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xjoonchildx · 4 years ago

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guarded | jhs x reader | chapter six: no one but you

summary: you’ve tried to separate yourself from your infamous crime family, but a new case has your carefully-constructed world crashing down around you. now you have to figure out how to heal old wounds and handle the new man who enters your orbit.

pairing: hoseok x reader

genre: mafia AU, E2L, slow burn, tsundere, smut

rating: 18+

word count: 5.6K

A/N: i sincerely hope you guys like the way this ends, it’s always so nerve-wracking to end a story! the epilogue to this story is posted as well and linked. thank you to every single person who sent sweet messages of support it means the world to me. SMUT WARNINGS APPLY IN THIS CHAPTER: oral (m/f), unprotected sex (only in fiction y’all) and hoseok thirst.

of course, i cannot post this story without shouting out some of the most supportive, killer people on this site. you guys truly mean the world to me @ladyartemesia @ppersonna @taetaewonderland @hobi-gif

Chapter 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | EPILOGUE

*********************

There are perks to being the boss.

For Namjoon, it means calling the shots on the streets from his office in the sky. Rarely does he leave the climate-controlled comfort of his pristine headquarters to get his hands dirty in the day-to-day business of the organization he runs.

Tonight, he’s making an exception.

Yoongi drives. Like a bat out of hell, as always.

It’s a thirty-minute ride from downtown Seoul to Incheon Port without traffic but Yoongi is on pace to finish it in just twenty. Hoseok watches the lights on the expressway speed by from the backseat. He tries hard to focus on the information Namjoon shares, the details he’ll need in order to ensure he doesn’t put himself or anyone else in danger tonight.

But fuck, it’s so hard to concentrate with the taste of you still on his lips.

He scrubs a hand down his face and takes a deep breath. He forces himself to push the memory of your body in his hands and your skin in his mouth and your voice in his ear to the corner of his mind.

Then he goes over the information again.

Namjoon wants to be in place at least ten minutes before the scheduled meet so he can figure out what’s going on before the Ssijog knows he’s there with his men.

He wants guns to stay holstered unless he gives the signal.

He wants --

“You must have really scared the shit out of that guy, Jung,” Namjoon murmurs from the front seat. Hoseok snaps back into focus to search for his boss’s reflection in the side mirror and finds Namjoon already looking at him. “He’s been blowing up his contact since last night, begging for personal protection.”

“He’s lucky I didn’t do worse,” Hoseok shrugs. “I certainly could have.”

“Oh, of that I have no doubt,” Namjoon agrees. “Someday you’ll have to tell me the story of how you managed to be outside of his apartment when his handler picked him up. Here I was, under the impression you had the night off.”

Hoseok swallows thickly.

“Just doing my job.”

There’s a twist to Namjoon’s mouth that Hoseok can’t read and it puts him on edge.

“Well, I must thank you for your dedication to your job,” Namjoon continues. “You’ve really gone above and beyond the call of duty for this assignment.”

Hoseok looks away from the mirror. “Yeah, sure,” he says quietly.

The car falls into an uncomfortable silence.

Yoongi clears his throat.

“So anyway --” he announces loudly, “-- Jimin and Tae were able to track Kang’s texts through some internet bullshit they mess around with. Apparently dude flipped out after you left his place and wouldn’t let up until his handlers agreed to meet him tonight.”

“At Incheon Port?” Hoseok asks, glad for the redirect. “That’s a hell of a drive for a chat.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Namjoon says under his breath.

The car falls silent once again.

**********************

Mun Kiwoo has a reputation for being messy.

The man at the top sets the tone for the organization, and Mun is no exception. His men are known for their brutality, his deals often go south, and by most accounts his syndicate is hanging on by a thread.

But it’s still hanging on.

Namjoon, Hoseok, and Yoongi watch quietly from their vantage point behind a shipping container as Mun waits in the dark, cigarette in hand. He looks like an unmade bed -- shirt rumpled and half-tucked into his wrinkled dress pants. He lights one cigarette off of another as he answers a series of calls on his cell.

His agitation seems to rise each time it rings again.

Hoseok takes stock of the two guards Mun has at his side tonight. They’re bulky men with huge arms and round bodies -- the kind of guys who look dangerous due to sheer size, but would be slow to respond in a physical fight. Namjoon holds up two fingers to confirm they’re the only men with Mun and Hoseok nods.

Headlights bounce off the pavement after a few more minutes of waiting.

A black car pulls up close to the water’s edge and Mun Kiwoo ends his call just as he lights another cigarette.

Kang Donghyuk is the first out of the car, followed closely by his Ssijog handler. Kang is dragging his ass and even from a distance, Hoseok can make out the bandage over the side of his face.

Hope it hurts, motherfucker.

“Mr. Kang,” Mun Kiwoo’s voice is clear now, loud enough for all three men to hear. “You have been rather insistent about this meeting. I’m a busy guy. What do you want?”

All three men strain to listen to Donghyuk’s response, but it’s too muffled to catch. Yoongi brings his hands to his throat to make a choking gesture. Can’t hear shit, he mouths. You choked him too hard.

Hoseok rolls his eyes.

“That sounds like your problem,” Mun laughs in response to whatever Kang has said. “Not mine.”

