon-y features are reverting back to his usual state, though he still looks furious.

Grian is sitting against a tree, wings splayed out around him. He’s massaging his temples like he’s warding off a headache, his eyes squeezed shut, groaning, “How did I not see this coming?” while Scar, crouched beside him, rubs his back soothingly.

Ren is pacing back and forth across the clearing. “I should’a killed more of those guys,” he growls, tail lashing, ears pinned flat against his skull.

“Hey, you did all you could,” Bigb says comfortingly. “I was the one that got us killed. If I’d kept my shield up, he wouldn’t have gotten that shot on me.”

“I wish we’d realized that Atlas guy was in charge,” Martyn laments, crossing over to them. “If we’d stopped him from leaving, we could’a gotten a lot more information.”

“I wish we’d known Tango was dealing with all this,” Cleo says bitterly, her crossed arms resting on her knees, Scott leaned against their side. “I mean, honestly… ten years and we never knew? That’s- that’s- that’s rubbish. We’re rubbish friends.”

“Hey, hey now,” Jimmy says, lifting his voice to address the group, “this wasn’t anyone’s fault, okay? You guys have been great friends to Tango- otherwise, he wouldn’t have stuck around for so long, right? It’s- it’s just his way, to try and deal with things on his own without askin’ for help. You know that.”

Cleo exhales slowly. “Yeah, I know. Still sucks.”

“Yeah.” Jimmy glances over at Impulse, who seems to have recovered himself back to normal, sitting cross-legged next to Bdubs. “You alright, Impulse?”

Impulse gives a slight nod, expression guilty. “I’m sorry. I- I almost never lose control like that, I just got so angry… not at Tango!” he quickly clarifies. “Never at him. I- I just… thinking about what they did to him, everything he went through…”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Bdubs murmurs, squeezing Impulse’s hand. “That’s- it’s freaking crazy, right? With th- hyaugh, evil Hels world, puttin’ people in uh, in farms… sheesh.”

“Yeah, it’s alright,” Jimmy assures him. “I know you didn’t mean anythin’ by it. I’m sure Tango does, too, he was just so on-guard the whole time… he just got spooked, that’s all.”

“Jimmy,” Pearl says urgently, fluttering over to him while tailed by her small pack of wolves, “d’you know- uh, is- is everythin’ Tango said true?” she asks, concerned.

Jimmy swallows. “It’s true. I mean, I- I didn’t know about the farm specifically, but based on what I overheard Atlas say- it makes sense.” He rubs the back of his neck. “And gosh, I didn’t know how awful Hels was, but the way Bravo talked about it…”

“But, um…” Bdubs pipes up hesitantly. “Just- just ‘cause Tango is Bravo’s… uh, Hels… doppelgänger, whatever… doesn’t mean he’s evil, right?”

“I know!” Jimmy cries, throwing his hands up. “That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell him! He doesn’t believe it. He thinks he’s a monster for what he did, killin’ those guys and burnin’ down the ranch.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Martyn scoffs. He’s coaxed a still-seething Ren to lay down now, absentmindedly stroking Ren’s ears as his head rests in Martyn’s lap while Bigb starts to braid his hair. “It was self-defense, yeah? A bunch of strangers invaded your home, and he defended it. There’s nothin’ wrong with that.”

Jimmy has a feeling it’s more to do with how Tango killed them and how the fire got started, plus the fact that Jimmy got hurt in the process. But Tango didn’t share those particular details, so Jimmy’s not about to now. Besides, in his opinion, that doesn’t change anything.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says ruefully. “But he still blames himself for what happened. For all of it.”

“Well, that’s stupid,” Cleo deadpans. Then she pauses. “Or- sorry, his feelings aren’t stupid, but I- I hope he knows that none of us feel that way.”

There are exclamations of agreement and similar sentiments from the rest of the group, which helps ease some of the tightness in Jimmy’s chest. He knows his friends, and knows they’re all good people who wouldn’t judge Tango like that, but it’s been hard not to let Bravo’s words get to him.

“I’ll tell him,” Jimmy promises them. “I’ll try to make him understand, he just- I think he’s always been afraid this day would come, that he’s just been tickin’ down borrowed time.”

“What d’you mean?” Grian asks, rising to his feet. “It’s not like he knew they were coming, right?”

Jimmy shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so. It’s more like… he’s always had that possibility hanging over him.”

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” Impulse says quietly. “The first time he saw a communicator portal open, you would’ve thought he was being sent to his death. It… makes sense, looking back now.” He puts his head in his hands, sighing. “Man, there were so many signs…”

Grian walks over, pulling his communicator out. “So hang on, the world itself is called Hels, yeah?”

“Yeah, why?” Jimmy asks.

Grian doesn’t respond, silently scanning his comm with his brows knit in concentration. And then something very strange happens. For a moment, it almost seems as if Grian’s eyes flash purple, and Jimmy hears his voice in his head.

(There it is. Hm, firewalled. Gonna be tricky.)

Then Grian pushes his glasses back up, and it passes.

“Right,” he says briskly, putting his comm away. “I can’t find the world, so the portal thing checks out. But since Tango’s cut this meeting a bit short, do you have any other information? Anything the Hels guys might’ve said or done that we should know about?”

Jimmy blinks. Grian’s just looking at him expectantly, giving no indication that there’s anything out of sorts. Jeeze, he’s used to having random thoughts, but the stress of everything must really be getting to him if he’s imagining his friend’s voices, now.

“Um, actually,” Jimmy says, “the collar they put on Tango… he said it’s using some sort of… modified wither rose to dampen his fire? It’s uh, also dampening our soulbond.” He clears his throat, glancing away. “As a- as a fun little side effect.”

“Have you tried removing it yet?” Etho asks, stepping around Impulse with his hands in his pockets.

“I did, earlier,” Impulse chimes in from the ground. “Just with my hands, but uh, he acted like it was hurting him.”

Jimmy nods. “Yeah, Atlas locked it on him with a key, and I’m pretty sure he still had it when he left. So I think that might be the way to get it off.”

“Well,” Joel cuts in, straightening up from where he’d been leaning over Impulse’s shoulder, “surely not the only way, right? I mean, you could always…” He makes a noncommittal noise, and draws a finger across his neck.

Jimmy bristles, wings flaring out. “What, decapitate my soulmate?!”

Joel holds up his hands. “Hey, hey, we don’t know if that thing’ll respawn on him!”

“His cuffs do!” Jimmy points out.

“Yeah, but isn’t it worth a shot?” Joel counters.

“I… I guess,” Jimmy relents, letting his feathers smooth back down. “But I’d rather look into a few other options before jumpin’ straight to decapitation, if you don’t mind. Tango’s been through enough as it is.”

Joel backs off. “Alright, fair enough.” 

“Okay…” Grian turns to address the rest of the group. “Well, um… this has been an interesting revelation, to say the least. I think we’re gonna have to do a bit more research to figure out how they got here before we just… open the world back up. So that means we’ll all be stuck here a bit longer, is that- is that okay with everyone?”

“Yes, yes of course,” Bdubs says vehemently.

“Yeah,” Impulse agrees, “whatever it takes.”

Further murmurs of assent ring out from among the group. Everywhere Jimmy looks, he sees faces full of sympathy and understanding, not a single trace of resentment or annoyance to be found. God, he loves his friends.

“Thanks, guys, I appreciate it,” he says gratefully. “I’m gonna go check on Tango, but we’ll keep you updated if anythin’ changes.”

“Right, okay then.” Grian claps his hands together. “Uh- I guess that’s all for now?”

Nodding, Jimmy turns and takes to the sky, leaving spawn behind him.

His mind is still reeling from all the heavy revelations, his stomach twisted up into knots, but he’s at least comforted by knowing that his friends are behind them. Seems that the fears Bravo tried to instill were completely unfounded, nothing more than vicious, desperate attempts to sow division between Tango and the others. Jimmy really shouldn’t have doubted them.

(That went… surprisingly well.)

(Give it time.)

‘Oh, shove off,’ Jimmy thinks.

~*~

He finds Tango back at the spare room in Impulse and Bdubs’s house.

Thank goodness for that. He hadn’t exactly been sure if Tango would consider this a safe place to go. But with the ranch destroyed and the world on lockdown, it’s not like he has a lot of options.

Tango’s sitting on the bed with his back to Jimmy. At a glance, he seems relaxed, but his legs are curled under him in a way that’d allow him to spring up in an instant. And the way his pointed ears swivel back toward Jimmy tells him Tango is quite alert.

(So deceiving…)

“Hey, Tango,” Jimmy says softly. “You alright?”

“Oh, hey.” Tango doesn’t turn around just yet, shrugging a shoulder. “Sure, yeah.”

Jimmy lingers by the bed for a moment, uncertain. “Um, Impulse didn’t mean to lose his temper like that,” he offers. “He wasn’t mad at you, he was mad at the situation, that’s all.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Just, in the moment- I- I- thought…” Tango sighs. “Anyway. So- so I guess I should head out, huh?”

Jimmy’s stomach drops. “What? What’re you sayin’?”

“It’s over, right?” Tango asks, his voice tight, shoulders hunched by his ears. “They don’t want me around, and I don’t blame ‘em. I mean, once Grian opens the world again, it’s only a matter of time before another portal from Hels opens up. And- and who’d want to go through all that again, right? So don’t worry, I get it, it was my fault, so-”

“No, Tango, I promise- none of them blame you, alright?” Jimmy sits down on the bed- not too close. “None of them believe what Bravo was sayin’ about you. None of them think you’re some… some evil monster that deserves to be locked up in Hels.”

Tango finally turns around. His body is coiled with all the tension of a drawn arrow. “That’s ‘cause they didn’t see me- what I did- back at the ranch,” he says sharply. “They don’t know the whole story.”

Jimmy rubs the back of his neck, exhaling slowly. He knew Tango would hold that against himself. “Well, I do, and I-”

“No, you don’t.”

Jimmy blinks. “Wh- oh, you mean the Helsknight thing?” he asks, furrowing his brows. “Look, honestly, based on what you told Bravo, I don’t blame you for doing that. You were just scared you’d get sent back, that doesn’t make you evil. I know you-”

“No, you don’t,” Tango says again, more intently. “You don’t know everything about me, Jimmy.”

Jimmy’s stomach drops. “Wha’d’you mean?”

Tango smiles without humor, a hard look in his eye. “You wanna know why I like making those- those crazy mob farms? Why I try to kill them in creative, fun ways?” He tilts his head. “Because I like it. I like to make their deaths entertaining. I’ll even sacrifice efficiency for it, I’ll go out of my way to do it. And I- it doesn’t stop there, I’ll kill passive mobs for no reason. Cats, frogs, things that don’t even have drops, for absolutely no reason. That’s not normal.”

Despite himself, Jimmy feels a chill run down his spine. “That’s not… those are just mobs, it’s- it’s not evil…”

(Are you sure about that?)

Tango exhales sharply- a short, bitter laugh. “Okay. You know why practically all my mini games end in death? Huh? You wanna guess?”

Distress shoots through Jimmy. “Tango-”

“I like to watch players die, too,” Tango says. “And I like it to be entertaining. I enjoy it, that’s- that’s just plain sadistic.” He rakes his claws through his hair. “That’s what I am, I’m a- a sadistic monster, okay, I always have been.”

“Stop it, don’t say that!” Jimmy protests, his heart twisting. “You’re not- people actually sign up for those games, you know. And it’s not like death is permanent, it doesn’t matter-”

“So?” Tango interrupts harshly. He jumps off the bed and starts pacing. “What- does that make any difference? Doesn’t matter if people enjoy them, okay, my- my reason for making them is wrong. Designing games is fun, sure, but I- that’s never what it’s been about. I like to make players struggle, and suffer, and die in the end. I like to watch them experience pain and fear in a trap of my own creation. I like the feeling of control it gives me. No matter how you look at it, that’s- I- I’m messed up.”

Jimmy can’t take this anymore. He rises to his feet. “Tango, stop, that’s enough,” he says, his voice stern. “I know I haven’t known you very long, but-”

“Yeah,” Tango snaps, rounding on Jimmy, “you haven’t! That’s the whole problem! I’ve kept a huge chunk of my life secret from you, my own soulmate. I’ve kept it from the Hermits, too- my friends of nearly a decade. I’ve deceived and lied to everyone I ever cared about. I’ve pretended to be this- this benevolent game maker who just wants everyone to have a good time, I’ve kept so much of who I really am hidden ‘cause I knew that if you guys ever saw the real me, you’d hate me.”

Jimmy’s mind is reeling. Tango’s clever eye for game design is something Jimmy’s always loved about him, the way he could create fun challenges even amidst the throes of a death game. After all, the first time they really interacted was when Jimmy died to his ‘Dare to Flare’ challenge back on the Third Life world. And that had been a laughably simple game compared to some of the things he’s done on Hermitcraft.

Even though it ended up costing Jimmy a life, the rush of adrenaline had been thrilling. And even though in hindsight, he knew it was a deliberate ploy by Tango to thin out his competitor’s lives, Jimmy’s never resented him for it.

So to suddenly realize there might’ve been more to it… that Tango might’ve actually enjoyed watching him burn to death- beyond the simple satisfaction of having outsmarted his competition, of course- is… unsettling, to say the least.

(What a start to a relationship!)

(The red flags have been there from day one.)

(A sadist and a liar, lucky you.)

But nevertheless, Jimmy holds his ground. “I don’t hate you.”

Tango tenses. “You should.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Jimmy insists. “I love you, Tango.”

“No, you don’t!” Tango snarls, and the hurt in his voice is raw and ragged and bleeding. His eyes are burning with rage, and Jimmy’s almost certain that if it weren’t for the collar, he’d be on fire right now. “Alright? Just shut up! You love this- this version of me that I’ve presented, okay, this lie I’ve been living. You love Tango the friendly redstoner, who makes ridiculous high-pitched noises when he’s flustered and who’s funny when he’s mad and who can’t fight his way out of a one-block hole. You don’t love the sadistic blaze hybrid that sets things on fire and- and rips people’s throats out with his fucking teeth, don’t be stupid!”

The silence that follows is deafening.

(And there it is!)

(Finally showing his true colors.)

(He did try to tell you…)

For a moment, Jimmy is too stunned to speak. Tango’s never yelled at him before, not seriously, and the sting of his words is almost a physical thing.

Tango seems just as shocked at his outburst as Jimmy is, his face paling as his anger quickly extinguishes. The next words out of Tango’s mouth are almost guaranteed to be an apology, but Jimmy isn’t letting him off that easily.

“Now hang on just a second,” Jimmy says lowly. “You don’t get to tell me how I feel about you. I’m a grown player. I’m not some poor, innocent idiot that you’ve manipulated into loving you, alright? And it hurts that you’d think so little of me, that I’d stand here and just lie about my feelings to you.”

(Ooh, someone finally grew a backbone-)

Jimmy silences the thought, violently forcing it out of his mind. He’s got no patience for that sort of thing right now.

“I’m sorry,” Tango whispers, “I didn’t-”

“And what’s more,” Jimmy continues, gaining steam, “do you really think I’m the type of person to judge someone so harshly for things outta their control? You honestly think I’m some- some shallow, heartless jerk who’d turn on you, just like that? Or- for that matter, you think the Hermits would? After ten years of friendship, you have that little faith in them?”

Tango’s eyes widen. “No, no it’s- it’s not like that,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean-”

“I don’t care that you’re from Hels,” Jimmy presses, taking a step forward. “I don’t care what you did in the past, or that you kept it from me. I don’t care if some random guy thinks you’re just the manifestation of all his evil- frankly, I think that says more about him than it does about you.” He comes to a stop in front of Tango. “I love you. The teeth, the claws, the death fascination or- or whatever you wanna call it- I love all of it. All of you. And I wish more than anythin’ they hadn’t got that damn collar on you, so you could feel that love through our soulbond. But you’ve felt it before, right? Before I knew? Well um, it hasn’t changed, I promise you that.”

Tango stares back up at him. Now that the anger’s gone, he just looks scared. “You don’t-” His voice breaks. “You can’t.”

“Yes, I do,” Jimmy answers, unwavering. As difficult as this conversation has been, this part’s easy. “I promise, cross my heart.”

Tango shudders, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “Please,” he whispers, “don’t… I can’t- if I let myself think that but you don’t mean it, I- I can’t handle that. Please. Just tell me now, okay, get it over with…”

Understanding settles over Jimmy. Creasing his brows, he takes a slow, deliberate step forward. “I mean it,” he says, lifting a hand to cup Tango’s cheek.

Tango trembles, but he doesn’t move away. He swallows, licks his lips. “Say it again?” he asks, almost a plea, his eyes darting to take in every inch of Jimmy’s face- like he’s unsure whether he can truly believe what he’s seeing, almost searching for any hint, any trace of doubt in Jimmy’s expression.

There isn’t any. Jimmy leans in. “I love you.”

Something glimmers in Tango’s eyes; a warm light Jimmy hasn’t seen since before the ranch burned. 

Something like hope.

Love rises inside Jimmy like a wave- love and the sorrow of shared grief, the fierce determination to withstand it, and the agony of all the past suffering he can’t take away. It’s overwhelming and exhilarating, this sudden rush of emotion. A whirling maelstrom that makes his head spin. But his love burns brightly through it all, a sole lantern against the storm.

Maybe he can’t make Tango believe he’s worthy of love. But he can give it anyway.

Jimmy moves slowly, tilting his face down towards Tango’s. He keeps his eyes open until the very last second, giving Tango plenty of time to move away or say something to stop him, to give any sign at all that he isn’t feeling the same.

There isn’t any. Their lips meet gently, like a familiar greeting. Like the way sunlight falls through the window every morning.

And just like that, the dam breaks. Suddenly Tango’s kissing him back, fervently, pushing against him. Jimmy’s legs hit the bed and buckle, sending him backwards, Tango falling on top of him. His hands cling to Jimmy’s shirt, twisting in the fabric, and his tears wet Jimmy’s face, salt on his tongue. Above the pounding of his heart in his ears, he can just make out the words Tango’s murmuring between kisses, breathless and desperate.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I love you.”

Jimmy pulls him impossibly closer, whispering, “I never doubted.”

They don’t need words after that.

~*~

“Jeeze, they weren’t kidding,” Tango mutters, taking in the ranch with wide eyes.

The ranch looks even worse than Jimmy had been imagining. Nearly the entire first floor is gone, just a wide-open plot and their lonely front door sitting ajar. Aside from the odd block here and there, it’s just empty. A couple trapdoors from the furniture in the living room. The smooth stone slabs that made up their kitchen countertops. An occasional unbroken glass pane floating where there used to be windows.

It’s not a home anymore, not by any stretch of the imagination.

Up the intact cobblestone staircase, the second floor has only fared slightly better. Some of the walls are still standing, charred and moth-eaten as they are. He thinks most of the bathroom’s interior was spared, as it was primarily made of different stone materials. Polished andesite and the like. The chests in their storage room made it, of course, even though the room itself didn’t. And their bedroom seems to have gotten the worst of it. From down here, he thinks it might just be the bed itself that’s left.

The roof is gone, leaving their cobblestone chimney awkwardly sticking up from the ground to nowhere. The path up to the house and the surrounding fields have been torn up to make a ditch. Necessary as it was, it’s quite the eyesore. And to top it all off, one of the custom trees that Scar helped build has been hastily chopped down, due to its proximity to the nearby forest. There’s just a couple of logs and solitary leaves left floating in the air.

It hurts. Everywhere Jimmy looks, there’s another source of heartache. Another precious memory that’s been turned to ash. It’s almost enough to bring tears to his eyes.

But he’s also aware of Tango standing beside him. He knows how much Tango is already beating himself up for the fire, and the last thing he wants to do is add to that guilt.

Jimmy turns to give Tango a rueful grin. “Talk about your fixer-uppers, ey?”

Tango exhales slowly. “Man, it’s so…” He glances at Jimmy, expression pinched. “I’m sorry, you worked so hard-”

“It’s fine,” Jimmy says, shrugging. “It’s just a building.”

Tango hesitates. “It’s… alright to be upset. This was our home, and I- I got all ‘rahhhrr angry-burny rage mode’ on it and-”

“Not your fault,” Jimmy says, voice gentle but firm. He puts a hand on Tango’s shoulder. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s the Hels fellas for attackin’ us in the first place.”

Tango makes a noncommittal noise, scuffing the upturned dirt with his boot. “Sure.”

It’s clear he’s not convinced, but Jimmy leaves it there for now. Their conversation from yesterday is going to take some time to fully sink in. He crosses over to a haphazardly-placed double chest near the front of the ranch and crouches beside it, lifting the lid with a creak.

“Martyn said everything they were able to save is in this chest here, let’s see…” He rummages through the chest’s inventory. A lot of it is random junk; miscellaneous blocks, half-stacks of wheat, dropped weapons and armor from the fight. But there are a few good finds, like some of the clothes from their closet, a couple of flower pots, one of his framed embroidery pieces...

“Oh, hey, look at this!” Jimmy calls excitedly. “My gloves!”

He pulls the gloves out, looking up from the chest to see Tango standing over him. His eyes widen when he sees them- happily surprised at first, and then the familiar dawning of guilt and regret.

“You uh… maybe I should take those back, for now,” Tango says quietly, his ears lowered. “Or- or maybe just forever, yeah.”

“Ey, stop it, no take-backs,” Jimmy chastises him, slipping the gloves on. “Gloves couldn’t have prevented that fire, anyways. And I like wearin’ ‘em, because that way it’s sorta like I’m holdin’ your hand all the time.”

A grin tugs at Tango’s mouth. “Aw, that’s real cheesy, honey,” he teases, even as a faint blush colors his cheeks.

“Yeah, but I mean it,” Jimmy says loftily. “I’m keepin’ them.”

Tango holds his hands up, chuckling. “Alright, alright…” His gaze travels back towards the ranch, up towards the storage room with its rows of chests. “Guess we should still have plenty of materials to rebuild, huh?”

“Should do, yeah,” Jimmy says, straightening up. Having the gloves back is an immediate comfort, despite the fact he’d only gone two days without them. He foldings his arms, gaze sweeping critically over the remains of the ranch. “I guess for now, we’ll just focus on the structure? Y’know, get the place liveable again and worry ‘bout the decor and landscapin’ later…”

“Oh, that’s what you think!”

The loud voice makes them both jump. Jimmy whirls around to see Bdubs- of course, because there’s absolutely no mistaking that voice.

“Bdubs!” Jimmy laughs, clutching his heart. “What- what’re you doin’ here?”

Bdubs puts his hands on his hips. “I- I can’t believe what I’m- ‘no interior decor’, yeah right! You’re not gonna get outta that very- so easy! I tell you!”

Tango snickers. Luckily Bdubs’s sudden appearance hasn’t seemed to cause more than a brief startle. “Oh, yeah? You gonna help out, then, shorty?” 

“Hey!” Bdubs barks incredulously- though it’s clear from his expression he’s not really upset. “I’m tryin’ t- augh, n’you- you stu- yes. Yes, yes, I’m here to help, of course. For goodness sakes. I- how kind, are I! Sweet, kind Bdubs…”

“And handsome, too,” Jimmy adds cheekily.

That makes Bdubs beam, puffing his chest out. “Yeahhh, c’mon baby!”

“Don’t encourage him,” Tango groans.

“Oh, stop it!” Bdubs huffs. “Anyway, Impulse would’ve come, of course, but he and Etho- the redstone guys, you know, uh, they’re havin’ a- a- little chat, little brainy-thing… brainstormin’ ‘bout the portal stuff with Grian. But never thy fear! I saw you guys head out and, in my eternal wiseness, have already called in the forcements!”

Jimmy exchanges an amused look with Tango. “Well, any help is appreciated,” he amends.

“Sure about that, Timmy?” calls Joel’s voice, as the man himself appears over the hill.

And he’s not alone. Cleo’s taller figure looms over him, Scott and Pearl walking on either side of her as a small pack of wolves weave between their legs. The trio is followed by Martyn, Bigb, and Ren- the latter seeming to have recovered his friendly disposition and wagging tail. Finally, Scar emerges from behind a tree to round out the group, calling out a cheerful, “Hello there!”

Joel comes to a stop next to Bdubs and claps him on the shoulder. “We figured you two could use the help, what with you not bein’ builders and all.” Cheeky man.

Jimmy snorts. “Gee, thanks,” he says sarcastically. But slights at their building skills aside, he’s actually quite touched.

Tango blinks. “You guys… all came to help out?” he asks, sounding amazed. 

“Of course!” Bdubs declares. “We ha- we help!”

Cleo shrugs, giving a hapless grin. “You know, I- I- I really don’t know… why Bdubs invited me? I’m not that great a builder. But I can supervise, I guess? And- and heckle. Always heckle.”

“And reach tha’ tall bits,” Scott offers, lightly elbowing her hip.

“And reach the tall bits,” Cleo laughs. “Right. Yes.”

“It’s the least we can do,” Martyn chimes in, slinging an arm around Bigb’s shoulders, “since that portal stuff is way over my head.”

Bdubs pulls a face. “Uh…” He speaks to Jimmy and Tango behind his hand, despite making no effort to lower his voice at all- for comedic effect. “Normally, I would’ve offered my perfect redstone prowess to uh, to help the other guys out with their little portal thing, you know, but eugh- I knew someone would have ta’ keep all these jokers in line.”

“Ah, of course,” Tango replies sagely.

“Well?” Bdubs turns expectantly to the others, throwing his arms up. “Get movin’ then! Sheesh! Stand around, waitin’ for- for no raisin…”

“Yes, my liege,” Cleo drawls, rolling their eyes.

Ren claps his big paws together. “Yeah, we’re burnin’ daylight, my dudes!”

Pearl’s fuzzy wings unfurl from beneath her red cloak. “Let’s see what we’re workin’ with!” she says excitedly, fluttering up to the storage room.

Just like that, the other Double Lifers descend on the husk of the ranch. Placing down temporary chests and crafting benches, sorting through the remaining resources, filling in the ditch with dirt. Multiple conversations start up immediately as everyone sets to a task, and the atmosphere is comfortable- even if a bit strange.

Jimmy can’t recall a time when this many of them have worked on a project together. Not on Third Life, not on Last Life, not here. Something like this just wouldn’t be possible during a death game. Large gatherings between different groups are always fraught with tension and uncertainty, by the fear of a trap or a backstab or a fight breaking out.

But it’s nice. Pearl is hovering above the second floor, working with Cleo to build the walls back up while Scott prepares some stairs and slabs for detailing. Scar and Bdubs are already bickering about how to do the landscaping while Joel grumbles at them, waist-deep in the ditch with Bigb and Martyn placing dirt. Ren’s started tearing down the damaged trees, clearing room for replanting, and Pearl’s wolves mill about, filling the air with curious sniffs and yips.

Tango’s watching the scene unfold with wide eyes, and it suddenly occurs to Jimmy that this is the most people Tango’s been around since the difficult conversation at spawn. Impulse was checking on them throughout the rest of the day, of course, and a few of the other players stopped by now and again, but not in big groups or anything.

Jimmy steps closer to Tango. “Is this okay?” he asks softly.

Tango looks at him in surprise. A smile spreads across his face, and he takes Jimmy’s hand. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, it is.”

Jimmy smiles back. “Then let’s get in there.”

~*~

Jimmy lets out a low whistle. “Dang, this looks even better than before!” he says, craning his head to look around the room.

After a full day of building and the gradual dispersal of the other Double Lifers, Jimmy and Tango are now seeing their new bedroom for the first time. They were around for the bulk of the structure building, but once it came time for the interior, Bdubs and Scar had insisted it be a surprise. Everything about it is perfect, from the custom furniture to the quilted wool rug to the fancy frame Scar built around their double-wide bed.

Tango clears his throat. “Maybe, uh- maybe we can just…” He kicks one of the beds with the toe of his boot. “... scooch this over a little…”

“Nope,” Jimmy declares, sweeping Tango off the floor and onto the bed. “Nice try, mate, but you’re stayin’ right here next to me.”

“Okay, okay, fine! I ju- don’t say I didn’t warn you!” Tango huffs, but he’s grinning as he says it.

~*~

“Alright, fellas,” Grian says, clapping his hands together, “here’s what we’ve got so far…”

Jimmy leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Tango is a little tense beside him- probably just nerves. But it could be worse. They’re gathered in the living room of Impulse and Bdubs’s house; Grian perched on the arm of the sectional across from Jimmy and Tango, Impulse and Etho sitting adjacent to them. The familiar setting and fairly limited company seems to have helped put Tango more at ease for what might end up being a tricky conversation.

“We’re... pretty sure we know how the Hels peeps got here,” Grian continues, “but there are a few things we need to clarify, first.” He glances at Etho, inclining his head. “Etho, you wanna explain?”

“Oh yeah, yeah.” Etho stands up. “Tango, may I see your comm, please? I uh, just need to look at it for a minute.”

Tango blinks. Anxiety flashes across his face for just a brief second before disappearing. “Oh. Uh, sure?” He pulls the item from his inventory, holding it out.

Etho takes the communicator. “So,” he begins, sitting back down, “you said that in Hels, players can’t make portals with their communicators, right?”

Tango gives a short nod. “That’s right. That comm isn’t the one I spawned with, they took that from me at Hels Tek. X made me a new one, after I got to Hermitcraft.” He gives a dry laugh. “I told him- I told him I lost it. Which, I mean, that’s- it’s technically not a lie, just... not the whole truth.”

Jimmy gives him a sympathetic look. He might no longer be worried that the others will reject him, but this still can’t be easy to talk about.

Etho studies the communicator, his mismatched eyes narrowed in concentration. “So after you got a new comm, you were able to use it to make portals?”

“Yeah,” Tango says, “it uh, it’s taken me to each Hermitcraft world and everything in between, no problem. Hubs, solo worlds, creative- you name it.”

Etho hums. “Can you use your comm to travel to Hels?”

“No.” Tango glances away. “I’ve looked for it, a few times. Never shows up.”

That brings a couple more questions to mind, but Jimmy files them away for later.

“Interesting.” Etho seems to be delving deep into the communicator’s hardware, typing rapidly. “So uh, the portal issue isn’t centered on players that spawn in Hels, just their communicators. And since overworld communicators can’t find Hels, there must be something about the world itself preventing it.”

Tango knits his brows together. “I suppose…?”

It’s at this point that Grian leans forward. “Have either of you heard about firewalls?” he asks.

Tango shakes his head, but Jimmy’s heart jolts. He has heard that word before; just the other day, when he thought he heard Grian’s voice in his head. But that’s not exactly something Jimmy wants to bring up right now. Or ever, maybe. His weird, random, intrusive thoughts don’t need to be anyone else’s problem.

“Um…” Jimmy pretends to think about it for a moment. “I think I’ve heard the term somewhere before, but I- I dunno what that actually means.”

“Right.” Grian spreads his hands. “So firewalls are a sort of added security measure that admins can use when making a new world. It’s like, an impenetrable barrier ‘round the world that makes it basically impossible for anyone unauthorized to join via portal.”

“Wait, really?” Tango asks, eyes widening. “What- why haven’t I heard about this? Do all worlds have these?”

Grian makes a noncommittal noise. “Well, firewalls are kinda outdated. Developments in server security and comm travel have basically rendered them obsolete. I mean, when’s the last time you heard of a private world being raided, besides ours?” He shrugs. “Plus, it’s a real tedious process to set one up, so they aren’t used often. Mostly for multiplayer worlds that are invite-only, if an admin is particularly concerned about hackers.”

Jimmy holds out a hand. “So wait, hang on, this- what’s this got to do with our situation?”

Impulse catches his eye. “If you try to join a firewalled world without permission, it doesn’t show up on your comm.”

“Oh,” Tango says, realization dawning in his expression. “You think Hels has a firewall?”

“It’s the only thing I can think of,” Grian says, nodding. “However, it’s a bit odd, ‘cause firewalls are usually just one-way… meaning that they keep players out, but they don’t stop players from leaving. So if that’s what’s goin’ on with Hels, it’s a firewall unlike any I’ve ever heard of- where it’s meant to keep players in, too. I’m not exactly sure if that’s why comms made in Hels can’t make portals, or if that’s due to something else entirely, but uh, that’s my best guess.”

Tango runs a hand through his hair. “That’s… I mean, this is the first I’ve heard of firewalls, but that doesn’t sound impossible…”

“So,” Jimmy speaks up hesitantly, “so how did the Hels Tek guys open a portal here?”

“How, indeed?” Etho repeats, finally looking up from Tango’s communicator. “Well, we know the portal was red, not purple. That’s like a comm portal, the way their light syncs up with the world they lead to. But uh, you know, the players coming through had items and armor on them, and they didn’t show up at world spawn. Their spawns didn’t reset, either, they uh- they kept spawning back on the other side. That makes me think this was actually a hacked nether portal, not a comm portal.”

Tango frowns. “Hang on, we- we didn’t have nether portals in Hels, either. I mean, how- there was no point, the nether and the overworld were combined into one realm.”

“Right.” Etho’s got that look in his eye- the glint of an idea about to take off. Jimmy’s seen it in Tango countless times. “You know how nether portals work?”

Tango coughs into his fist. “Oh, right, of course I know all the uh, super technical skadoodle bits, but- but maybe you should go over it.” He jerks his head towards Jimmy and Grian. “You know, for these uh, non-redstone people here.”

“Please do,” Jimmy chuckles.

Etho’s eyes crinkle upwards, like he’s smiling behind his mask. “Basically, they grab the coordinates they’re made on and translate it to nether coords, and vice versa. From what you’ve told me about Hels, being a fusion of the nether and overworld realms, a nether portal couldn’t work ‘cause it’d be like… giving it coords to a place it already is? It’d just crash and never ignite. But if you gave a nether portal frame coordinates to a different place… like, say, a different world…”

Even with Jimmy’s scarce knowledge of portals, it’s easy enough to catch Etho’s meaning.

“That’s crazy,” Tango protests. “How’d they- how could they possibly have gotten coordinates to Double Life?”

“I don’t think they did. I think they got coords to you.” Etho leans forward. “Think about it. The portal didn’t open at spawn, it opened down the hill from the ranch- where you were. I think that was intentional, considering you’re the whole reason they came.”

Jimmy’s mind is spinning. “But... how? And how’d you figure all this out?”

Etho shrugs a shoulder. “Uh, educated guess? Like, just kinda based on the things Bravo said, and what Tango’s told us about Hels and the players it spawns. But um, looking at his comm just now basically confirms it for me.”