Donghyuk gestures wildly as he tries to make his case, likely pleading for the protection of the Ssijog. Mun Kiwoo looks unmoved.

“I’m not interested in causing any more trouble with the Gajog, Mr. Kang. This entire situation has been a means to an end. Stirring more shit with Kim Namjoon is not in my best interest.”

Namjoon signals to Yoongi and Hoseok that it’s time to move. All three men step out from their cover behind the shipping container, hands in front of their bodies to demonstrate none are holding their weapons.

“Fucking hell,” Mun Kiwoo groans when he spots them. “I don’t have time for this shit.”

His guards bow up at his side, both men reaching for their guns. Mun has the good sense to raise a hand and stop them from pulling their firearms -- which keeps Yoongi and Hoseok from doing the same. All of the men face off in silence for a moment, each side waiting to see if the other will do something to break the fragile peace.

Kang Donghyuk whines under his breath and Hoseok shoots a warning glare at him. He drops his gaze to the ground and shuts his mouth.

“You say you don’t want trouble with me, Mun and yet --” Namjoon snarls, “-- you have this piece of shit working my sister. Explain.”

“You know how these rich boys are, Kim,” Mun chuckles. “They develop a bad habit -- or in this idiot’s case, two -- and daddy’s money isn’t enough anymore. They’re easy to buy.”

Donghyuk looks from Namjoon to Mun, panic in his wide eyes.

“They’re trying to kill me,” he rasps.

“So what?” Mun laughs. He smiles wide to reveal a mouth like an abandoned graveyard, teeth broken and scattered. “This guy thinks we’re friends,” he jeers, jerking a thumb in Donghyuk’s direction. “He’s too stupid to figure out that he served a purpose and now he doesn’t anymore. Simple as that.”

Namjoon sucks in a breath with obvious irritation.

“I’m still waiting to hear what any of this shit has to do with my sister.”

“Ah, yes,” Mun says, stubbing out his cigarette and getting back to the task at hand. “Listen, I don’t have anything against your sister personally, okay? Lim Joowon is my son and I want him back. He can’t spend the next 15 years behind bars. You understand that, right? Doing whatever it takes for your family?”

Namjoon utters a curse under his breath.

“I’ll give your sister some credit, though -- she’s tenacious. I thought she’d give up after we took her digital files,” Mun admits. “Instead she’s cost me a hell of a lot more money. I’ve had to start cutting a lot more checks to ensure this shit goes away.”

“She’s not the type to roll over and play dead, Mun,” Namjoon growls through gritted teeth.

“The pigheaded gene runs in the family, huh?” Mun grins. “Look, let me level with you Kim, man to man. I don’t even need your sister at this point. I’ve paid enough people to fuck this case from the inside out. But I won’t lie, she is my insurance. If any of the higher-ups start asking questions about why this case fell apart -- who better to point the finger at than the sweet young prosecutor with the dirty family connections, hmm?”

Namjoon tenses, hand reaching for the gun at his side. Yoongi stops him with a muttered warning.

“None of us give a fuck about what happens to your son, Mun,” Namjoon says. “What I have a problem with is you sending that piece of shit --” he points at the trembling Kang Donghyuk, “ -- into her fucking home. Invading her space. You crossed a line.”

“You’re right,” Mun agrees lightly. “It was rude. Uncalled for. I’m gonna apologize for it right now.”

He pulls his pistol from his side and the sound of clinking metal bounces off the shipping containers as everyone pulls their guns. Hoseok trains his pistol directly at the shaking Kang Donghyuk and silently prays for the chance to pull the trigger. Mun Kiwoo’s gun is pointed at Namjoon and Namjoon’s is pointed right back.

Then Mun’s face lights up with a bizarre smile. He swings the point of his pistol in the direction of Donghyuk and pulls the trigger twice.

Donghyuk sputters as he falls to the floor.

Hoseok and Yoongi exchange looks.

Namjoon stares at Mun incredulously.

“What?” Mun’s nonchalance is comical. “You wanted to do that too, right? Besides, that guy owes everyone in the city money. I promise you, his own mother won’t even miss him.”

“Jesus,” Yoongi mutters under his breath. “This guy is fucking nuts.”

Mun puts his pistol away and his men follow suit. Namjoon signals for Yoongi and Hoseok to do the same.

“Consider that a goodwill gesture,” Mun says breezily. “An official apology from me, to you. And please pass along my consideration to your sister. Please assure her that none of this is personal. But I will make sure my son stays out of prison. And like it or not, she’s going to play some kind of role in that.”

Namjoon stares off into the water.

“I can’t control my sister, Mun. She makes her own choices,” he says after a moment. “But let me be clear, this is the first and last polite discourse we’re going to have about this situation. I don’t want you, your goons or any --” he glances at the bleeding pile of Kang Donghyuk on the floor, “-- paid help going near her. Not in her office, not in her home. Nowhere. Are we clear?”

Mun Kiwoo lights another cigarette and smiles wide, the space in his teeth prominent against the gleaming ember hanging from his mouth.

“Crystal.”

On the way back to the car, Hoseok hears the heavy splash of Kang Donghyuk’s body hitting the water down below.

He shuts his eyes against the rush of pleasure he feels as he climbs into the backseat.

************************

YOU

Something isn’t right.

You stare at the empty seat across the conference table -- the one where Hyejin normally sits -- and something twists in your gut. She’s out sick today. You can’t even remember the last time she took a sick day.