“Wait, really?” Tango asks, surprised. “How?”

Etho tilts his head. “Communicators are pretty special items. They’re unique to the player they spawn with- even a replacement communicator like this one. It might not have the hard locks on it that prevent it from summoning portals, but it’s still unique to you. And based on its data, I can tell your player data is a little different. I think it has to do with you being from Hels.”

Tango hesitates. “Okay, and…?”

“If you and Bravo are really counterparts,” Etho says, “then I’d expect your data to be similar. Like, the same word in different languages, in a metaphorical sense. So if Bravo’s data was fed into a nether portal, it’d translate it to your data, and open a portal at your coords. Plus or minus a few blocks, probably.”

Jimmy knits his brows together. “So… you’re sayin’ they used Bravo to open a portal to Tango?” he surmises.

Etho nods. “I’d need Bravo’s comm or a look at his player data to confirm, but that’s my best guess, yeah.” He holds the communicator back out to Tango.

Tango stashes the communicator in his inventory. “So wait, what about- how does the firewall thing factor in, here?” he asks. “If it stops comm portals, wouldn’t it stop a nether portal, too?”

“Yes and no,” Grian answers. “A firewall works by constantly scanning for portals. If it finds one trying to form, it’ll crash it. If a nether portal was used to travel between different worlds, rather than two realms on the same world, a firewall would recognize it all the same.”

“But,” Etho continues, “if they somehow figured out how to stabilize the portal… like, by sending a constant stream of updates… it’d constantly reset the scanner of the firewall. Sort of like an update suppressor. That way, the uh, the firewall can never actually register the portal as a problem and shut it down. So that’d be one way they could keep a hacked nether portal open, even in the face of a firewall.”

Tango exhales slowly. “Okay…” he says, “and how do we stop them from doing that ever again?”

Impulse winces. “That, we’re not sure about. I mean, if Bravo wasn’t there for them to grab a signal from, I guess that’d stop them. However they built a portal, it probably needs his data to function.”

“Oh, well, great.” Tango throws his hands up. “No way he won’t help them again, he hates my guts. Only reason they haven’t come back yet is ‘cause Grian locked the world down, I- I guarantee it. But we can’t just all stay locked in here forever, you’ve all got lives and other worlds to get back to.”

Jimmy frowns, putting a hand on Tango’s shoulder. “Tango, anyone who’s got a problem with you has a problem with all of us.”

“For sure,” Grian agrees.

“Besides,” Impulse says, shrugging, “not to toot our own horns or anything, but I think we handled ourselves just fine against them.”

“You mean Pearl’s wolves handled them,” Tango says flatly. “And you guys had the element of surprise. I guarantee the only reason they went down so easy is ’cause they weren’t expecting much resistance. They show up again, now knowing what they’re up against, and that’s- that’s gonna turn out a whole lot differently.” He crossed his arms. “I need to leave, before Grian opens the world back up.”

“And what, just wait for them to come after you?” Jimmy demands, his wings puffing up. “Absolutely not.”

Tango makes an unhappy noise in the back of his throat. “It’s- you understand it’s only a matter of time, right?” he stresses. “Maybe it won’t be right after Grian lifts the lockdown, okay, maybe it’ll be days, or weeks, or months. Either way, it’ll happen eventually, and when it does… whether it’s- if that happens here, or back on Hermitcraft, or the next Life world... the result will be the same. People I care about will get caught in the crossfire, I- I’m not lettin’ that happen again.”

Jimmy pauses, wings drooping. The distress in Tango’s voice is sobering. There’s no question that Tango cares fiercely about his friends, and the guilt for putting them in harm’s way must be staggering. But still, he insists, “We don’t mind stayin’ put-”

“For how long, though?” Tango asks pointedly. “I can’t ask you guys to stay here forever. Like, I- I can’t stress enough how obsessive Atlas is. He came for me after ten years, okay, he’s not gonna just give up or lose interest. There will always be the risk of them opening another portal to me, so long as Bravo is in Hels.”

“So what if Bravo wasn’t in Hels?” Impulse cuts in.

Tango gives him a confused look. “What do you mean?”

Impulse’s eyes are alight with excitement as he gains steam with his idea. “What if we went to Hels and got him out? That way, he’s not mad at you for being stuck there anymore, right, and Hels Tek can’t use him to make another portal.”

“What, you mean we open a portal to Hels?” Tango asks, raising his eyebrows. “I- I thought we already established that our comms can’t take us there, what- how are we supposed to get there?”

“The same way they got here,” Etho says. “We use your data to open a hacked nether portal to Bravo. Ahah.”

As intimidating as the prospect of encountering Hels Tek again is, Jimmy has to admit it’s probably the only solution. They can’t just ignore the problem and hope it goes away, not if it means Tango could get randomly attacked at any moment. And with all of the Double Lifers together, they stand a much better chance of succeeding.

“That’s a great idea!” Jimmy exclaims. “We grab him, shake Atlas down for the key to the collar while we’re at it, and get out. Problem solved.”

Tango doesn’t seem nearly as enthused. “No way. Absolutely no way. That’s- that’s way too dangerous, if you guys get stranded there- and Atlas is already looking for more hybrids to make farms with, he was about to take Jimmy for a feather farm!”

A brief silence follows this revelation.

Grian grimaces, ruffling his wings. “Oh, woof.”

“What?” Impulse asks, taken aback. “That’s why he had Jimmy chained up, too?”

Jimmy blinks. “Oh, is that what he meant?”

“What’d you th- you didn’t know?” Tango asks incredulously.

Jimmy holds his hands up. “Hey, hey, I didn’t spend much time thinkin’ about what he said to me!” he says sheepishly. “I was more concerned about you.”

Tango pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh. Oh, great. Well yeah, that’s what he wanted you for, to stick you in a feather farm skadoodler for all eternity.”

Jimmy swallows. No wonder Tango’s been so against the idea of them going against Hels Tek again. Death is no big deal- they’d simply respawn. Few injuries cause lasting damage. But being trapped in a farm like that, with no means to escape…

“Well,” he says, “that still doesn’t change my mind. You’re his number one target, okay, you can’t go without backup.”

“No,” Tango huffs. “Let me do it. I- I know Bravo shouldn’t just be left there forever, but that’s not your guys’ faults! It’s my life, my mistake, you guys shouldn’t be putting yourselves at risk like that-”

“Tango,” Jimmy interrupts, “we’re not gonna make a portal to Hels and just send you through alone-”

“Well, I’m not letting you guys come with me!” Tango shoots back. “Most of you guys are hybrids or monsters, too, and I’m not gonna risk Atlas turning you into farms.”

Grian clicks his tongue. “Ey, we wouldn’t let that happen.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy says, “and what’s the alternative? You just take off to some solo world until Hels Tek comes a’knockin’?”

Tango shrugs. “I mean, I’d be fine with that-”

“No,” Jimmy says firmly. “I’m not lettin’ that happen. This is our only option, to put this problem to bed forever, and we stand the best chance if we do it together. We have to take it.” He grabs Tango’s hand. “Please, Tango.”

Tango hesitates, staring at their intertwined hands.

Now more than ever, Jimmy desperately wishes that he had some sense of what Tango’s thinking- even just the slightest insight to his thoughts, the faintest impression of an emotion through their soulbond. Especially since he’s had his confidence in reading Tango so thoroughly shaken over the last week. It’s scary to consider that he might not know Tango nearly half as well as he should, that Tango can so effectively mask his true feelings even from him.

“... fine,” Tango says, after a small eternity. “Fine, okay, we- let’s plan an invasion to Hels, sure.”

Jimmy gasps. “Really?”

“But,” Tango says warningly, “we gotta go about this extremely carefully, alright? No willy-nilly ‘rushing in blindly without a plan’ nonsense. And- and once we’re there, if at any point I tell you guys to flee, you- you best be fleein’, got it? With extra flee. No stupid heroics of noble stupidness.”

It’s a chance. That’s better than nothing. “Yes, alright!” Jimmy cheers. “Thank you!”

(Yay, we’re going to Hels- said no one ever.)

(Do they know what they’re getting into?)

(Oh boy, here we go.)

Etho shrugs. “Whatever you say, Tango, you’re the uh, you’re the Hels expert, here.”

Impulse folds his arms. “That’s a dirty condition you kinda tacked on the end, there,” he mutters, “but I’ll accept it.”

“Alright then.” Tango gives a tired sigh, but the corners of his mouth are curling into a smile. “I- I guess we’re doin’ this. We’ve got some room in the basement at the ranch, we can build it there.”

“Excellent.” Grian grins. “Let’s build a portal to Hels, fellas.”

~*~

Jimmy’s startled awake by a shout.

Heart pounding, he squints into the dark room. As his eyes struggle to adjust in the scarce light, he can just barely make out Tango sitting upright in bed. His rapid, shallow breaths wheeze through clenched teeth, faint sparks emitting from his dim blaze rods as they try to ignite.

“Tango,” Jimmy whispers, sitting up, “you okay?”

Tango’s breathing hitches. Then he turns to collapse against Jimmy’s chest, clinging fiercely to his shirt. His entire body is trembling. “Nightmare,” he manages to get out.

Jimmy’s heart twists. He knew it was only a matter of time, but that doesn’t make it any easier to see. Gently, he wraps his arms around Tango, then his wings for good measure. “I got ya,” he murmurs. “I’m here.”

Tango tucks his face against Jimmy’s shoulder and falls silent. Maybe he’ll want to talk about it in the morning, maybe he won’t. But for now, Jimmy just holds him, and hopes that’s enough.

~*~

Jimmy stares at the redstone circuitry laid out before him. “I understand none of this.”

Though it’s only been a few days since they started work on the portal, they’ve already made a lot of progress. Impulse and Etho have been over basically around the clock, with Bdubs and Joel tagging along more often than not. They’ll watch the redstoners work until they get bored, and inevitably wander upstairs to bug Jimmy. Grian checks in on them every now and then, and the other Double Lifers have popped by for little visits, so it’s been a lot of activity at the ranch. Lots of people coming and going.

It’s strange, but not necessarily in a bad way. Almost like an actual pleasant community feeling. Neighbors helping neighbors and all that.

A dedicated digging session has left them with a bit more space in the basement, allowing them to section off a separate room from Tango’s sugar cane farm. They finished it with a stone floor and simple wooden walls at Bdubs’s insistence (he considered it unacceptable to just leave it all as freshly-dug dirt). An obsidian portal frame (complete with corners at Etho’s insistence) stands empty against the back wall, leaving abundant floor space for the redstone- of which there is plenty.

Redstone dust wires criss-cross through rows of repeaters and hopper lines. It’s all far beyond Jimmy’s capacity to understand, of course, but even Tango seems a bit baffled. He’s claimed many times that his understanding of redstone is surface-level at best, and that his real skill comes in applying the various components and systems in creative ways. But he’s at least been able to help with the construction, the actual placing of redstone components.

“Right,” Tango laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Let’s- lemme see if I’ve got this right…” He points at a long line of redstone dust. “Main circuit to the portal.”

Impulse nods. “Yep.” 

Tango steps gingerly around the redstone, gesturing towards a rather complex looking amalgamation of observers and comparators. “This nonsense over here will turn my skadoodle bits into a fireable signal.”

Etho, leaned against the wall with his hands in his pockets, chuckles. “Pretty much.”

“And this,” Tango waves at the hoppers, “will count out the final coords before they hop on the main bus line to the portal.”

Jimmy nods hesitantly. “Okay… okay, cool, so- so is it done, then?”

“Not quite,” Impulse says. “We need a player detector.”

Tango creases his brows together. “What, like a- like a pufferfish? A skulk sensor?”

“No, more like a- a whole separate system,” Etho explains. “It’s more than just registering your presence. We need something that can read your data, pick out your coordinates, and send them to the portal for translation to Bravo.”

Tango exhales slowly. “That… sounds pretty complicated.”

“Oh, it will be,” Impulse says, folding his arms. “I mean, just think about how much data each player contains, right, all the codes that dictate our behavior and biology… we don’t wanna overload this thing, so it’ll require some heavy-duty filtering.”

“Not only that,” Etho continues, “but uh, if that firewall thing turns out to be a problem, we’re gonna have to figure out a way to stabilize the portal, too. That’ll take some tinkering with different power sources til we find the exact right input to override the firewall’s checker.”

Jimmy winces; he’d been hoping for a quicker solution. It’s already been over a week since the invasion, and he knows Tango hates being stalled. The sooner they get this problem taken care of, the sooner they can stop worrying and get back to their normal lives. Jimmy himself doesn’t have anywhere else to be, but the other Double Lifers do. And even if they don’t mind the unexpected stay-cation, it definitely bothers Tango that their lives have been disrupted for his sake. Goodness knows he’s already got enough of a guilt complex.

But Tango simply gives a bemused smile. “Well, let’s get started, then.”

~*~

“Are we really sure we wanna do this?”

Jimmy winces at Tango’s tone. “I know, I know,” he says regretfully, “it wasn’t my favorite idea either. But if it can get that collar off’a you, we gotta try, right?”

Trying to remove the collar manually had resulted in a sharp, shooting pain through Tango’s neck at the slightest movement. Trying to remove it with redstone had proven unsuccessful- clearly, it was designed to be insulated against any outside signals. Trying to pick the lock had resulted in nothing but a lot of frustration. So that left them with their last resort.

They’ve moved outside, round the back of the ranch, to avoid getting blood stains all over their newly refurbished house. A random bed has been placed down to provide them with a quick and easy respawn, their items temporarily stowed in a chest. Impulse holds a Sharpness V sword, tail flicking as he watches them apprehensively.

“I’m only gonna do this if you’re okay with it,” he tells Tango seriously. “We can go back to the drawing board, come up with some other things to try…”

“No, no,” Tango shakes his head, “I don’t- you shouldn’t be wasting time on this, you’re already working pretty much nonstop on the portal.”

The frustration in his voice is evident. Impulse frowns. “I don’t mind…”

“Well, I do!” Tango says, crossing his arms and glancing away.

Jimmy exchanges a look with Impulse before putting a gentle hand on Tango’s shoulder. “I know there’s a chance it won’t work,” he starts quietly, “and we’ll have killed ourselves for nothin’. No one likes gettin’ their head cut off. But it’ll be over quick, we’ll respawn straight back here, and then at least we’ll know we tried everything.”

Tango makes a noncommittal noise. “Hey, I- I’m not afraid of a little decapitation, alright, I just… I feel kinda bad putting you through this, you know?” Guilt creeps into his expression. “It’s not your neck that the stupid thing is stuck on. You shouldn’t have to-”

“We’re in this together,” Jimmy tells him steadily. “So if you’re willin’ to try it, I’m happy to die along with ya.”

Tango manages a faint laugh. “Jeeze, honey, you- you don’t have to make it sound so dramatic. We aren’t on a three-life system anymore.”

Jimmy shrugs. “Well, that’s how I feel! Honestly, if there’s even a chance this’ll get that thing off’a you, I’m down.”

“Alright.” Tango takes a quick, steadying breath. “Okay, I wanna try.” He glances at Impulse. “Uh- commence the chop-ificating, then, I guess.”

Impulse nods; he’s keeping his expression and general demeanor calm, reassuring. “Okay, then. So here’s what I’m gonna do…” He carefully sets the edge of his blade along the rim of Tango’s collar, so that the metal is just barely touching skin, and then pinches the collar between the fingers of his other hand. “I’ll give it one quick, clean slice, and try to pull the collar off your body, okay?”

Tango tilts his chin up. “Okay,” he whispers. He’s nervous, now; every muscle in his body is rigid.

Jimmy reaches for his hand. “I’ll be right there with ya.”

Impulse tightens his grip on the sword. “Tango, gimme a countdown whenever you’re ready.”

“Alright.” Tango exhales shakily, closing his eyes. “Five... four... three... two...”

Jimmy closes his eyes and squeezes Tango’s hand.

“One.”

Pain slices across Jimmy’s neck- an intense, searing burn, like he’s swallowed a bucket of lava. There’s a rush of vertigo, the world spinning off-kilter around him. He’s instantly thrust into darkness, that all-consuming void with which he’s rather familiar.

And then it’s over. He’s back, sitting on the bed with Tango in a piled heap of limbs. 

Jimmy sucks in a breath. Now that everything’s stopped spinning, he can see that the collar is still around Tango’s neck.

“Oh, babe,” he murmurs, sweeping Tango into a hug. “I’m sorry.”

Tango’s laugh is muffled against his shoulder. “Worth a shot, right?”

Impulse, standing a few feet away and holding a bloody sword, looks dismayed. “No good,” he says as he walks over, putting the sword away. “Your body respawned before I could pull the collar off. But uh, that’s… not the only issue.”

That makes Tango look over. “What is it?”

“I caught a look at the inner face of it,” Impulse says, frowning, “the part that’s actually touching your skin? And, um… it looks like there’s a bunch of little… spikes on the inside of the collar?”

“Spikes?” Jimmy repeats, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah, I don’t know how else to describe them?” Impulse rubs the back of his neck. “Um, they’re black in color, not super big... probably thinner than my pinky finger but not like, needles or anything…”

“Oh.” Tango blinks. “It’s the thorns. They’re wither rose thorns. That’s how it works.”

Jimmy’s heart jolts. “What?”

Tango spreads his hands. “When Atlas locked the collar, it must’ve caused a- a bunch of thorns to pop out and dig into my neck. But they aren’t- they don’t have the full strength of wither rose, so that’s why I’m not getting the full wither effect, and after a while, you know, they sorta- they numb the area, so I don’t feel them. But when we start yanking on the collar, it forces them deeper into my skin, so it hurts.”

“Oh... my gosh,” Jimmy breathes, aghast. “That’s- that’s horrible!”

The whole concept of the collar is already inhumane- to treat a fellow sentient player like a simple animal. But this? This is just plain evil. 

Impulse seems to be trying very hard not to get upset again. “Well, then,” he says, voice tight. “That rules out my next suggestion, which was to just go at it with a few sharp axes. I don’t wanna like, hammer those thorns deeper into your neck...” His expression turns thoughtful. “What if we try and get something sharp between your neck and the collar, slice off the thorns all the way around? Then we could-”

“No,” Tango interrupts. “Look, I- I appreciate the help, but if we tweak this thing the wrong way, it could probably jab an artery, or puncture my trachea, and then I’d respawn and be right back at square one again! No, I- I think we’re done.”

Impulse looks like he wants to argue, but Jimmy catches his gaze, giving him an imploring look. 

“Alright,” Impulse relents. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy says, “we’ll get that collar off, I promise.”

“It’s fine.” Tango’s avoiding Jimmy’s eyes. “It... might not be the worst thing, you know, to have my fire locked down. Considering our fancy new house and all.”

Oh, they can’t have that. Jimmy puts a hand on his shoulder. “Tango,” he says seriously, “your fire is a part of you, and I’m not gonna rest til we’ve got it back.”

Tango sighs, but when he looks up, his eyes are fond. “I know.”

Impulse exhales slowly. “Do you... wanna try and get the cuffs off, then?” he offers.

“What?” Tango jolts. “Why? They aren’t hurtin’ anything.”

Impulse holds up his hands. “Hey, it’s okay, I just thought... if they’re from that terrible place, maybe you’d wanna get rid of ‘em?”

“And y’know,” Jimmy chimes in, “it’d be a lot easier for someone else to crack them off ya, couple good swings with an axe, maybe…”

“That won’t work,” Tango says stiffly. “They’ve been on me for so long now, been through so many respawns that if I’m not the one to remove them, it- they’ll just keep coming back.” 

Impulse inhales through his teeth, understanding dawning in his eyes. “Oh, man.”

“Are you sure?” Jimmy asks, his heart sinking. He isn’t overly familiar with the universal rules that determine what does and doesn’t respawn along with a player, but Tango seems pretty certain.

“Yeah. They’re basically part of my data now.”

“Oh.”

The unspoken question is glaringly obvious: ‘why haven’t you removed them yet, then?’ The cuffs seem just as well-made as the collar, but surely there’s a way to cut through them. At least, he should’ve been able to find a way sometime during the last ten years- even if he wasn’t comfortable asking any of the Hermits to help him.

But Jimmy can tell Tango’s already hit his limit for today. It’s a subject he’s always avoided discussing in the past, so they’ll just have to wait until he’s ready.

(Oh, gonna make that mistake again?)

‘Shut up,’ Jimmy thinks.

~*~

“Need some help, hun?”

“Ack!” Jimmy gives a start, accidentally yanking out the feather he’d been teasing. He whirls around. “Tango!”

Tango holds his hands up. “Sorry, sorry!”

“Jeeze,” Jimmy laughs, catching his breath, “I- I thought you guys were still working on the portal!”

“Well, yeah,” Tango says, closing the door behind him, “but Etho thinks we need a redstone ore block and we didn’t have any layin’ around, so he and Impulse went mining.” He crosses over to sit on the bed, curiously studying the feathers strewn about. “Doin’ some preening?”

“Um...” Jimmy ducks his head sheepishly. “Yeah, just- just the uh, burned ones... they’re startin’ to itch.”

Tango gives him a sad smile. “Hey, it’s alright. You don’t have to hide it from me, I- I won’t get all weird mega guilt-trippy about it.”

Jimmy softens. “I just... I know you’ve been beating yourself up about it, that’s all.” He gazes at the burned feather in his hand. “It was an accident. I don’t blame you.”

“I know.” Tango runs a gentle hand over one of Jimmy’s wings. “Can… can I help?”

Jimmy smiles. “Sure.”

~*~ 

“Wait, are you serious?” Tango asks, eyes wide. “You think the portal’s ready to go? Right now?”

Grain nods. “Yeah, I do.”

Jimmy glances between them with raised eyebrows. They’d called Grian over for a little update on the current state of the portal project- now complete with the fancy player detector system that the redstoners have been painstakingly building over the past week. But once Etho explained that the final step was stabilization, Grian had dropped a bomb on them.

“I’ve uh… been doin’ some research,” Grian continues, “and I’m pretty sure that Hels has a firewall that’s just been sorta… inverted? It’s still a one-way barrier, it just stops players from making portals out rather than in. ‘Course, it’s still inaccessible by comm portal, but our little set-up here should circumvent that. Once we’ve gotten the portal to lock onto Bravo’s coords, there shouldn’t be anythin’ stopping it from forming.”

Etho scratches the side of his mask. “Well, if we don’t have to stabilize the portal, that’ll definitely simplify things,” he says. “We might actually have everything we need already.”

“Couldn’t hurt to fire it up,” Impulse agrees, glancing at Tango. “Just to give it a little test drive? If we do get a portal open, we can easily shut it down right after. We don’t have to actually go through it.”

Tango hesitates. “But wouldn’t Grian have to lift the lockdown?”

“Yeah, I will,” Grian amends. “But I’ve actually just finished settin’ up a firewall, so when I lift the lockdown, we’ll still be protected. We’ll be able to leave through any portal we want, but no one else can get in without bein’ on the whitelist.”

“Wait, really?” Tango looks surprised. “Why- did you let the others know? I- I’m sure they’ll wanna get back to their other worlds.”

“Ey, I only just finished it!” Grian defends. “I wanted to let you lot know first, so there wouldn’t be any panic or confusion if people started randomly leavin’ through portals. I’ll inform the others, but uh, I’m pretty sure they’ll wanna just stick around til we get this done. Especially if the portal’s ready to go. All that’ll be left to do is come up with our plan of attack, and we’ll need all hands on deck for the actual mission.”

“Yeah,” Impulse says easily, “Hermitcraft can wait.”

Tango chews his lip. “I… I guess we can try it,” he relents.

“Great!” Grian pulls his communicator out. “Gimme a second to lift the lockdown, okay…”

Jimmy turns to Tango, taking him by the hands. “Hey, is this alright?” he asks softly. “We don’t have to try it today if you don’t wanna.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m alright,” Tango assures him, squeezing his hands. “It’s just- it’s a bit sooner than I was expecting, you know? But this is good. I mean, if this works, then this whole business will finally be over.”

Jimmy’s eyes trace the collar around Tango’s neck. “Yeah. And not a moment too soon.”

Obviously they’ve still got a pretty significant task ahead of them. It’ll be no easy feat to storm Hels Tek, not if they’ve got as much muscle backing them up as they did for the invasion. Atlas is one slippery fella, and it might be hard to get Bravo to listen to them long enough to cooperate. But getting the portal in working order is another hurdle down, so they can shift gears towards the impending mission. And once that’s done, there’ll no longer be a threat hanging over them.

Suffice to say, Jimmy’s looking forward to getting back to his domestic bliss.

“Okay,” Grian says, glancing up, “lockdown is officially lifted. Go ahead.”

“Alright, Tango.” Etho pushes away from the wall. “Uh, just hop onto the redstone ore block whenever you’re ready, I guess? Everything should be in place.”

Tango exhales shakily, looking nervous, but he manages to give Jimmy a smile. “Here goes nothin’...”

Turning away, he steps onto the redstone ore block, which immediately lights up. It starts a sort of ripple effect along the dust that connects it to the rest of the redstone, triggering all kinds of ticking and flashing. It’s all Jimmy can do to follow the signal as it travels towards the portal frame-

Static fills the air, and the portal ignites. Swirling red light fills the frame.

“Oh, nice,” Grian breathes.

“Yes!” Impulse cheers. “We did it!”

“Okay, uh, Tango?” Etho nods at him. “Go ahead and step off the block, now.”

Tango doesn’t respond. He’s staring at the portal with an unreadable expression clouding his gaze, almost as if in a trance.

Jimmy quickly hurries to his side. “Tango,” he murmurs, gently shaking his arm, “come on.”

“Huh?” Tango jolts. “Oh, oh right, sorry!” 

He steps aside, and the portal remains lit. Impulse grins. “Alright, looks like we’re good,” he says, stooping over to hit a button next to the portal. A piston extends across the redstone line, and the portal extinguishes.

Jimmy lets out a breath of relief. An irrational part of him had been worried that Hels players would immediately start pouring through. “You okay?” he asks Tango quietly.

Tango nods. “Yeah, sorry,” he says with an apologetic smile. “I’m fine, it just… kinda hit me all at once.”

“Yeah,” Impulse says, “I definitely wasn’t expecting to have a working portal today, either. But hey, good job guys!”

“Yeah, nicely done, fellas,” Grian says, sounding pleased. He starts typing on his communicator. “I’m gonna let the others know we’ve got the portal workin’, and tomorrow… we’ll all meet to start planning our invasion of Hels. I’m sure if we put our heads together, we can come up with a solid plan to get Bravo, get that key from Atlas, and get out.”

Tango snorts. “Oh, sure. Easy peasy.”

“Don’t worry,” Jimmy says, putting a hand on Tango’s shoulder. “We won’t go through til we’re all good and ready, yeah?”

Tango’s expression softens. “Yeah.”

“Right.” Grian puts his communicator away. “Get some rest, everyone, and we’ll see you tomorrow. Details in chat.”

~*~

<Grian> portal done. meet @ impulse and bdubs tomorrow at noon for hels invasion plotting. all ideas welcome

<PearlescentMoon> Ooh :0 

<InTheLittleWood> wait seriously? already??

<Renthedog> YO amazing job on the portal guys! :D 

<BdoubleO100> oh THANKS A LOT for volunteering us to host GRIAN!!

<Grian> :P 

~*~

Later that night, in the dark quiet of their room, Tango rolls over to nestle his head beneath Jimmy’s chin, claws bunching up the fabric of his shirt.

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

Jimmy hums. “For what?”

“For… not givin’ up on me.”

“What’d’you mean?”

“I mean… you know, I- after everything I did, and- and everything I said…”

“I already told you, that doesn’t matter to me.”

“Yeah, I know. But when I realized the secret was out… that things were- that we couldn’t just go back to normal… I mean, I was convinced it was over. Everything, my- my new life, my freedom, my friends. Us. But you never gave up hope.”

“Of course. It’s been a long road here, alright, I- I’m not givin’ that up without a fight.”

Tango tilts his chin up to look at Jimmy, red eyes glowing in the dark, and leans in to meet his lips. They kiss slow and sweet. Warmth hums in Jimmy’s chest.

This hasn’t been an easy journey, and he knows there’s plenty more challenges still ahead. Even if the mission to Hels goes well and they achieve all that they want to, the experiences Tango’s been through won’t magically go away. It’ll take time. Healing isn’t linear. But with everything out in the open now and the support of their friends, Jimmy’s hopeful that Tango can start to unlearn his self-hatred. Jimmy will be there every step of the way.

All too soon, Tango pulls away. “We should get some rest,” he whispers, settling against Jimmy again.

“Yeah,” Jimmy sighs ruefully, draping a wing across Tango. “Gonna need all two of my brain cells at full strength.”

Tango huffs a soft laugh. “Love you, honey.”

Jimmy closes his eyes, smiling. “Love you, too.

~*~

Jimmy wakes up to a cold bed.

That immediately sets off alarm bells in his head, because since when has Tango gotten out of bed before him? Then he opens his eyes and realizes it’s still night; a faint crescent moon hangs in the starry sky visible through their window. Their room is dark and empty. Tango is nowhere to be seen.

The alarm bells become a siren.

No, no, no, no, no.

Jimmy springs out of bed, sparing a second only to grab his shoes off the floor before throwing the door open. His heart is in his throat as he flies down the stairs to the main level- all dark and empty- and hooks the corner to wrench open the basement door. 

Already he can see the chilling red glow from the portal cast across the wall, a shadow of bleeding light, and a million curses scream through his mind. His stomach feels like it’s knotted in on itself and his lungs are burning for air, he’s moving faster than what seems physically possible and yet not nearly fast enough as he crashes down the stairs and bursts into the portal room, mouth opening to cry out-

Just in time to watch Tango vanish into the red light.

~*~

Somewhere in Hels, a player walks through a portal.

Tango’s heartbeat pounds in his ears. He’s already started shaking- if it weren’t for the wither effect flowing from his collar, he’s certain his blaze rods would be igniting right now. It’s a bizarre mix of emotions. The scent of ash and the sight of netherrack are comforting, in a way. Familiar. But it’s also terrifying, because there’s no mistaking where he is.

(There’s a reason he doesn’t like hanging out in the nether.)

Fear threatens to swallow him. He pushes it down; he’s got a job to do.

Forcing a steadying breath through his clenched teeth, he takes in his surroundings, ears pricked cautiously. He’s definitely not at spawn- he’s at the border of a basalt delta, actually, fine gray particles fluttering through the air. Aside from the portal behind him, there’s not a structure in sight. No sounds save for the distant bubbling of lava and the distinctive slap of magma cubes.

Tango frowns, chewing his lip. The portal was supposed to take him to Bravo, so he must be around here somewhere. Why he’s not at Hels Tek, Tango isn’t sure. Maybe they’re out on an errand run? Either way, he ought to start looking around.

But first, he’s got to break the portal so no one can follow him. Everything he’d packed made it through with him, thankfully, so he equips his pickaxe and turns back to the portal-

Just in time for Jimmy to emerge, running straight into him.

The collision knocks Tango to the ground, pickaxe flying from his hand, his forehead stinging where it smacked against Jimmy’s chin. Blinking spots from his eyes, he pushes himself up on his elbows with a groan. Once his vision stops spinning, he locks eyes with Jimmy, who seems just as shocked as he is.

Both of them shout at exactly the same moment.

“What are you doing here?!”

~*~

[skzdarlings]

part ix: bodyguard!felix x reader

masterlist.

PART I ; PART II ; PART III ; PART IV ; PART V ; PART VI ; PART VII ; PART VIII ; PART IX ; FINAL PART.

( READ ON AO3. )

Your father hires an inconspicuous bodyguard to accompany you at school and supervise you at home. What seems like an innocuous change in routine eventually spirals into a forbidden romance that grows more passionate over the years.

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: smut. violence. parental abuse. situations of intense peril overall. forced proximity. enemies2lovers. angst with eventual happy ending. (chapter word count; 11,700 words)

chapter warnings: the usual dynamics. child abuse history. reader in peril. violence and death. explicit sexual content.

(THE SECOND TO LAST CHAPTER! <3)

-

You move back into your father’s house after graduation.  You are surrounded by all your old pains, your childhood and adolescence written into each familiar brick and tile.  Your past overwhelms you at every turn.  It is a fight to focus on your future. 

But you are ready to fight.    

The only question is how, especially when you are battling your own emotions in that house. 

Your reprieves are small.  You find some solace in routine and the distraction of your job.  Your father gives you an internship at his company.  The role is honestly superfluous, comprised of busy work and redundant tasks, but it is clear he is not ready for you to meddle in any real business affairs.  You are not sure if that is because he does not trust you or because he does not trust his business people with you. 

You still see Jeongin and Seungmin, less than you did but often enough.  They are both pursuing higher degrees so when you meet them at that campus coffee shop, it feels like a moment back in time.  But lingering on the past, even the good memories, is no greater help than lingering on the bad ones. 

Because there is also Felix. 

You return to silent, secret communication.  He will make you feel flushed with just a glance, so much thought in his gaze that you feel it to the depths of you.  It seems like he does not even need to touch you to make love to you.  

But when he does touch you, it releases you from the prison of your house and your mind.  You put your body in his hands for a few precious moments and he takes care of it.  And in the long days in which he bears the dehumanizing commands of your father, wearing the identity of a non-person to never arouse suspicions otherwise, then he places his humanity in your hands for safe keeping. You give it back to him with your own glances and careful touches.       

It takes so much effort to take care of each other, so the idea of active offense seems nearly impossible.  Felix certainly thought it was impossible, the one time you asked, but that was years ago.  Things have changed.  You and Felix have changed. 

You do not know what your father is holding over his head.  You only know it is something, and you think it might be time to find out what. 

You want to do this right.  Felix does not have to carry his burdens alone anymore.  You need him to truly understand that you want to protect him as much as he protects you.  You know there is a part of him that still believes he does not deserve it. 

All your plans are thrown into flux the day your father calls Felix into his office. 

Usually when your father summons Felix, it is for routine updates.  But this is a long meeting.  It lasts at least two hours with the office door sealed shut.  Your mind races with the possibility of what is being discussed. 

You find yourself gravitating to that side of the house, anxiety worsening the longer that door stays shut.   As the clock ticks, your nerves get the best of you.  You wander closer, hoping you can hear from the corridor. 

The guard at the door stares at you.  His scrutinizing regard gets under your skin.  Before you can stop yourself, you snap at him, “What?  I’m just walking.”