All morning, you’ve tried to convince yourself that it’s no big deal. That you’re working yourself up for nothing.

But Donghyuk is out today, too.

Vaguely, you register the sound of your boss’s voice at the front of the room. Any minute now, you’ll be asked to brief the team on the status of your case, but you can’t think straight. You can’t focus on anything but the feeling in the pit of your stomach that something is wrong.

Your thoughts race back to last night, back to your brother taking his men away for business in the middle of the night.

Back to Hoseok.

You try not to think about what it felt like to have his warm body pressed against yours. The way he smelled like fresh laundry and spice. The way you unraveled the moment he touched you.

Your phone pulses with an incoming text.

namjoon: i’ve asked jungkook to bring you to the office tonight after work [ 1:25 PM ]

namjoon: a lot to discuss [ 1:26 PM ]

Your brain grinds to a halt as you stare at the messages.

It’s like everything is wrong and everything is right, all at the same time.

“Miss. Kim?”

You look up to see your boss staring at you, one expectant eyebrow raised. You take a deep breath, line up your papers and stand to take your place at the front of the room.

****************************

The sense of déjà vu that hits you as you make the long walk across your brother’s office is nearly overwhelming. This is exactly how this entire mess began weeks ago -- with you summoned to see Namjoon after hours, with Yoongi and Hoseok flanking him on either side.

But there is one thing different about tonight.

When you briefly lock gazes with Hoseok as you make your way to Namjoon’s plush chair, there is a warmth behind his dark eyes you can see from a distance. It’s a complete contrast to the first time you ever saw him, when you thought you could freeze to death from the ice in his glare.

You look away before anyone can catch the flush working its way up your neck.

“Thank you for coming tonight,” you brother begins evenly. “I finally have some answers for you about what’s going on.”

“Well, I’m ready to hear them,” you exhale, taking a seat. Your eyes drift over the papers strewn scattered across his desk.

“We’ve learned that the reason the Ssijog want your case against Lim Joowon to fold is because Lim is Mun Kiwoo’s son.”

You raise a brow.

“That’s news to me. I didn’t even know Mun Kiwoo had a son.”

“Neither did we,” Namjoon admits. “Apparently this is his only son and the man he intends to pass control of the Ssijog down to. So it makes sense that he’s so hell-bent on seeing this case fall apart.”

He picks one of the papers off his desk.

“This is the more problematic piece of the puzzle,” Namjoon says quietly. Your chest tightens in response to the expression on his face. “Jimin and Taehyung tracked a Ssijog account making payouts. Payouts to people in your office.”

He holds the piece of paper out to you.

“There are six names on that list.”

You take a deep breath before taking the sheet from his hands.

Your eyes scan down the document, taking in the blows, one by one. Two receptionists. One paralegal.

Lee Hyejin.

Kang Donghyuk.

Park Soo.

You say nothing as you stare at the list, taking in the names again.

Someone you called a friend. Someone you’d allowed into your bed. The boss you’d bent over backwards trying to impress. You stare at the black-and-white evidence of betrayal in your hands, reading the words over and over -- expecting to feel sadness or rage or humiliation or something.

Nothing comes.

“Give us a moment, would you please?”

Yoongi and Hoseok file out of the room quietly at Namjoon’s command. The second the heavy door to the office clicks shut, he clears his throat. “There is something else we need to discuss, Amsaja,” your brother continues quietly. “Kang Donghyuk is dead.”

“Good.”

Namjoon’s eyes go wide at the quick, calm delivery of your response.

You stand to walk to his sideboard to pour a drink. You have no idea what’s inside the decanter, only that whatever it is promises a burn you want to feel right now. You pour a glass and take a sip, leaning against the heavy wooden piece.

“Did you kill him?”

“No. The Ssijog beat us to it,” Namjoon admits. “But Hoseok paid Donghyuk a personal visit at home to convey our -- displeasure -- at his involvement in this mess. He damned near choked that man to death hours before Mun Kiwoo put two bullets in him.”

“I’m sorry anyone has ever tried you because I promise you they are going to pay.”

The words Hoseok spoke in your kitchen surface in your mind.

They’d sent a bolt of pleasure through you at the time -- triggering a kind of primitive response you’d be embarrassed to admit out loud.

And somehow that response pales in comparison to what you’re feeling right now.

A normal woman wouldn’t find satisfaction in the idea of Donghyuk cowering in fear inside his apartment. A normal woman wouldn’t feel warmth spread through her entire body at the mental image of Hoseok wrapping his hands around Donghyuk’s throat. You slip a finger under the collar of your blouse and search for your scar -- closing your eyes at the familiar feel of the raised skin.

You remind yourself that you are not a normal woman.

“Hoseok uncovered Kang’s involvement with the Ssijog even before we found the payouts.” Your brother pauses, a wry twist to his mouth as he continues. “He can be a very determined man when something is important to him.”

Namjoon holds your gaze for just a beat too long after delivering that statement. You look away and walk to his office window.

“Tell me what you’re thinking right now, Amsaja,” you brother says. You can hear the sound of him pouring his own drink behind you. “Your silence has me concerned.”