“You don’t need to walk here,” he says and waves you off, dismissive as always. 

A lot of the men in your father’s employ seem to get some perverted joy out of dismissing or punishing you.  They have since you were a child.  Their surveillant eyes played host in your nightmares for years.  His smug countenance coupled with his threatening stance makes your blood boil in helpless frustration.   

“Fuck you,” you say.  You want to hurl it at him, but it spills out of your lips no stronger than a whimper.  Your fists are balled at your side and your brain is screaming to walk away, but your body goes cold. 

“Do not take a tone, bitch,” he says. 

The unwarranted name-calling feels like a slap.  It is him flaunting the obvious truth: your father has never taken your side and he never will.  You are nothing but a problem that needs to be solved.  You are still just a stupid, emotional child who needs a fist closed around her to keep her safe from the greatest danger in her life: herself.

“I said walk away, little girl,” the guard continues.  “Your presence is not needed.”

“I’ll go where I want,” you say.  “This is my house.”

“It’s your father’s house.  Now walk away or I will escort you myself.”

“I dare you to try.” 

You feel like you are outside of your body, watching this ridiculous scene unfold with no way to stop it. 

He takes a menacing step forward and you stumble back.  You bump into the wall and hit a small mirror, barely a nudge but enough to knock it off its hook. 

It shatters at your feet.  Yu step on a shard of glass and sharp pain lances through your foot.  It feels like someone driving a knife straight through it.  You scream, the sound ripped out of you in surprise. 

The office door swings open and your father storms out.  For a moment, he looks alarmed, eyes wide and brows high, but this only fuels his anger when he sees you are unharmed.  Fury conquers fear in moments. 

“Look!” you cry in protest.  You lift your foot because you must have a massive shard of glass protruding from it. 

Your father does not even look down.  He marches into his office and shouts something that you are too disoriented to register.  Your attention has narrowed to a pinprick of a point, centred entirely around the gash in your foot. 

You only register what is happening when a familiar face enters your vision.   Felix is in a black t-shirt and jeans, his hair in a short ponytail with not a strand out of place.  Whatever transpired in that office was clearly not confrontational.  He is completely fine. 

His thick boots crunch over the glass.  On your father’s order, he swoops you easily into his arms and carries you into the office.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” you say.  Your tears infuriate you.  They are the result of physical pain but it is only exacerbating the hurricane inside you.  “God, it hurts so much. How big is it—”

“A foot wound hurts more than usual cuts,” Felix says. 

He puts you on the couch in your father’s office.  You father is standing by his desk, drinking coffee and rolling his eyes.  You want to shout at him, purely on instinct, but your coherency is shot when Felix pulls the glass out of your foot. 

More tears fall, some in relief.  Then you look down and see an impossibly tiny shard.  You cannot believe how small it is. It truly felt like it went deeper, like it slashed right through your foot. 

“Show me,” your father says.

Felix meets your gaze, his eyes apologetic.  He lifts the glass for your father to see.  Then another glass breaks when your father smashes his coffee mug in a fit of frustration.

“It really hurt!” you protest, feeling as pathetic as you sound.    

“Ridiculous, dramatic child,” your father says.  “Felix, close the door.”

Felix obeys.  He cannot show any hesitation.  He is the emotionless robot that your father wants. 

Felix closes the door as commanded then stands against it.  He folds his hands behind his back and stares ahead, not sparing you another glance.  He looks every inch a waiting soldier.  Someone who would sooner drive a knife through his own hand than disobey an order. 

“You want to cry?” your father asks, as if you are not already hiccupping on half-aborted sobs. “Do you have any idea about the scale of work I have to accomplish this week?  Do you think I play games behind these doors?  For you to – to – to waltz around, acting like a child and throwing a tantrum over nothing—”  

You must be dripping blood on the hardwood but he does not even care to look.  He stalks to his desk where he sits. 

“Felix,” your father says, his rage barely suffused in the address.  He gestures to you and says no more.

You and Felix meet eyes.  He conceals his alarm fairly well.  You doubt anyone else would see fear and concern in the subtle crease of his brow.  He makes it look contemplative, but you see it.  You see him. 

And you know he is making a mistake before he even says anything. 

“Sir?”

Your father, who was looking at a file on his desk, lifts his head. 

You and Felix have been in this office many times.  He has watched your father beat you, and you have watched him take as many strikes on your behalf.  Your father’s instructions are implicit in the environment, under the circumstances.  He is asking Felix to deliver a beating on his behalf.  Experience and common sense should be clarity enough for a soldier like Felix.    

This confusion, feigned to buy himself a moment, is worthy of your father’s furious stare. 

“What?�� your father snaps. 

Felix hesitates, then approaches. 

That moment of hesitation is enough. You look at your father.  Just like you can read Felix, you can read that man.  You can see the calculation behind his eye.  Everyone is a thing, a statistic, a number, something that be crunched and calculated, something that can be used and discarded if the calculations are unfavourable.  Things are supposed to function according to his commanded algorithm. 

Felix is not supposed to hesitate.   

You were correct to assume your father would never suspect your affair based on romance.  He does not see or recognize an exchange of true love.   But he understands violence.  He understands its absence.  Felix could kiss you and your father would not notice, but Felix refusing to hit you is worth a second glance. 

With very little time to think, you diffuse those suspicions before they take flight.  When Felix is near, you do not hesitate to swipe at him.  You land a mean smack on his cheek that sufficiently surprises him. 

He meets your eyes.  They are narrowed with righteous anger as you play the part you must.  You know he sees the apology in them.  You hope he sees the forgiveness. 

Felix returns the smack.  He does not hit you anywhere near as hard as he could – even your father would hit you harder – but it is still enough of a crack that your head turns on impact.  You clutch your cheek and your whole body quivers, like it is confused by the alternating directions of pain.

“Don’t you dare touch me again,” you say, looking at Felix.  “You stupid animal.  I hate you.” 

That you know he cannot misunderstand.

And so it is within that mute understanding you hand yourself over, as you have so often done.  Felix does what he can to lighten the severity, just as he always does, but it still requires a few good hits so your father believes your weepy surrender.

You are very quiet after.  You can hear your father’s pen scratching across a paper pad.  He watched it all then went right back to work. 

You remember when you chased the high of his attention just to linger in a pit of despondency for hours after.  You do not feel that now.  Pure, unadulterated rage flows through you, hot as fire and as all-consuming.  You feel no other emotion in that moment. 

You look at your father, unwavering. 

“I despise you,” you say.   

Then pen on the paper stops.  For a moment, he seems struck.  But then he crosses a line on the page and resumes his work, not once looking at you, your bruises, or your blood.  Not acknowledging your anger, the one trait you inherited from him.

“You’ll see,” your father says, with a fair degree of poise and equanimity.  Unbothered, like he is talking about ordinary things.  You suppose he is.  What could be more ordinary to this man than the ominous prophesizing of his self-inflicted horror?  “One day,” he says.  “When I am gone and you really see the world for what it is, you will understand why I did what I have done.  You will be safe and you will thank me.” 

I will kill you before I ever thank you, you think, and realize with a shiver you truly mean it.

“Felix, retrieve Domino,” your father says.

Domino is the guard posted at the door.  When he enters, he gives you a cursory glance, his cheek dimpled, the amusement towards your situation scarcely concealed. 

Your father’s money might afford him influence over this stock of men, but they are all in the business of profitable pain.  Military men, ex-cops: they are a dirty and criminal ilk who are accustomed to holding authority in their own right.  It is little wonder they never liked you and you never liked them.   

“Sir,” Domino says, at attention. 

“Take my daughter to her room and see to it she is tended.  Then send someone to clean up this mess.  I have work to finish here and I will not tolerate any further interruptions.  None.  Do you understand?”

“Sir,” is the reply, affirmative, with a sharp nod.

“Good.  Felix.  Sit.”

Your father gestures to the chair across his desk and Felix moves towards it.  Unlike the perfect boy soldier who once sat in that chair, Felix kicks it because he is glancing back at you. 

You meet his eye for a brief moment, then the world spins as Domino picks you up.  It is a grappling yank, like you grab a thing, with no care for injury or a polite touch. 

You are carried out of the office and back to your room.  One of the crew’s medics patches your foot.  You sit through it with a cold detachment, then your room is empty and you are alone, waiting in bed for Felix so you can ask what is happening and discuss what to do.

Felix never comes.  

-

In your wildest imaginings of what transpired behind that door, a job is not what you anticipate.  It is at once too strange and too mundane.  

A job is not an operation; it is an errand, a sleight of hand conducted in the shadowed crevice of a greater business scheme.  It is not unusual for your father to send his men out on these jobs.  But in all the years Felix has been in his employ, he has never been sent out.  His only occupation is to serve as your bodyguard, and he has proven time and again how he is irreplaceable in that position. 

You do not know what makes this job different.  You glean only a little information from the chatter of the crew, just enough that you know it is a stealth acquisition and a rare, unprovoked move against Miroh.  Your father is known for his defensive tactics, seldom manoeuvring in offense, so you suppose the inclusion of his best solider on a risky venture makes sense.  Felix  is likely your father’s only guarantee.

But you cannot shake there is something else.  Felix is more than just a soldier and Miroh is more than just a businessman.  You know their past is tangled together. 

You do not get a chance to ask.  The next time you see Felix is through a window.  You are in the upstairs corridor, staring down at the driveway as he climbs into a van with a few other agents.  Then the van pulls away and it is just you in that house with your temporary replacement bodyguard team. 

Even your father leaves, though you doubt he will be involved in the physical mission itself.   You overhear him telling your security that he anticipates returning in a week.  You count down the hours until then.

By the second day, you are sick with worry.   Sitting around with your unanswered questions makes the time drag.   Hours pass in dissociation, unmoving and anxious.  You decide that waiting will only worsen your state.  Although you are not keen to wander around town with your security entourage in tow, you cannot sit here either.     

The team is made of three men including Domino.  They are all as subtle as a scream with their bulk and demeanour, and every bit like all the others. 

Though they will undoubtedly report even the most mundane actions, they acquiesce and take you into town.  The campus café is one of your father’s approved locations.   

You are not sure if you want to run into your friends.  The distraction would be a welcome one, not to mention the balm that is a smile from a friendly face, but you also have no idea how you will explain the obvious security.  You are exhausted with lies.  You are not sure you could spin a convincing story even if you wanted, and you do not. 

The café is always quiet before lunch.  There are a few students scattered around so even though you feel ridiculous, no one pays you much attention. 

One guard waits outside the door, one inside by a window, and Domino stays by your side as you order your drink and take a seat. 

You forgot just how invasive and uncomfortable this dynamic was.  If you were not so drained, you would be snapping at them just to relieve the tension drawn tight in your chest.  Instead, you endure.  Every breath feels more strained than the last.  You cannot focus on your work any better here.  The words on your screen are just meaningless letters and shapes. 

You stare at your hands, at their faint, vibrating tremble.     

Then you hear your name.  The guards have been addressing you as girl, sometimes subject or the daughter when speaking to each other.  The gentler murmur of your name momentarily stills the shaking of your fingers, steady as a hand grasping yours.  You lift your head and see Jeongin, his bag slung lazily over one shoulder, his dark hair a shaggy mess, and his concerned eyes flitting between you and Domino.

“Hey,” Jeongin says with that dimpled smile.  “What’s up?”

“Who is this?” Domino asks.  Before you can answer, he turns to Jeongin and says, “Stand back.  You do not have permission to stand here.”

“Oh my god,” you say, slapping a palm to your forehead. 

You are flooded with childhood memories, idiots like this intimidating everyone who tried to speak to you for longer than a minute.  Whether they took the form of a guardian or masqueraded as a janitor or something else, they always made everyone sufficiently uncomfortable.  Even Jisung was often disturbed by them, though he drew the wrong conclusions about their identity.  He was good with weird.

Jeongin must be made of a similar mettle.  He gives your guard a pinched look, lip curled like he smells something bad, but he does not move.   He looks at you with a tip of the head, concern once more creasing his features. 

“Do you need help?” he asks. 

The poor guy must be so confused.  You look like you are being held hostage in a coffee shop by a stupidly inconspicuous thug. 

All you can do is sigh and shake your head.  “I’m fine, Jeongin,” you say, a very unconvincing lie.  “I’ll catch you around, yeah?”

“Move along,” Domino says. 

Jeongin looks at him.  His glance flicks up and down.  Then he says, “Your fly is down.” 

Domino stares at him, unblinking, as if he can vaporize Jeongin with just a glare.  Jeongin stares back. 

“Really, Jeongin,” you say.  A genuine breath of a laugh leaves your lips.  Jeongin could not even throw a punch without smacking a chair, but he is willing to stick up for you.  And his annoyance tactic is the funniest defense you can imagine.    

Jeongin finally leaves, but with a glance over his shoulder.  You fight the urge to throw something at the guards who watch him go. 

“Who was that?” Domino asks. 

“I don’t know his name,” you say.  “He was just a classmate a long time ago.” 

You hope that is enough to make him forgettable. 

You act casual, taking a sip of your coffee.   Then Domino looks down into his lap, quickly checking his fly.  Your snorting laughter sprays coffee everywhere.

Fortunately, this does not impact the report.  You are allowed to return to the same coffee shop the next day.   This time both Seungmin and Jeongin are there, books open but blathering in distracted conversation.  Another young guy is sitting with them, maybe a classmate, though he has no books with him.  He is sprawled in a chair, holding a coffee and grinning at whatever the boys are saying. 

He notices you first, probably because you are staring.  He tips his head as he looks at you, black bangs falling across his forehead.  He is noticeably stocky and broad, but he smiles behind the brim of his coffee cup and it is incredibly disarming. 

He is handsome but the overt flirtation brings only pain.  It makes you think of Felix.  You barely slept last night, tossing and turning with anxiety.  Your stress only worsened when you woke in an empty bed.  

You are so fraught with anxiety, your whole body feels taut like a thread about to snap. 

Something is going to happen, or maybe it already has.  It is bad.  You know it intuitively, the way you know which hand will strike when your father is in a mood, the way you know a black car on a quiet street is an enemy, the way you have always known this life is a death sentence, a slow execution by the brutality of weathering.

You look away from the stranger’s smile.  Then Jeongin sees you and his laughter fades, concern and curiosity drawing his brows together.  He nudges Seungmin who looks too, tipping his head with a questioning look. 

You just shrug and take a seat at a different table. There is nothing else to do.

Domino sits with you, as bored with his duty as ever.  You believe your whole team is annoyed with their job.  Your father would not leave weak soldiers in charge of you, but he also had to take his very best with him.  These men are probably too competent for menial work and are likely offended by their assignment.  They are the worst of the best. 

Which is how you steal a moment to talk to Seungmin.  One guard outside, one at the window, and Domino at your table.  He lets you leave to get some sugar for your coffee, watching with glazed-over indifference as you fuss at the counter.

Seungmin joins you, pretending he is also grabbing sugar.

“You’re keeping some weird company,” he says in a low voice.  “Are you in some kind of trouble?  Do you need help?”

You swallow an unexpected lump in your throat.   Your friendship with Seungmin and Jeongin was only ever casual, so it is quite touching that the two civilians are so willing to defend you, even when standing at an obvious disadvantage against your thugs. 

Your prepared lie gets tangled in that lump.  You swallow it down.  For a moment, your mouth is open with nothing to say.  You both stir your coffee slowly.   Eventually you take a breath. 

“It’s complicated,” you say.  “It’s just to do with my dad.  Thank you, though.”

There is a beat of silence before he says, “We’re friends, okay?  Just let us know if we can help.” 

You have been trapped in solitude for days now. Seungmin provides the comforting reminder that your world is not all bad.  Though he cannot do much to help, the sentiment in his simple offer is enough to temper the worst of your anxiety, at least for the time being.

“Thank you,” you say.  “Really.”   You spare a glance at Domino who is watching you intensely, just waiting for you to slip up and do something that warrants a reprimand or report.  “I better get back,” you say.  “Say hi to Jeongin, and say sorry from me for yesterday.  You guys have fun with your friend.”

“Oh, we don’t know that guy.  He just sat with us out of nowhere,” Seungmin says, laughing.  “He says his name is Changbin.  But he paid for our coffee so he can sit wherever he likes, haha.”

You smile at his playfulness.  He smiles too, then he walks back to his table.  Your eyes follow him and settle on the stranger – Changbin. 

You want to keep smiling, want to imagine the stranger is just an awkward university kid making friends in a weird way.  But Changbin is looking at you again, with the same intensity as Domino.  Your eyes skirt his shoulders and biceps and his too-charming smile.   

You want to chalk it up to paranoia, exacerbated by the extra stress of the last few days.  But something is off about this stranger appearing here, suddenly, at a place you are known to frequent, the week your father is moving against Miroh, when Felix is gone and you are vulnerable.  He is sitting with your friends, like he knows they are your friends, like he can trick you into trusting him by their proximity. 

He is not like your father’s guards who are blatantly out of place.  Changbin is so visible that he is invisible.  Just a friendly college boy. 

Just like Felix. 

You are being ridiculous, you tell yourself.  You cannot walk around assuming everyone is an enemy.   But you cannot shake the feeling of wrongness, the awful premonition that something is going to happen. 