You’re thinking about every time Hyejin feigned concern for you and tried to get you to open up. The days Donghyuk insisted he take you to lunch or to dinner when you insisted you were too swamped. The bullshit little speech Park Soo gave you the night of the charity dinner about keeping Seoul from falling into the hands of criminals.

You’re thinking about what a joke they all are -- dressing up and looking down their noses at the criminal element they claim to despise. Wearing their fake piety like a badge of honor and paying for their fine things with dirty money.

You’re thinking that you’d rather choose a hundred street thugs over any one of their kind. At least your brother has the balls to wear his sins on his sleeve.

Namjoon joins you at the window, glass in hand.

“What I’m thinking, Jaegyueo,” you say calmly, “Is that a lot of things are starting to make sense for me. I haven’t felt this clear in a very long time. So, thank you.”

A smile tugs at the corner of your brother’s mouth and you return it.

You clink your glasses together in a toast.

***********************

You are two whiskeys deep when you leave Namjoon’s office.

Hoseok is waiting in a chair in the hallway. He stands to his feet when you appear from behind the heavy wooden door.

You suck in a breath as you take him in -- the sharp beauty of his face and the soft curve of his mouth and the way his suit hugs the lines of his lean body. You realize, with more than a little embarrassment, that you are staring.

“I’ve got the car warming downstairs,” Hoseok says carefully. “If you’re ready to go, that is.”

“Yes. Hoseok, I --” you swallow thickly, “-- I never apologized for what I said to you. I didn’t mean those things. I’m so sorry.”

Hoseok steps close and reaches one hand out to tuck your hair behind your ear. You shut your eyes, leaning into his touch and inhaling his scent.

“You’ve had a hell of a night,” he murmurs. “We can talk about that some other time. Let’s get you home, yeah?”

You open your eyes to look up at him just as Yoongi rounds the corner and stops dead in his tracks.

“Glad this isn’t awkward,” he mutters, before turning to walk back the same way he came.

**********************

The air in Hoseok’s car is thick with tension on the ride home.

You’ve stopped pretending to not stare, eyes fixed on Hoseok while his eyes stay glued to the road. He guides the car through a sharp turn and you catch the way he winces as his hand grips the steering wheel.

A throb of guilt hits you square in the chest.

“You’re hurt.”

“Nah,” Hoseok deflects quickly. “Just a little sore.”

He won’t look at you. Why won’t he look at you?

“Namjoon told me you nearly choked Donghyuk to death,” you say quietly, studying his face for any reaction. He slows the car to a stop at a red light and rubs his fingers across his mouth, stares out of his window.

“I wanted to kill him,” he admits. He takes his aching hand off the steering wheel and flexes his fingers as if reliving the memory of that night. “I almost did.”

That embarrassing reaction flares inside of you again. This time it slides down your back and pools low between your legs and you have to squeeze your thighs together in response. You shiver as you remember the promises he made while pressing his body to yours.

“Tell me what you want. I swear to God, I’ll give it to you.”

You’ve never wanted anything as badly as you do Jung Hoseok right now.

*************************

You force yourself to wait for the elevator doors to shut.

The second they do, you crush your body and your mouth to Hoseok’s. If you catch him off-guard, there’s no way to tell -- not with the way he immediately backs you into the elevator wall, slotting one knee between your thighs.

“No one gets to hurt you anymore,” he groans the words into the shell of your ear, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin of your neck. “Just like no one gets to touch you anymore. No one but me.”

The strangled sigh that escapes you is the closest thing Hoseok is going to get to a thank you right now. You whimper in agreement, gasping when his fingers grip your ass to pull you flush against him. The swollen outline of his cock brushes against your stomach and you shudder.

The elevator ride is too long and too short, all at the same time. Hoseok backs you through the doors as soon as they open, fumbling in his pocket for the keys while you suck bruises into his throat. By some miracle, he gets the door open and both of you through it in one piece.

“Fuck,” Hoseok swears as you wrap your arms around his neck, grinding against his insistent cock. He has to drag you both into the bedroom as you press against him like a dead weight, teeth nipping at his bottom lip as you both stumble into the bedroom. You drop out of his grasp when the bed hits the back of your knees.

Hoseok stands back, chest heaving with exertion.

“I need you to hear you say it,” he pants. “Please.”

You sit up straight on the edge of the bed and unbutton your blouse, slipping it off without hesitation. “No one gets to touch me,” you breathe, reaching to unclasp your bra. You toss it away.

“No one but you.”

Hoseok’s eyes darken to near black.

He shrugs off his suit jacket and slowly pulls off his holster and gun, placing both carefully on top of your dresser. Then he turns back, body looming over yours. He cups your cheek with one large hand, looking down at you with such heat that your breath hitches in your chest.

You lean into his touch, fingertips grazing the contour of his cock beneath his suit pants.

“You promised to give me anything I want,” you whisper, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. He nods slowly, the rasp in his voice betraying the calm on his face.

“Anything. Name it.”

“I want to take care of you,” you say, pulling the hem of his shirt out of his pants. Your fingers work the buttons open, one by one. “Let me.”

Hoseok exhales a heavy breath as you open his shirt and stroke your hands down his chest. You give yourself a moment to admire the lean strength of his body, fingers stroking over the metal tags that hang just above one dark, flat nipple.

His stomach tightens and his cock twitches in his pants when you tilt forward to press a soft kiss to the golden skin just above his belt. You work it open with unsteady hands and his pants follow just a moment later.