You try to ignore Changbin as you drink your coffee but you are unsuccessful.  Your hackles are raised and will not come down, made worse by the indifference of everyone around you.  Domino is none the wiser.  The other guards have not left their posts.   Your friends are laughing with him like he is just some guy.

You ask yourself what Felix would do.  You imagine he would not cause a scene or confront Changbin.  He would quietly take your arm and usher you to safety, only fighting in retaliation if necessary.  Part of his job has always been discretion, but he has never relished in violence anyway.  It is always a last resort. 

Your instincts have often propelled you into heated action until you freeze, always one extreme or the other.  Now, you calm yourself and steady your shaking hands.  You comfort yourself the way Felix would.  You tell Domino you want to go home.  He makes some agitated remark about you needing to make up your mind, that you only just arrived, but you do not rise to his bait.  You close your laptop and pack your bag. 

It takes one second.  Changbin is sitting with your friends, then you look down.  When you lift your head, he is gone.  The boys think nothing of it.   Your guards don’t notice.   You want to scream but you know it won’t make a difference.   These men won’t listen to you. 

You leave with your guards.  The large campus is practically a city unto itself, separated from the mainland by a stretch of woods.  It is a scenic drive with a deer park in its centre, but all you see is rain ripping through branches and the shadows between each slash of grey daylight. 

You are almost relieved when something thumps heavily onto the roof.  But the relief that you were right is short-lived when all hell breaks loose. 

You close your eyes, arms wrapped around yourself in the back seat.  Glass shatters and the car skids to a rough stop, flying off the road and onto the forest terrain. 

You open your eyes to the windshield in pieces, the driver frozen with his head thrown back.  Domino and the other guard are out of their seats in seconds, making the same mistake as Miroh’s men all that time ago.  You know how this fight will end.

You look through the broken windshield.  Changbin flies into view and knocks Domino onto his knees.  It takes one roundhouse kick for him to fall over, unconscious.  The other guard tries to take a shot but Changbin disarms him with a couple sharp moves.   You close your eyes when Changbin shoots. 

He fights with the same fluidity as Felix.  For a moment, you are back there, eighteen years old and frightened and relieved all at once.  Except when the back door opens this time, you are not quick to rush out.  It is not Felix waiting for you. 

Changbin clears his throat and you slowly look over.  He is wearing jeans and a leather jacket and does not look ruffled in the slightest.  Dark hair falls over his forehead as he tips his head.  He smiles, handsome and charming.  As unassuming as Felix when his eyes crinkle up with delight and he laughs like he has never known pain.  Like he was not raised for the purpose of violence, property of Miroh, of your father, of whoever else, acting as their hand because they won’t get their own fingers dirty. 

Changbin gestures to you, curling his fingers, a mute come here. 

“Hurry up,” he says.  “Time to go.” 

You imagine escaping out the other door, trying to make a run for it through the forest.  You know you will not get far. 

“Are you one of them?” you ask, impulsively.  “Miroh’s?”

You already know the answer.   

Changbin blinks at you, then laughs. 

“It depends,” he says, then tuts like he thinks you are preciously naïve.  “I personally think I’m one of a kind.  But I guess we’ll find out.  Now get out of the car.”

With little choice in the matter, you obey.  Your legs wobble when you stand so you instinctively take the hand he offers. 

You have not yet steadied yourself when he yanks you into his arms.  Though Felix undoubtedly holds strength in his lithe form, he is more dexterous and athletic than outright powerful.  He knows how to use his body to its best advantage.  But Changbin is strong and he does not hide it, the bulge of his biceps crushing you in the hard, ungiving circle of his arms.  Leather and muscle cage you in tightly, so unyielding that you cannot even squirm.  Your heels dig at the ground as he hauls you away from the car.  A belated scream claws its way up your throat but gets strangled in his chokehold.

Then you feel ice, so cold it burns.  Your racing heart propels each freezing shard through your bloodstream. 

You realize he stabbed you with a needle.  It is a flickering thought, only momentarily realized, then you are plunged beneath the surface of that ice, drowned in black waters, and you think no more.

-

You are plunged into an oblivion so deep and so fast that you wake thinking no time passed at all. 

You hear before you see.  The patter of rain overhead is not unlike its tapping against the roof of the car.  Groggy, you think you are still there, your arms wrapped around yourself while waiting for the worst. 

Then your sense of smell creeps in, overwhelming you with damp and something metallic.  A cool breeze pebbles your skin as it washes over you.  It coaxes you out of your bleariness. 

You blink awake, the blurry world taking gradual shape around you.  It is not the world you left behind, no sign of a car or campus or coffee shop.  It looks like an old warehouse or maybe a factory, but the room has been stripped to its bare bone essentials.  The exposed pipes and rotting damp of the high walls account for the smell. 

The breeze blows from your left where a garage door is open.  You squint towards the grey light of the rainy day.  You do not know how long you have been unconscious.  It looks like early afternoon but your body tells you that you have been asleep for longer than a few minutes. 

You try to gather your bearings.  You see a harbour in the distance, past the pavement and the fence and what must be a drop to water below.  Your university is not near any body of water.  So you must have been unconscious long enough to transport this far.  A few hours at least, but given the light maybe it has been a full day. 

That is all you can deduce.  You do not recognize the warehouse or the harbour. 

You do recognize the man in front of you, though it takes a second.  Changbin is no longer dressed like a civilian, wearing a black combat uniform and boots.  His shirt covers his arms but fits like a second skin, his bulk emphasized.  He is squatting on the ground a few feet from you.  He holds a black mask in his hand, one that covers the lower half of his face when he swings it up.  He lifts and lowers it a few times, absent-mindedly it seems.  Then he realizes you are stirring and fastens it in place. 

Your head is pounding. Your petulant side wants to bark a complaint, but even you know taunting this man would be beyond stupid.   Changbin is not just any soldier.  Miroh did not send one of his regular men.  He clearly learned his lesson last time.   Even without asking, you know Changbin is like Felix.  He did not merely train as a soldier; he was born and moulded into it. 

And, unlike Felix, he has had no reprieve from Miroh. 

You come into your body, stretching your fingers.  Your hands are cuffed behind your back and locked to your chair.   One ankle is cuffed to the chair leg.   Metal jingles as you move, testing your bonds. 

You stop when Changbin approaches, your heart thumping as hot adrenaline melts the ice in your blood. 

“Good morning,” Changbin says.  “How did you sleep?”

Your body is still slow to respond, but you manage a decent glare.  It makes him laugh.

“They told me you were funny,” he says.  “That you make your father’s men look like a joke – not hard, to be fair.”  He tips his head, looking at you like he is waiting.  All you do is stare.  “Come on,” he whines.  “Say something funny.” 

Your stomach turns over itself, not because Changbin is taunting you… but because you think he isn’t taunting you.   He does not speak with the sarcastic intonation of your father’s men, dryly mocking your helplessness in his presence.  His eyes are big and resolutely focussed, seeming to genuinely anticipate your retort.  He is almost child-like with his attention.   

This impression only solidifies when he sighs, morose, and crouches again. 

“Do you want something?” he asks. 

“Let me go?” you say. 

It comes out rough but it makes him laugh behind the mask, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

“Aha, you are funny,” he says and slaps his knee.  “Anything but that.  But don’t worry your head.”  You flinch from his touch, but all he does is pat your head like he is reassuring a frightened puppy.  “This isn’t about you,” he says.  “Well, not yet.  Maybe later.  First…  Your father took something from us.  And he won’t give it back.” 

Changbin removes the mask so he can smile, one of those disarming smiles that is so at odds with the rest of him.  Felix might switch demeanours depending on the circumstance, but Changbin flickers between faces from one breath to the next.    

“We just need it back,” Changbin says.  “Then, maybe, we’ll even the score.  Maybe.  Don’t worry about that yet.  For now, you just need to sit.  Are you thirsty?”  

The distinct reverberation of gunfire comes from the front of the building.  You shriek and duck your head, like that will do anything to protect you, gasping as you listen to bullets ricochet off the walls in some distant room. 

When everything goes quiet, you lift your head.  Your chest is heaving with each deep breath, your adrenaline bleeding out your pores so even the air around you feels like it is humming.  You stare at Changbin who has not moved a muscle, still squatting and staring. 

“I think we have lemonade,” he says.  “You want that?” 

You do not even know what to say.  His sincere but stunted peculiarity reminds you so much of a teenage Felix even though Changbin looks older than both of you. 

There is more gunfire.  You duck your head and slam your eyes shut.  Changbin does not move until it stops, his mouth open with another comment, but he silences himself when the far door opens.   Then he is swift, on his feet with his mask secured.  He stands at your side as he silently watches the approach of a small group of men.

You are still reeling from panic, so it takes you a second to realize what is happening.

“Felix!” the cry leaves your lips.

Five of Miroh’s men surround him, suited guards in various states of dishevelment, like they have been fighting for much longer than a few minutes.  Felix is bound with his hands behind his back, a yellow bruise already forming on his chin.  His own dark uniform is singed with bullet holes.  His hair looks like it was slicked back, but he has sweat through some of the product, tendrils of blonde falling into his face.

Despite his state, his attention is all on you.  Eyes assessing, scanning you from head to toe. 

When you meet his gaze, the whole world falls away.  These men, this place, none of it exists for a breath of a moment.   Felix is here and that means you will survive.  Everything will be fine.  You have always kept each other alive.  This time will be no different.  You can see it in his eyes, in that oh-so subtle twinge of a smile.  You can hear him without him moving his lips.

Hello, sweetheart. You’re safe.   

They put him on his knees.  His gaze flits to either side.  You can see him calculating.  Oh, he is here on purpose.  He let himself be caught, you are certain, so he could find you and rescue you and—

“Target acquired,” a man says.  

It takes you a moment to realize he is talking about Felix. 

You look at the man then at Changbin, considering his earlier words. 

Something your father took.  Something they want back. 

It hits you all at once.  You have not been kidnapped as leverage against your father.  You have been taken as bait for Felix.  They don’t want you, they want him.  An irreplaceable soldier your father stole from Miroh a decade ago, that he has paraded in front of him for years at galas and parties.  Using him as a bodyguard for his wayward daughter and not as a soldier, not until now.  Biding his time before using Felix against the house that made him.   

You can see your father’s stupid machinations clicking into place.  He is a perpetual child throwing a tantrum.  His movements are sloppy and immature.  He steals from his enemy, a weapon he does not know how to use, thinking it will keep him safe, letting it make him cocky.  And now he is sitting somewhere as it all blows up in his face. 

Or it would.  In an ironic twist of fate, you are saving your father. 

Because as far as Miroh knows, Felix is here as your bodyguard, acting on your father’s orders to retrieve you.  All Miroh has to do is pluck him from the fray.  And as a bonus, he has you in captivity for future leverage.   

It would have been a good plan.  It would have worked if Felix was an emotionless machine.  If would have worked if Felix was here because of a command. 

But Felix loves you.

He is here to save you. 

In a quick move, Felix sweeps two men off their feet.  He rolls on his back and propels himself to his feet, hands bound under him, leading with his core.  He slams his head into an oncoming guard and the man stumbles back.  Three out of five on the ground.  Then suddenly one hand is free of the cuffs – he must have been picking at it the whole time - and he swings the dangling metal in another’s eye. 

You flinch away from the violence, even while rooting for Felix.  A few more thuds and you know all five men are incapacitated.  You open your eyes and lift your head, watching Felix drop the handcuffs on the floor.  He absently rubs his wrist, his gaze drifting from you to Changbin.  His fingers freeze, his eyes narrowing as he perceives the stoic soldier at your side. 

Felix stares, like he if he looks hard enough, he will see through the mask. 

“You’re new,” Felix finally says. 

Changbin rolls his eyes. 

Changbin reels back and hurls a knife in a swift arc, right at Felix’s face.  Felix is just as fast and catches the handle.  He returns the throw.  The knife clatters on the ground as Changbin surges forward. 

These two are evenly matched.  Watching them fight is terrifying and unpredictable.  They dance around each other, delivering equal blows and blocking similar shots.  In the end, Felix wins in one move miscalculated by his opponent.  With an opening granted, Felix takes Changbin down.  One, two, three hits to the head.  Changbin stumbles backward, his mask falling.  He is disoriented when he looks Felix, but Felix sees him with complete clarity.

You learned to read Felix a long time ago.  You know all his expressions by heart, the crease of each smile memorized, the track of each tear committed to heart. 

You have never seen this face, this mix of horror and bewilderment as a barely conscious Changbin slams onto the ground.  Then it is Felix who missteps, tripping over his own feet as he reaches for the opponent he just threw down. 

“Changbin,” he says.  “You’re alive, I—” 

Changbin swings at him but is too dizzy to land a hit.  Felix catches the punch.  He should throw one back, finish him off, but he hesitates.  His brow furrows.  He grabs Changbin by the neck of his shirt and yanks him close.

“Chris,” he says.  “Chan.  Chris.  Where is he?” 

Changbin laughs.  It turns to choking when a dribble of blood gurgles past his mouth.  He spits it at Felix then heaves a rough breath. 

“Oh, fuck you, Yongbok,” he says.  “’You’re new’ – didn’t even recognize me—”

“It—it’s been so long—and I thought you—”

“Yah, not all of us got to attend pretty parties these last years like you—”

“Stop it, you don’t know anything about what I’ve been doing—”

“Chris he says.  First thing he says.”  Changbin squirms but does not have the strength to rip away, especially with Felix gripping him so hard.  He heaves another aggravated groan.  “You know Chris died because of you.  He’s been gone for years.”

“No,” Felix says, his voice pinched.  His eyes rapidly water, his knuckles white from his death-grip. 

Changbin shakes his head but slips further.  Felix once more catches him when he should be ending him, sniffling hard as he gets on his knees. 

“He’s not dead,” Felix says.  “He can’t be dead—”

“Why don’t you ask your boss?”

As if on cue, your father’s men burst into the room.  Felix looks at them in surprise even though he must have coordinated their arrival. 

Changbin laughs.  “I hope it was worth it, Yongbok,” he says.  He uses one last burst of energy to throw himself forward, propelled away from Felix.  He rolls across the ground then stumbles to his feet, running past the open garage door, into the rain, and disappearing around the corner. 

Felix is too stunned to chase him.  You look at Felix, on his knees and holding nothing, palms up like he expects something to appear in them.  He closes his fists as your father’s men approach. 

Then he slides his figurative mask in place, assuming his usual role.  He kicks the literal mask discarded by Changbin, then finally looks at you. 

“Get the car,” Felix says to the men.  “And check the grounds for anything useful.” 

The men disperse and Felix approaches you.  He kneels at your side and picks at the lock of your handcuffs.  You are crying before you can stop yourself, overwhelmed with everything that just transpired. 

“Shh, sweetheart,” Felix whispers, looking at you with pain of his own.  “It will be okay.  Just a little longer.” 

The handcuffs drop.  He squeezes your hand in his. 

“Just a little longer.” 

-

You are several cities over, hours away from home and even further from the job your father was conducting against Miroh. Miroh was clearly trying to divert his enemy.  He tried to steal Felix back while doing so.

Neither he or your father accounted for you, for Felix, for all the love between you.

You are in a small hotel room away from prying eyes and military men.   You are scrubbing yourself clean in the bath and he sits on the rim of the tub, wiping your back with a cloth. 

You checked in two hours ago.  You spent most of that time blubbering incoherently, catching your breath even hours after freedom.  You have not had a real conversation yet.  Felix has been quiet, his eyes intermittently far away or so intensely focussed on you that it makes you hiccup with more tears.

You hiss when he presses his thumb to the mark on your neck, the little bite from the needle so carelessly plunged into your vein. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, smoothing with a gentle circle. 

“This has been the worst week of my life,” you say.  “And that’s saying something.  Oh my god, and it’s only Wednesday.”

Felix laughs in spite of himself, though it is more of a breath than a sound.  He drops the cloth in the water and you shiver as he caresses the bare skin of your back. 

“I love you,” he says, like it is something he has always said, like it is easy to say.  Like he could say it again and again. 

The room feels so quiet.  His voice is soft but it sounds like a shout, echoing back in this intimate space.  Your breath catches.  You go very still. 

Then he says your name in a breathless murmur that is exhaled with more adoration than the word love itself.  

“No games,” he says.  “No jokes.  No hidden meanings or secrets.” 

“Felix,” you say.  It is all you manage. 

“I know,” he says weakly.  “I know, sweetheart.  You don’t have to say anything, I just…” 

His hair is wet from a quick shower, combed back neatly, more composed than the rest of him.  You look up as he runs his wet fingers through it.  The bruise on his jaw is darkening, a burned gold that looks incredibly painful.  He shed his outer layers, is wearing a black t-shirt and black pants.  He has a silver army tag, or something like it, marked with your father’s name and not his own.  It’s new.  Something the field agents wear.  Good as a collar.

You reach out and take hold, ripping it off his neck.  He looks at it dangling from your fist, as surprised as you that it broke so fast. 

Maybe it really is it that easy.      

His hurt jaw wobbles.  He touches the bruise and looks down, away from you, head bowed as if in supplication.  Worshipful.  Penitent.

“I’m sorry,” he says, lighter than a whisper.  “I will tell you everything.  I just want to be a person for you a little longer.”

“Felix,” you say, dropping the tag on the floor.  You kneel in the bath and reach for him with your wet hands.  He does not lift his head when a silent sob wracks his body.  His shoulders shake when you touch him.  “You have always been a person to me.”

“I know,” he says, voice breaking.  “I know, sweetheart.  I owe you so much—”

“You don’t owe me anything—”

“I owe you everything.” 

He looks at you then, his dark eyes wet with tears, his expression serious.  He breathes a shaky exhale then leans away, grabbing a towel. 

“Come here,” he says, and stands. 

Moments later, you are standing on the floor, wrapped in the towel in his arms.  He bundles you tightly and you rest your head on his shoulder, safe and secure with his strong hold around you. 

“I love you,” he says, his wet cheek pressed to yours.  “Even if you hate me, even if you don’t, even if you can never say it back, I love you and all the life you have in you.”

“I’m a mess,” you say, trying to laugh, but it comes out weak. 

“You’re alive.  I don’t think anyone understands better than you, what it means to have a life,” he says.  “The way your life fills you, the way you hold onto it no matter how many times someone tried to take it away.” 

You are hiding your face in his neck, embarrassed and amorous and teary all at once.  Then he lifts you up and turns around, perching you on the counter.  You wriggle your arms free, tucking the towel beneath them.  You steady your breathing as he picks up a cloth to wipe the smudged vestiges of make-up off your cheek. 

“I remember the first time I saw you,” he says.  “I’ve always been so scared.  I hide it, yeah?  But it’s there.  Miroh, your father, everything about them…  It was like living in a nightmare.  They were bigger than life.  They controlled dangerous people.  I couldn’t imagine anyone standing up to them.”  He smiles now, his thumb smoothing over your cheek.  “Then you burst into the room and started a fight with one of them.  I was shocked.  I thought, is this girl crazy? What have I gotten into?” 

“That girl was crazy,” you say, laughing. 

He laughs too, but shakes his head.  “She was the only sane one,” he says.  “God.  You had more passion in your little finger than I had ever felt in my whole body my whole life.  And I thought… I will never feel that much emotion.  I knew it was too late for me.  I wasn’t living for myself and I was fine with that.  I couldn’t be saved.”  His eyes are teary again.  He takes your hand and looks down at it.  “You took my hand.  Even in your anger, even in your everything, you saw something…  You touched me once and it was like life rushed into me.  And I hated myself everyday after that because I wasn’t enough.  I wasn’t what you needed.  I could take your beatings but I couldn’t save you because I was a scared coward and you were stuck with me—”

“Shh, stop that,” you say.  You run your fingers through his hair, smoothing the pieces he rucked up. 

He wipes his cheeks.  He plants his hands on the counter, on either side of you.  His eyes are closed when he takes a deep breath. 

“Miroh couldn’t kill your grandfather,” Felix says.  “He tried and he failed.  Your grandfather was willing to sacrifice everything for himself.  Your mother died in his place.  You and me were on opposite sides of the world, both just babies.  You never knew your mother.  I never knew my parents.  Miroh decided he needed a new generation of soldiers.  There were a few of us, all over the world.  When we were old enough to speak and run and fight, he recruited the best.  I was one of the best.  So was Changbin.”

“And Chris,” you say, remembering the exchange in the warehouse. 

Felix’s face scrunches in pain.  He nods. 

“Yeah,” he says.  “We travelled together.  We trained together.  We were like brothers.” 

“What happened?” you ask.  You lay a hand on his chest and he takes it, holding it there.   

“I was stupid,” Felix says with a self-deprecating laugh.  “I believed Miroh.  I thought… there are bad guys out there, simple as that.  If we get rid of them, then we won’t have to be scared anymore, yeah?  They wouldn’t have to hurt us if we just got rid of the bad guy. But it wasn’t that easy.  I killed your grandfather and it didn’t end anything.  Chris was right.  Because he always knew.  He said it wasn’t right, what Miroh was doing.  Chris could have been the best if he could let go of who he was, and just be what he was supposed to be… but he didn’t.  I… I felt like I… I couldn’t afford to be that way… If I wasn’t the best, I was nothing.  If I couldn’t kill, I was going to be killed.  And by the time I realized he was right, it was too late.” 

He finally meets your gaze, squeezing your hand in his. 

“I almost died on a job and Chris saved my life.  He wasn’t supposed to.  In Miroh’s order, if something happens to a soldier, you leave them behind.  You don’t waste resources on the weak.  Chris disobeyed orders and all his training to save me.  I told him I wouldn’t have done the same and he said I know, that’s not why I’m doing it.  It’s just the right thing, Felix.  I thought, how can someone like this even exist, after everything he’s seen and done, how does he still try to find the good?  I didn’t know if he was stupid or smart.  Then a commander found out what he did and they took him out of our order for re-training.  I still saw him but we couldn’t talk.  He had so much potential and the organization didn’t want to throw it away.  They tried to break him.  It wasn’t working.  It broke me instead.  I realized I had to get us out or die trying.” 

He looks at you and says, “You get it, don’t you?  The way Jisung saved you.  The way he was your friend.  The way he was just there.  That was Chris for me, yeah?”  His voice is rife with desperation, like he needs you to understand this more than anything else. 

“Yeah,” you say softly, feeling that very heartache all over again.  “I do.  I get it, Felix.”   

“Then you know,” he says, voice breaking, “how I felt when I let him down.  I let everyone down.  I fucked up a job, trying to undermine Miroh.  I thought I could outsmart him but I didn’t.  It just opened a door for your father to get in.  There was a stupid skirmish over a politician in Miroh’s pocket.  Your dad was trying to buy him out and it ended in a fight.  Three of our best men dead.  Including Changbin, I thought.  Just someone else I let down.   I was taken alive.  I knew if I went back to Miroh, I was dead.  If I ran off on my own, Chris would never escape, and they would break him eventually, or kill him trying.  I couldn’t go.  I couldn’t stay.  I couldn’t take Miroh on my own.  So I made a deal with your father.”   

And what I get is a life worth more than mine. 

You remember those words.  Felix once spoke them in an emotional moment, lost to his memories.  You never knew what he meant.  You realize now he meant Chris, the friend he left behind, the friend he sold himself to save. 

“You gave up your life to my father,” you say, “and in return—”

“He would rescue Chris,” Felix says.  “It was a win for us both, yeah.  Take out Miroh, steal his assets.  My friend gets his freedom.  Your father gets a soldier.  I was willing to give up my life.  I figured I never had one.  I wouldn’t miss it. All I knew was how to be a soldier.  I didn’t even know how to want something else.  But then you… You.”          

“Felix,” you say, overwhelmed with his confession and the depth of his feeling. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says.  “I let you down.”

“What?  How?”  You touch his face, cupping his chin in both hands.  “What do you mean?”

“I couldn’t save you,” he says, voice rasping and light again, speaking above a sob.  “At first because I couldn’t leave, not until we rescued Chris.  And there was never an opportunity. I waited years.  Years.  And by then I had to keep waiting, because I couldn’t have wasted all that time for nothing.  I had to save him.  I had to save someone.  Or else I failed everyone.  It had to mean something.  I couldn’t—”

“Felix,” you say.  “It was an impossible situation. We were kids for half of it. I don’t blame you for anything.”

“I do,” he says, barely more than a breath, a faint whisper against your skin.  “I wasn’t good enough.  I didn’t do enough.” 

“We have no way of knowing what else could have happened,” you say.  “We did our best.  And now—”

You cut yourself off.  And now?  What happens next?  You heard their conversation in that warehouse.  You know why Felix looked so torn apart.

“Chris,” you say.  “Is he…?”  Dead.  “Was Changbin telling the truth?” 

“I don’t know,” Felix says. 

Dead.  For years.  Because of Felix.  Because of your father. 

It does not take much to piece together the implications.  Your father is a cowardly, underhanded schemer.  He poisons teenagers and beats his daughter and hides in his mansion except when he’s lashing out for attention.  He put Felix under contract, but the only guarantee of servitude was his honour and one stipulation.  Honour would mean little to your father.  But a person, that he could leverage.  That he could calculate and control.  So long as he could dangle Chris over Felix’s head, then Felix would be bound to him. 

And the best way to guarantee he would never have to fulfill his end of the bargain, the best way to guarantee Chris would never escape, would be to kill Chris himself and never tell Felix.   

You see it written all over Felix’s face, the horror of this very plausible idea.  That in his effort to save Chris, he actually got him killed. 

There is a long moment of quiet.  It is a very empty silence.  There is no way to confirm if Chris is truly dead, and so Felix cannot truly mourn him.  There is also no way to prove he is alive, so he cannot take any action.

You hold his hand.   It is all you can do right now.  You look at where your palms touch, where your fingers lace.  The caress of his skin against yours never fails to touch your heart.  Even this simple touch warms you.  It affects him too, because he exhales and leans in, resting his forehead against yours. 

You want to comfort him but your shiver betrays you.  The heat from the bath is diffusing and you are in nothing but a towel.  Felix laughs and shakes his head, withdrawing. 

“Sorry,” he says.  “Let’s, uhh, get you dressed first.”

“Or at least under some covers.” 

“Someone could come knocking,” he says. 

“Yeah,” you say with a jut of your chin.  “And?” 

He stares back at you.  This silence is not so empty, a heady and contemplative regard as he glances at your lips then the rest of you.  Then he sweeps you into his arms and carries you into the room. 

You kiss his cheek, just above his bruise.  You are not sure if he winces from the pain or the affection.  

The moment your head touches a pillow, you feel your eyelids drooping.  Exhaustion hits you instantaneously.  You groan and snuggle under the covers, quite convinced this plain hotel bed is the comfiest bed in the world. 

Felix hovers at the bedside, folding your towel.  You look back at him with sleepy eyes.  It is early evening but he must be as tired as you, from the physical exertion if not the emotional one. 

“Aren’t you sleepy, baby?” you ask.

He drops the towel and has to fold it again.  It is messier the second time, then slides off the dresser into a lump on the floor.   He ignores it, approaching the bed.  You pull back the cover in offering. 

You think he strips down to his boxers, but you are fast asleep before he even unzips.  You stir a little when he climbs in the bed, but his presence is so comforting that it sends you right back to sleep.  It is the most restful sleep you have had in a while.  But, predictably, falling asleep in the early evening means you wake up in the dead of the night, bright-eyed. 

The room is dark.  The clock reads 2:17 AM, blinking in red, the only light in the room other than a blue wash of moonlight pouring through the translucent curtains. 

Felix is curled up behind you, an arm under his head and the other over your hip.  When you wake, he follows but slowly, shifting and grumbling.  He does not usually sleep so deeply.  It is a testament to the day. 

You sidle up to him, your back to his front.  He is in his boxers and nothing else, bare skin against yours as he hauls you up against him.  You lay your hand over his, resting it on your stomach then on your breast.  It is not especially flirtatious, merely intimate.  He touches you and you sigh contently, too awake to lose yourself but enjoying the comfort nonetheless. 

He exhales.  It sounds a little ragged.  You look over your shoulder, at his dishevelled bed hair and dark freckles, the bow mouth you so missed, the tenderness in those dark eyes when he gazes back at you. 

“Sorry,” he says. 

“Hmm? For what?”  You roll onto your back to look at him better.  

He scrubs a hand down his face then pushes back some unruly hair.  “I think, um.”  He looks up at nothing.  “A part of me always thought a day would come when you would hate me for real.  I’m, uhh, a little… I guess I just… was more prepared to be hated than, um, cared about, after everything.” 

You lean over him, propping yourself on one arm.  He meets your serious gaze, licking his lips under the intensity of your stare. 

“Do you see me that way?” you ask.  “That I would be that unforgiving and fickle?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head.  “Of course not.  It’s not how I see you, it’s… myself.” 

“Well, I don’t want you to see yourself that way either,” you say.  “It offends me.”  You say this was a dramatic air, making a point of shoving your nose in the air. 

It makes him laugh, a real smile pulling at his lips.  You swear it brightens the room. 

“Does it?” he says.  “I’m very sorry.  I’ll have to make it up to you.”  He reaches for your face, strokes his knuckles over your cheek, but you pull away. 

“That won’t be necessary,” you say, in the same playful tone as him. 

“Oh?” he asks, chasing, stroking your other cheek. 

“Yes,” you say.  You catch his hand and lower it.  When you speak again, it is sincerely, without any joke or artifice or double-entendre.  “I don’t just care about you, Felix,” you say.  “I love you.  And you don’t need to thank me or pay me back.  You just need to believe it.”

He blinks up at you, surprise written all over his face.  You feel flushed with heat even though the admission is obvious.  Saying it out loud, truly and honestly, makes your heart flutter anyway.  Love and want tangle together in a knot inside you, making you feel soft and desirous at once.   

His lips part with a breath as he stares at you.  You chase those lips, leaning down and sealing his mouth in a kiss.  It takes only a second for him to kiss you back, cupping your cheek and parting your lips with a swipe of his tongue.  His bruise must not hurt too badly, or maybe he is just ignoring the pain, but you are careful with your light kisses despite his attempt at more. 

You always happily concede to his more dominant guidance.  This time it is a little different.  You are telling him something with your kisses and you want him to hear it, without any games or distractions.  So you take both his wrists and push his hands into the bed, at the same time swinging on top of him.  He looks surprised a second time, looking at where you press his hands into the sheets.  

He could easily buck you off, but he lets you kiss him like that.  You kiss his cheek and under his jaw, avoiding the bruise, then down his neck.  His hips lift under yours, rolling against you to get hard.  You are already wet and naked, making him moan, a low, dark sound as you grind your softest parts against the hardening line in his boxers. 

It makes you want to skip right to it, but you are determined.  You kiss down his chest and he laughs when your tongue swipes his nipple, evidently a little ticklish.  You smile and keep going, until your lips hover above the hard bulge in his boxers.  You kiss him through the material then tug it down.  He shuffles quickly, ripping them off and tossing them aside.  Then his hand is on the back of your neck as you take him in your mouth.

The hotel room affords some privacy.  He makes a little more noise than usual.  Or maybe he truly does not care anymore. 

Yes, you think, loving at him with your mouth and hands, let yourself go. 

He must be getting close because he squeezes the back of your neck and lets out a groan.  “Slow down,” he says.  “Please.  It just—”

“Feels good?” you ask, a little cheekily, but he answers earnestly, with a nod and shaky exhale.  “Mmm, okay,” you say.  “Tell me what you want.”

This gives him momentary pause.  Then he grips your neck more possessively and guides you up. 

You follow his direction, lifting your head until your pretty raw lips are hovering just inches from his.

“Get back on top me,” he says.  “I’m going to fuck you.” 

“Oh. Well.”  He has said far dirtier things in the past, but usually in the context of your role-play, where you are the worst versions of yourselves, the real you just laughing under it.  It is a little different for the real him to so blatantly state his desire. 

It leaves you just as weak in the knees.  It is a miracle you manage to swing a leg over him, but you get there.  He helps line you up, then he holds your hips and slides you right down until he is fully inside you.  It is a lot all at once, especially after time apart.  You did not have many opportunities for sex before that either.  But you are so wet, despite the sharp burn, it is a smooth fit, and you adjust quickly, mostly because he wastes no time rolling his hips up into you. 

“Oh,” you say, hands on his shoulders and mouth falling open. 

“That’s it,” he says, taking complete control even though you are on top, holding your hips, guiding you to match his rhythm.  “Could – uh, yeah – could have you on your knees, begging for it, without doing anything.  So easy for it, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you say, gasping.  “Just for you.”

“Just for me,” he says.  He pushes himself upright, wrapping an arm around you and pushing your face into his shoulder.   He holds you there, fingers stroking the nape of your neck as he fucks you, drawing all those soft, whimpering sounds of you.  “That’s it,” he says.  “That’s my girl.  Just for me.  Hold onto me.  I’m gonna come.  Spread your legs, your pussy can take it.  Good girl.  Just like that.” 

You are wrapped tightly around him, clinging to him as he comes as promised, deep and hard inside you while you tremble and sigh in his arms.  Then he lifts your head to kiss you, a quick peck before he presses your foreheads together to just breathe. 

“Can you…” Your voice comes softly.  “Can you maybe stay inside me, just another minute.”

“Fucking… fuck,” he says, making you laugh.  He smiles too. “Yes. I can do that.”

He keeps you in his arms as he lays back.  You lay against him, his heart pounding against your chest.  You stay like that for a while, almost drifting to sleep when he slides his hand up your spine, reawakening every sensitive nerve in your body.

He says your name, that loving murmur of a sound.  You lift your head to look at him.  His gaze darts to your lips then back to your eyes. 

“I wouldn’t trade places with any of them,” he says.  “I want to be your bodyguard.  I want to set you free.  I want to keep you safe until the day I die.”

“On a few conditions,” you say.  “The first, that you cannot die for a very long time.  The second, I will only be free when you are.  And finally, you can be my bodyguard, but only if I’m your bodyguard too.”

He smiles, his eyes bright and his cheeks dimpled.  His nose nudges yours. 

“All right,” he says.  “Consider it a promise.”   

[yinyuedijun]

end notes for zero-sum game (tw: slavery, sexual abuse)

hi if you're here it means you read my deranged aventurine smut. thank you for reading that abomination lmao I hope you enjoyed it 😭 once again I've touched on really sensitive topics and don't want to be misread so I'm writing some disclaimers/explanations below:

In the act of gambling with human stakes, as well as doing business with human traffickers, Aventurine is essentially himself engaging in human trafficking. This is not something he particularly enjoys doing or wishes to exploit (which I did try to indicate in the narrative); he only does this for his role with the IPC. 