“I want to make you feel good,” you whisper, nuzzling the outline of his length with your cheek. You push his boxers down his slim hips just enough to expose the head of his cock. “I don’t want you to think about anything but this.”

Hoseok groans when you flick your tongue against him.

His cock throbs under your fingertips through the fabric of his underwear when you dip down to tease the head with your mouth. You lap at the salty moisture gathered at the swollen tip and his head drops back.

“Sweetheart, please --” he grits out, hands reaching for your hair. He winds his fingers through the strands and jerks when you rake your teeth across the wet ridge under the head of his cock. “-- don’t tease me.”

Some other time you might play the delayed gratification game with him. You might take hours to torture him and keep him dangling at the precipice of pleasure. Tonight, though -- the only thing you want to do is make him come so hard he can’t see straight.

“I won’t,” you promise sweetly, pulling the rest of his thick length free from his boxers to wrap your warm fingers around him. You flick your gaze up to appreciate the way his head is tipped back in pleasure, lips parted.

“Look at me,” you murmur, pumping him with languid strokes.

His eyes are glassy with arousal when he opens them to gaze down at you. You make sure he’s watching as you take him deep, hollowing your cheeks as you draw your mouth across his length. He gathers your hair in his hands so he can appreciate the unobstructed view of your private show.

“No one gets to touch you anymore,” you whisper. You take him down as far as you can again, tongue dragging against the thick vein that runs the length of his cock. You are panting when you pull off him, tongue running the seam of your lower lip as you catch your breath.

“No one but me.”

Hoseok’s dick jerks in your hand in response, hand tightening in your hair as you lick a long stripe up his shaft. He chokes out a moan as you lick at the sensitive spot just under the head of his cock, eyes fixed on his.

“No more,” he croaks.

You pull your mouth away reluctantly, tongue swiping at the taste of him on your lips and the sight seems to set him off. He grabs your face with both hands, groaning into your mouth as he claims it.

He pulls away, panting.

“Lie back,” he demands between breaths. You comply without question.

Hoseok leans over you, arms braced on either side of your body as he drops his head down to take one nipple between his teeth. Your hips jerk at the stimulation and you squirm underneath him, thighs slippery with your own excitement. He laves at both nipples slowly, thoroughly, until they are aching and wet. Then he trails a soft line of kisses back up to your ear.

“I want to taste what’s mine,” he whispers, and a pang of arousal hits you so hard you forget to breathe. You lift your hips to help him pull your skirt away along with your soaked panties and he sinks to his knees on the floor in front of you. Every muscle in your body locks in anticipation.

Hoseok nudges your legs apart with his hands, placing gentle kisses along your inner thighs. His dark eyes are half-hooded with pleasure by the time he drapes your legs over his shoulders.

“Fuck, you look so good like this,” he groans when you are fully spread open for him. He drops a kiss on your mound and your body jolts at the sensation, every nerve ending standing at attention. He moves lower, long fingers tracing the outline of your swollen cunt and you suck in a breath.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, dipping one finger into your damp heat. “Is this all for me?”

“Yes,” you choke out, hands gripping the sheets as his finger flexes inside of you.

“Only for you.”

Hoseok makes a sound of satisfaction deep in his chest before sealing his lips over your aching clit. You shudder against his mouth when he pulls back to soothe you with the flat of his tongue. “You don’t know how many times I’ve imagined how you would taste,” Hoseok groans, licking deeply into your wetness. “It doesn’t even come close. Nothing comes close to this.”

“Hoseok --” your hands come off of the sheets to grip into his hair, “-- Hoseok, please don’t stop.”

Your senses are so heightened that just the pressure of the heel of his hand against your cunt is making you crazy. His finger crooks deep inside you, stroking against your swollen walls while his lips and teeth toy with your clit. You whine at the stimulation, at the wet drag of his tongue that has you writhing beneath him.

“You’re close sweetheart, I can hear it,” Hoseok’s voice is ragged with arousal. “Let me hear you. Come for me.”

You clutch his hair between your fingers, moaning brokenly as the heat between your legs simmers to a boil.

“Hoseok --”

“That’s it,” he praises you with dirty words spoken in the sweetest way. “Let me taste you. Let me hear you.”

Hoseok is prepared the moment you come apart.

He grasps your hips firmly in those large, warm hands of his -- tongue and lips persistent as the live wire inside you tightens and snaps. The force of your orgasm shakes your entire body and leaves you begging and breathless. Hoseok savors every drop of your release until your hips sink back into the mattress and you protest weakly against the threat of overstimulation.

The mattress dips under you as Hoseok joins you on the bed, lips swollen with use and mouth marked with your taste. His head dips into the hollow of your neck, nipping gently at the skin, while his fingers skate over the soft skin of your stomach and thighs.

You shiver in his hold, closing your eyes for a moment to savor the feeling of his body on yours.

“I want to watch you come like that every day,” Hoseok whispers into your ear. “Only for me.”

“Only for you,” you agree in a whisper, finding your voice after what seems like ages.

You slip one hand between you, fingers wrapping firmly around the rigid cock pressed against your stomach. Hoseok groans when you tighten your hand around him.