The reason I made this a narrative about human trafficking is not because I wish to glamorize this crime. I framed the narrative this way because I wanted to point out how Aventurine actively perpetuates the kind of capitalistic violence that ruined his life by being a Stoneheart. This is something that is implicit in the game but not openly explored, hence I expanded on it here.

Somewhat thematically related: the reader actively engages in self-objectification—using it neutrally as a tool for their espionage work at times, but also positively in order to eroticize their one-sided and exploitative relationship with Aventurine. This was not intended to condone the objectification of human beings; rather, I wanted to show how a lifetime of sexual objectification and extreme dehumanization as a slave has led them to objectify and dehumanize themselves, sometimes even in the capacity of enjoying it. 

Aventurine in canon similarly engages in self-objectification and dehumanization as a trauma response  (i.e. he refers to himself as a chip in a positive manner, clearly as a reaction to how his owner referred to him callously as a chip when he was a slave), though in my opinion he's not really implied to derive any real joy from the idea.

Related to the point of objectification: Aventurine and the reader clearly do not engage in particularly safe, sane or consensual sexual dynamics (specifically referring to how he started undressing them before they fully consented to public sex and just kind of decided what to do with them without prior discussion). This is not because I think this is acceptable behaviour; it is a reflection of their unequal power dynamic that the reader actively encourages and Aventurine is fine with perpetuating. It is also implied to be the result of his own distorted relationship with sex—he has literally been coerced into doing exactly the same thing in the very same establishment, and assumed that the reader would be fine with doing it too because they generally enjoy it when he exercises "ownership" over them, which they both associate with sexual control for traumatic reasons.

I've seen discourse around the fandom where people interpret the act of kissing Aventurine’s commodity code as a purely sexual or fetishizing action. I thus feel compelled to explain that the act of Aventurine and reader kissing each other’s codes in this story served a specific purpose within the wider narrative about dehumanization. I wrote a lot of things in this fic purely because I was ungodly levels of horny for Aventurine (lol), but those particular actions actually had narrative weight lol 

With all this being said, I hope it is clear that the reason I chose to focus on themes of slavery and dehumanization is not because I intend to promote or glamorize them, but because I wanted to explore specific points of Aventurine’s characterization that exist in canon. The theme of sexual abuse (and its psychological fallout) is also something that is a natural extension of his story arc in canon. I have no wish to perpetuate any of these things, and I have faith that my audience can distinguish fiction from reality and thus will not have their perspectives on real life issues be seriously influenced by my dumb horny fic on tumblr dot com. 

Also I should hope this is obvious but do not use your regular everyday gloves to finger someone! I like to imagine that Aventurine’s expensive science fiction gloves has the incredible ability to remain sterile in everyday circumstances 👍

[chuuyascumsock]

I’m Here // Minors DNI

Summary: Chuuya doesn’t remember his dreams, but he feels it. [Based off the canon fact that Chuuya doesn’t dream/doesn’t remember his dreams.]

Tags: Nakahara Chuuya/ GN Reader (referred to as Doll once but gender isn’t specific), SFW, Hurt/Comfort, Not Much Warning, But Chuuya Cries, Also Mentions Chuuya’s Thoughts Of Not Feeling Human So Dehumanizing Feelings Of Oneself.

Nakahara Chuuya/Reader Drabble

Chuuya doesn’t dream, or at least he doesn’t remember them.

And yet there’s an overwhelming feeling of grief stirring inside of him when he awakes abruptly, a sheen of sweat drenching his face and around his neck. Soft pants fall from his lips as he sits upright, one of his calloused hands flying up to smooth over the left side of his chest where a dull ache throbs within. He doesn’t know why this happens, but it does. He knows that even if he doesn’t remember his dreams, he subconsciously knows what they’re about. Feels what they’re about. His past— the people he’s lost— the things he’s had to do to survive.

Chuuya doesn’t cry.

But he does tonight, melancholy overtaking everything else in him. His tears are silent and scarce, the feeling unusual and almost surreal to him. When did he become so weak?

“Chuuya?” Your voice is groggy and slurred from sleep as you shift beneath the covers to slowly move to sit up.

Chuuya’s breathing hitches, thankful that the room is pitch black. He can barely make out your figure next to him, but see that you’re moving to lean closer to him. Chuuya clears his throat and responds quietly, “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you, Doll… Go back to sleep.”

Your hand moves to feel out next to you to find him until it lands splayed out on his back, “Why are you up? What’s wrong?” You ask, worry lacing your tone.

“Nothing, m’fine…” He sighs out, making a move to wipe his damp face with his hands. His hands stop though when he feels your warm hands cup his face and wipe away his tears with your thumbs.

“It doesn’t sound like nothing,” You murmur, shuffling to switch positions, though slightly difficult due to your limited vision. You face Chuuya now, hands moving from his face to smooth down his wild bed hair from tossing and turning. “Why are you upset?” You’re just the slightest bit confused having known about Chuuya’s inability to dream— or that he doesn’t remember them, so it couldn’t be that. Could it?

“I…” Chuuya sniffles, but it’s barely discernible. “I had a bad dream,” He pauses before letting out a shaky exhale, “I feel it.”

You almost frown, but it curls into a gentle smile, though you know Chuuya can’t see it in the dark. “You feel it?” It’s an innocent question, much like your touch as you tuck some of his damp bangs behind his ear. You feel him nod, leaning into your touch for comfort— seeking you out in a moment of vulnerability. You don’t elaborate on your thoughts about the three simple words he spoke— that you think he’s more human than any other being you’ve met— that you wish he’d look at himself through your eyes and see how living he was beneath his flesh and bones. But you push it to the back of your mind for a later conversation.

“It aches,” Chuuya’s voice strains, wishing the throbbing would disappear from his chest.

“I know,” You whisper. Your hands find themselves slipping around his waist to hold him from your position next to him, “But I’m here.” You reassure, head resting into the crook of his neck.

He turns his head to place a gentle kiss to your head, arm looping around your back to caress along your spine soothingly, “You are.”

Chuuya survived all his life, but with you, he felt like he was living.

[vasito-de-leche]

;R1999 MEDICINE POCKET - General Headcanons

Compilation of headcanons and analysis on Medicine Pocket as a character and other related things.

started going thru my askbox, saw there's an insane amount of medpoc prompts, and then realized I haven't thought that deeply about this feral dog so here we are!

I missed doing analysis like this oooo the feeling of neurons making connections as I go thru the character's entire page oooo. since I still don't have them, screenshots and examples will be taken directly from the fandom wikia as usual!

On the subject of intersex identities, Medicine Pocket's mother and their gender identity.

It's worth noting that as of the time writing this (with GL currently in 2.2 and CN having just released 2.5) the game still has only two characters who have been confirmed to live outside of the gender binary, both released during launch; The Fool, who uses male pronouns but states that he has no gender, and Medicine Pocket, who couldn't care less about pronouns and explicitly mentions being intersex in one of their voicelines.

The game is consistent with this, as Medicine Pocket is often referred to with "they/them" pronouns, and occasionally "he/him," such as a daily tidbit from November 18th 2024.

As far as I know, they've yet to refer to Medicine Pocket with female pronouns.

While Medicine Pocket seems to approach the subject of gender identity as an afterthought at best and a nuisance at worst, never stating which labels they identify with, it's important to note that they're still openly queer. Upon a first reading, I didn't think much of them, but now I realize that a big chunk of their character does focus on their queerness in ways that are just as unconventional as they are.

Their 01 Story allows us to learn about Medicine Pocket's background, namely their mother, as it focuses on her for the most part. This is also the second instance of Medicine Pocket's status as an intersex person being brought up.

While I'm not intersex myself, I'm a nonbinary queer person who is fully aware of the many, many convoluted and cruel ways society has enforced in order to "correct" and assimilate us into the norm, such as conversion therapy and intersex surgeries, all done with the pretense of "helping us adapt." Medicine Pocket seems to be an example of this.

One may interpret this as a misguided but well-meaning attempt from a concerned mother, but I interpret it as a heartless moment of dehumanization.

In this Story, there is a very clear parallel being drawn between the dogs at the kennel she owns and her own child, between money as her only source of happiness and the necessity to pay for her child's operation.

Her entire world and business revolves around the kennel, it's stated to be a family business with good reputation, and the dogs are described as a positive thing--"man's best friend," and friends who can keep you company--but her reaction to both is of indifference and, at worst, contempt.

The priority here isn't the thriving family business, nor the dogs she's selling to the University of Utah, nor what will come out of the experiments they will go through; the priority is the money.

And what is this money for? Her own child's operation, with the specific intent of helping them become "an ordinary person." Not for their health, not because they asked for this--because she wants them to be normal, thus highlighting the themes of assimilation within society.

As seen before, Medicine Pocket confirms they lack any reproductive organs. I don't know enough to speculate or research what sort of medical condition they have, but the fact that they say "I just don't have any reproductive organs" could imply they did not receive that operation in the end. After all, becoming "ordinary" would imply living within the binary of female or male genitals exclusively.

With the lack of information about their childhood, I personally like to headcanon that this is when the parallels between Medicine Pocket and dogs continues from their mother's perspective; maybe the cons outdo the pros, maybe the procedure was too expensive, maybe she didn't feel like nurturing this specific puppy anymore, regardless of the reasoning, Medicine Pocket's mother simply chose to give them away to someone else who had a use for them. Exactly like the previous batch of puppies.

As agile as usual, her child got into the white van without looking back. That van had taken away countless almost-weaned puppies from their mothers, and on this day, it was doing the same thing to her.

Another personal headcanon I have following that one is that Medicine Pocket was given away for experimentation purposes given their uniqueness--an intersex arcanist child. It certainly lines up with other darker themes within the game, such as the treatment orphaned arcanist children receive within SPDM, the ableism and bigoted mindsets towards arcanists that parallel real issues in real life, and the appropriation of arcanist culture into human society, etc etc.

Of course, in retrospect, there is also something bittersweet in the way that the only thing Medicine Pocket seems to have inherited from their mother is the aspect of money, as a big part of their character is based around finding ways to receive funding for their experiments. Money is the focus of their Insight voiceline, their First Encounter voiceline also involves finding new investors, and there is a distinct focus on how much Medicine Pocket's actions COST Laplace overall, even in the Main Story. Their Story 02 is literally named "The Wrecker of Laplace" and involves their expenses report. This is a very small detail and connection, but I found it quite interesting!

The last thing I want to bring up for this specific bullet point is how Medicine Pocket grew up to be exactly everything their mother did not care about.

The opposite of an ordinary person; they are considered an unconventional albeit irritating genius within Laplace, as seen in their Storyboard.

They are a noisy dog who went out and pioneered an abundance of inventions and research, such as the development of Picrasma Candy shown above, their study of arcanist bloodlines and an arcanist's arcanum that later helps Enigma during Chapter 7 "Vereinsamt," and more. They are a team leader and a renowned, published biological researcher, as seen in the LSCC trailer and another voiceline of theirs.

It is a testament to Medicine Pocket's determination, stubbornness and self-centered personality, the way they were able to thrive in life and in every aspect that their mother did not care about nor support. And this aspect relates heavily to their Beast Afflatus and animalistic themes!

On the subject of Medicine Pocket's self-experimentation, animals and Laplace

We already discussed the way Medicine Pocket has been compared to the kennel dogs sold for experimentation, but we only explored this from their mother's perspective. On a general level, we can understand that Medicine Pocket's animalistic and dog-like behaviour exists because they were raised alongside these very same dogs, and their affinity for Beagles is a direct reference to the "Beagle Club" radiation experiments--it's a very clear motif within their character, but I would still like to expand on it a little!

First of all, we need to talk about Laplace, its ethics and practices. So bear with me!

Over the course of the recent patches, we have seen certain members of Laplace being shown together for most promotional material; this is later on confirmed within 37's Anecdote as a "friend group" consisting of 37, Mesmer Jr, X, Medicine Pocket and Ezra. For this discussion, we are going to set aside 37, an outsider to Laplace, and Ezra, a human character.

Both X and Medicine Pocket both have animals commonly used for experimentation as their Udimos; X has a Laboratory mouse, and Medicine Pocket has a Beagle puppy. On the other hand, we have Mesmer Jr. whose Udimo is not an animal, but a representation of the Artificial Somnambulism Therapy machine. With this, we can trace a pattern within the arcanists of Laplace, which paints them as not only expendable resources, but as something a little more tragic considering their respective themes--X, who harbors a deep-seated hatred for authorities that abuse their power (as seen in his own Anecdote), Medicine Pocket, who is based on the "Beagle Club" radiation experiments, and Mesmer Jr., who carries internalized bigotry for her own kind and is treated as nothing but an extension of her family's legacy.

While I won't be discussing the broad history of animal rights and ethics in experiments from real life, there are lines to be connected between these specific themes and the dehumanization of these characters--which also extends to the rest of members of Laplace like Lucy and Ulrich, by virtue of being Awakened and not being able to comply within the expected "norm" of humans, nor arcanists (the main theme of "Vereinsamt"). As players, we understand Enigma's reaction to Lucy being demoted, and there is a nuanced conversation to be had about the consequences of Lucy's orders even if they led to a great outcome; it is both tragic and inspiring.

But we must also understand this: Lucy's actions are still objectively within the scope of the Foundation's own history and ethics as I've mentioned them before, she is merely being used as a scapegoat due to the visibility of these casualties, which causes the Foundation to lose face.

And how does this relate exactly to Medicine Pocket?

Because their work ethic of self-experimentation follows this very same pattern. In the trail "Experiment Record" from Chapter 6 "E Lucevan le Stelle" Stage 19, which details the process of making Picrasma Candy safe for consumption, the extra addendums indicate that the one consuming all this candy during the experiments is none other than Medicine Pocket.

Their self-experimentation is only considered an issue and a nuisance because they are loud, reckless and take up space and resources. Because this is a coworker who canonically runs on all fours when excited, bites furniture and chases after frisbees, exactly like a dog.

Out of the three characters discussed before, only two are able to subvert the expectations of their respective Udimos: X and Medicine Pocket. The former by putting on an innocent and obedient act while doing whatever he wants behind the scenes, and the latter by being so shamelessly disobedient and self-serving that it is near impossible to stop them.

After a quick and surface look into why beagles were used for the experiments, some articles mention their docile and compliant nature, the total opposite of Medicine Pocket's personality. The subversion is clear there. Rather than being someone else's guinea pig, Medicine Pocket happily uses their own body as their main playground to test their experiments and research; look at their third item, "Beagle 0-1 Fluid Analysis Apparatus," which quite literally turns their own blood as a weapon, aside from monitoring their vitals. They have voicelines urging Vertin to give them a full dose despite the potential dangers, or noting the effects of another self-inflicted experiment--both their "Sleeves and Hands" and "Clothing and Torso" voicelines respectively.

Rather than assimilating within "proper" lab etiquette and polite society, Medicine Pocket is shamelessly themself above all, doing the things they want to do whenever they want to. There are many ways to read their character; perhaps, because their mother took away their bodily agency, they can now reclaim power over their identity by being as chaotic as a feral puppy or by using their body for self-experimentation. Perhaps they have a special connection with dogs because of the way they were raised and thus actively chose to act like one, since they felt more like family than their own mother, etc etc.

This aspect of reclaiming power over their own body and identity, alongside the way others openly disapprove of them for various different reasons, can be seen within the Beast Afflatus--which focuses on the focus of the individual, one's survival and struggle against traditions or systems that aim to contain them, the power and freedom to choose and carve a way for oneself. It's the struggle of one person against the majority. All of these things can be seen in Medicine Pocket!

Round of extra headcanons I didn't have the energy to fit anywhere else

I like to think Medicine Pocket's hair is white (simply because their eyebrows also seem to be white in art) so the brown parts are dyed specifically to look more like a beagle.

Alongside being intersex and nonbinary, they also couldn't care less about conventional romantic relationships--while uninterested in sexual relationships overall, I can see them having meaningless one-night stands for research specifically. They're shameless and very open about it. The only type of serious commitment I can see them having are QRPs, but their partners get bullied even harder by them so no one is sure if this is a good thing or not.

Medicine Pocket has one voiceline which states that they do even more fucked up experiments in the suitcase; I like to think they're the equivalent of the ThoughtEmporium over on Youtube, doing things like getting rid of their own lactose intolerance, creating meat grapes and such.

They just happen to be allergic to most things that dogs are allergic to. In the same vein, they bark but it sounds nowhere close like a proper dog's bark and everyone thinks its sort of cringe, but saying this out loud within their vicinity will only earn you One Huge Fucking Chomp from them.

Unlike Pavia, who does not quite keep track of the names of the wolfpack, Medicine Pocket can tell apart every single dog they meet, no matter how identical or how long it's been since they last saw them. They have a lot of knowledge on how to care for animals from their childhood, and often bring back all sorts of dogs; from rescues to literally stealing someone else's dog just be cause they thought its owner was being a shithead. It's usually a problem, because they often just sneak them into their office without telling anyone and suddenly it's Barbie's Great Puppy Chase Adventure in Laplace.

I also like to think that the dogs they're not allowed to truly keep are given away to people Medicine Pocket personally checks and makes sure will be a good fit for the dog.