“Hoseok,” you breathe, feeling a pulse between your legs that seems to beat in time with the throb of his cock in your palm, “Fuck me please, I’m losing my mind.”

His hoarse chuckle sends a shiver up your spine as he moves to cover you completely with his body. He lines up the head of his cock at your entrance and you tilt your hips up into his.

“Please,” you plead again, lifting your head to brush your lips against his. “Now.”

He sinks his cock into you slowly, inch by inch, groaning at the tight fit of your cunt around him. The stretch inside of you is nearly too much -- you whimper when he bottoms out and he drops his forehead to yours.

“You okay? Am I hurting you?”

His entire body feels like a rubber band ready to snap -- coiled energy waiting to be released. But he holds back the instinct to move until you nod your agreement.

“You feel so good,” you murmur, nudging his hips to move with your own. You stroke your hands down the slick skin of his back. “I’m so full right now.”

Hoseok swears under his breath as he tentatively rocks his hips against yours, letting you adjust to the feeling of him inside of you. You wrap your legs around him as the discomfort subsides and the only sensation that’s left is the pleasant pressure of his cock against your walls.

Hoseok’s hips move harder as your whimpers melt into moans.

“Dammit,” he swears, head dropping low between his shoulder blades. “So tight and wet for me. So perfect for me.”

You look up to take in the sight of his perfect face slack with pleasure, mouth parted and face flushed with exertion. His dog tags hang from his neck, swaying as his hips begin to piston in earnest. You pull on them to force his mouth close to yours.

“Only for you,” you whisper, “No one else.”

Hoseok’s steady rhythm stutters when you whisper those words into his mouth and press your lips to his. His hips jerk wildly as his release races up his shaft. He laces his fingers into yours, fucking you deep into the mattress in those final seconds as he loses all control to chasing his end.

He comes with your name on his lips.

************************

Hoseok breathes deeply into your hair as you stroke your fingers across the lean lines of his chest, fingers tracing the metal outline of his dog tags. You lie together like that for a while, skin to skin.

Your thoughts are loud in the quiet.

You’re used to the bitter sting of betrayal by now.

Long before Lee Hyejin or Kang Donghyuk or Park Soo ever sold you out for a check, your own father betrayed you for the bottle. You of all people know too well that most people aren’t to be trusted.

But then Hoseok’s fingers drag lightly across your back and they bring you back to the here and now -- back to the promise he made to you tonight.

“No one gets to hurt you anymore.”

And you decide to trust just one more time.

************************

@saintjeonofbusan @lemonjoonah @illnevertrustmyselfagain @sunkissed725 @taetaewonderland @shadowhale @sugaminyoonjiji @jinhitwhore @trust-me-im-joly @daydreambrliever @jjeonjoon @ultraanonymousey @yoon-bug @multistantrash17 @poohsaidhi @alyboo-jpeg @sahmfanficbts @yoongissugarmommy @ppersonna @p-polaroid @vi-hoshi @stressedinmedschool247 @jgissle12 @ctvrty @btsnatalena @strawbewymiwk @stephleee @jalexa83 @livanthi @fantasybangtan @trviahope @mono-kookie@hauntedlilies @sugasaidbultaoreune @yeojaa @secret-alphabets @hodginss@parkjimin-persona

#hoseok x reader #hoseok smut #bts mafia au #hoseok mafia au #bts tsundere #ficswithluv #btswriterscollective #ksmutclub #btscreatorscorner #networkbangtan #bangtanarmynet #thebtswritersclub

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29-pieces · 3 years ago

Text

The New Arrangement -- Good Omens fanfic

Snippet from chapter 3 of the ongoing fic Softly, Gently ^_^ Extended chapter to be posted in the next few days!

~*~

“Back to the bookshop, then?” Aziraphale suggested. “Or would you rather go round to your place? We should talk a bit, and I’d much rather not be so out in the open.”

“Mng,” Crowley agreed. “Naw, better go to yours. I haven’t cleaned Ligur off the floor yet, bit damp.”

“I’m sorry, you haven’t…?”

Crowley was fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt sleeves now, not seeming to want to meet Aziraphale’s eye. “Ah, right, erm… well, there wasn’t time to get into the story, what with you being discorporated and then the Apocalypse and all, then the swap…”

“Yes, well, I should say there’s time now. What do you mean about Ligur? The duke, isn’t he? One of the really nasty ones?”

Crowley snorted. “They’re all really nasty ones, angel. Look, it’s nothing to be too worried about, he’s gone now. Made sure of that.”

With a harrumph, Aziraphale stood and straightened his coat. “I think we’d best head to your place after all, dear boy. I can help you tidy the place while you tell me exactly what you’re so cleverly trying to not tell me right now.”

“It’s really nothing,” Crowley weakly tried, already hurrying after the angel. “Even gave Hastur the slip—”

“Hastur?” Aziraphale gasped. His stomach began to tighten. “So during your trial, that’s what they were talking about? All they said was that you had killed Ligur and I couldn’t exactly ask for more details when I was the one meant to have done it. That was at your home? Crowley, they came for you at home?”

“Don’t get all worked up, angel. That little ‘insurance policy’ I got from you, you remember? What in the blazes did you ever think I was going to do with it, hm? I said it was for if everything went pear-shaped, and it did, and I used it exactly the way I always meant to. Now Ligur’s dead and I’m not, so keep calm and I’ll tell you all about it, I promise.”

And he did, in hushed tones until they reached the car, and from there to the flat in Mayfair. Aziraphale’s head was positively dizzy with it all.

“So you see I really did want it to use on them,” Crowley couldn’t help but pointedly remark as the two stood over the now congealed pile of what used to be a Duke of Hell in the main doorway.

Heart still constricting in a terrible way just to think about Crowley facing down actual Dukes in his own flat, without any backup at all, Aziraphale nodded and looked down at the mess.

“I might have lost you anyway. I was just trying to keep you safe, and I… I might have been the reason you… You couldn’t have fought them off without it, you— you would have—”

Crowley straightened. “Now hold it, let’s not forget I am the wily serpent, aren’t I? Only had enough holy water to take one of ‘em out, had to get away from Hastur the old-fashioned way, and was right clever about it if I do say so myself. Trapped him in the ansaphone and everything, it was brilliant!”

He was obviously trying to lighten the mood a bit, but Aziraphale was having a hard time feeling any sort of amusement. All he could think was of their argument by the water that day so long ago, how Aziraphale had not only assumed he had plans to hurt himself if necessary, but had in fact left him defenseless.

…Trapped him in the ansaphone?

The ansaphone…

Aziraphale’s head shot up in shock and indignation.

“Now wait just a moment!” he exploded, making Crowley let go and take a startled step back. “When I called you, you said…”

Crowley grimaced with guilt, which was more than enough to confirm Aziraphale’s sudden suspicion.

“You said you had a friend over!”

“I mean… what was I supposed to say instead, eh?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe that Hastur the Duke of Hell was attacking?! How about that?”

Crowley’s grimace shifted to a frown, more serious than chagrined. “And what if I had, what then? What would you have done?”

“Why, I would have arrived immediately to help you, what do you think I would have done? Crowley—”

“There you go, and that’s exactly why I didn’t say anything, angel.” His expression was still so serious and somber, something haunted flashing in his eyes so that it quieted Aziraphale even in his outrage. Crowley turned away, resting one arm on the front door and tipping his head forward to lean against it.

Aziraphale waited a beat, then softly said, “Crowley?”

“Couldn’t risk it. The only reason I went along with the swap was because—well, for one thing, there was literally no other way out of our little mess—but I knew Beelzebub would be hurrying things along and they wouldn’t have time to get really evil."

“I’m afraid I’m not following.”

Crowley huffed. “Look, you’re not scared of anything, but sometimes you should be. I know you, angel, you go up against an enemy, and you want to fight. Me, I’m a coward, I’d rather run away any day, and that’s the only reason I’m alive now. You would have tried to fight Hastur, and maybe you would have even won. You’re no slouch with that sword and he hasn’t had a proper fight in ages, but if we’d lost?”

Crowley’s hands clenched into fists. “You, in Hell? And them with all the time they wanted to— Forget the end of the world, that would have been— no, I would rather the world end.”

Aziraphale was still trying to catch up on the idea that Crowley thought he wasn’t scared of anything. He stepped closer and carefully settled a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. He felt the demon tense, then loosen slightly under his touch. “There’s so much that I’m afraid of,” he admitted gently. “Not least of which is losing you. And yes, you’re right that I would have fought him. But what I’m most afraid of isn’t him, or even being killed by him—”

“Try ‘tortured for all eternity’.”

“And yes, that is a truly petrifying notion, but even more than that, I fear something similar happening to you and me not knowing you need help because you kept it secret. Oh,” he said, straightening suddenly. “I know what I want, then. If this is going to work between us, Crowley, this is what I want. Won’t you look at me, dear boy?”

He waited as Crowley turned himself slowly back around, then carefully reached up to slide Crowley’s glasses down enough to make real eye contact. Crowley blinked slowly but didn’t protest.

“No secrets,” Aziraphale said. “Not like that, at least. You don’t have to tell me absolutely everything, we’re both due some real privacy if we want it, but if we’re going to be together, I want to be together. If you’re in trouble, it’s my trouble, too.”

Crowley’s eyes flicked down. “I can’t put you in danger.”

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale said with a soft snort of laughter. “You must admit we’ve been putting each other in danger from the beginning, whether that was ever our intention or not.” He sobered. “I’m sorry, Crowley, but I must insist on this. Please don’t try to protect me, not like that. Don’t keep things like that a secret, and I promise to do the same, no matter how hard I admit it is. Whatever one of us faces, we’ll face together. Alright? Please.”

Crowley’s yellow-red eyes focused back on Aziraphale, regarding him silently for a moment. After a while, he nodded.

“Yeah, alright then,” he agreed. “But I want a promise in return.”

“That’s fair. What is it?”

“You’re the fighter, and you’re damn good at it, and you’re clever to boot. But being sneaky and wily is the game I’ve played best from the very beginning, and if there’s trouble, there won’t always be time to clue you in to what I’m thinking. So what I need is for you to trust me. If we’re in a tight spot and I tell you to do something that doesn’t make any sense or maybe even goes against everything you want to do, please… please just trust me.”

Aziraphale thought it over, slowly nodding. “But you wouldn’t use that to trick me into letting you sacrifice yourself?”

“No sacrifices. No tricks.”

“Only plans that end with us both coming home in the end?”

“I promise.”

Well, he couldn’t very well trust Crowley on all other things but not trust him on this. Aziraphale beamed and held out his hand. “I promise, too. That’s the new Arrangement, then.”

He was rewarded with a relieved smile from Crowley, then an amused smirk. The demon took his hand and squeezed lightly.

“The new Arrangement.”

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #ace crowley x aziraphale #fanfiction #actual good communication and reasonable agreements #fluff

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akaluan · 4 years ago

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Accidental Marriage for Kisuke and Erich (please let Erich be a werewolf, or a weresomething) or soulmates for Kaito and Tatsuki.

(Erich as were-lynx // added rand-genned second trope: Bodyguard Falls In Love With Client)

(In this AU, Quincy aren’t the only werebeasts, it’s a common and normalized thing throughout the population, as is magic which replaces spiritual powers.)

“So I have good news and I have bad news, which do you want first?”

Erich rumbles a protest and rolls over, shoving his muzzle beneath one of his pillows and laying his ears flat against his head; it is far too early for how awake Urahara sounds, which means the man probably hasn’t gone to sleep yet.

Which means he’s going to have to run interference all day, because a sleep-deprived Urahara is a terror to everyone around him, and he really doesn’t need any more people out for Urahara’s blood.

(Not that Urahara seemed to care at all, the bastard.)

(Urahara had spent the first month and a half of the contract trying to lose him in every conceivable way possible.)

(Still, he’s lasted longer than any other bodyguard the Shihoin had hired for the man, so… he supposes he should be proud.)

A hand settles on his head, fingers sinking into his fur and scratching just so at the base of one ear; it’s an indulgence he hasn’t allowed himself in a long time and he takes a deep breath, a purr rumbling in his chest as he savors Urahara’s scent—

(Wait.)

(Urahara’s scent?)

Erich snaps from his half-asleep daze and twists around, seizing Urahara’s arm in his mouth and clamping down, teeth millimeters from breaking the man’s skin.

Urahara freezes, eyes wide and lips parted, and murmurs, “Uh… good kitty? Nice ki— ow! Sorry! Sorry!”

Erich heaves a sigh and lets go of the man’s arm in favor of scanning the room he’s in; it’s Urahara’s room, though why the hell he was sleeping in the man’s bed he… has no idea. He doesn’t think they did anything the previous night—

(Surely he’d remember, wouldn’t he?)

—so him being here on his day off is… strange.

(Damnit, whatever happened, he hopes he didn’t give any indication of his growing crush on the man!)

“Maa, so now that you’re awake, good news or bad news first?” Urahara asks as he straightens up and rubs absently at the red marks on his arm that Erich’s teeth left behind.

Erich gives him an exasperated look at the question, then closes his eyes and concentrates, pulling his body out of his true lynx form and into a more humanoid form so he can actually answer. “Knowing what you consider ‘good’ and ‘bad’, I’m not sure I want to hear either,” he says as soon as the change settles.

Urahara chuckles awkwardly and rubs at the back of his head, then says, “Ah, well… good news, you make an adorable lynx?” When Erich just scowls at him, ears flattening against his head and lips curling back to display his canines, Urahara raises his hands in defense and babbles, “I mean, that wasn’t what I meant to say! Er, a-anyway! Good news! The symposium has agreed that you can come along!”

“And what, exactly, is the ‘bad news’ that goes along with this,” Erich asks warily, not trusting Urahara’s news in the slightest; the symposium the man is talking about is famous for being invitation-only, and ‘bodyguard’ has never been one of their invitation criteria. If the Shihoin had to bribe someone to get him in, they’re almost certainly going to hold that over his head until he can pay them back somehow.

(Though he wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest by it; he’s the first bodyguard in years who’s lasted more than six months with Urahara.)

(It’s no surprise that they’d want… insurance… against him suddenly quitting.)

“W-eeellll…” Urahara hesitates a moment, then flashes Erich a bright mask of a smile and says, “Remember those forms we had to sign a while back that I said not to worry about at all because it was just for a pretense and the Shihoin would take care of everything to make sure nothing untoward happened?”

The breath catches in Erich’s throat as his eyes go wide, knowing exactly what forms Urahara is talking about; the forms had been vague as to their purpose but the terms had been reasonable enough, just another contract amongst all the other contracts he’d needed to fill out during his time as Urahara’s bodyguard. He’d thought nothing of it at the time, especially when nothing had seemed to change about, well, anything.

(He should have known better.)

(It’s the Shihoin, after all!)

“What. Happened,” Erich forces out as soon as he untangles his thoughts enough to speak.

Urahara bites his lip and looks away, shoulders hunching in just like every time something uncomfortable comes up. It makes Urahara look smaller, more vulnerable, even though Erich knows it’s a lie.

(He still wants to reach out.)

(Still wants to pull the man into his arms and hold him close and reassure him that everything will be alright—)

Erich desperately shoves his emotions aside and clasps his hands together to keep himself from acting on his desires; Urahara is his charge and he cannot afford to let his emotions interfere. One day this contract will be up and then he’ll have to find a new contract, a new employer, and if that puts him at odds with Urahara and the Shihoin then he’ll have no choice in the matter.

(Emotions, he learned long ago, are more trouble than they’re worth.)

“Urahara, explain,” Erich prompts when the man remains silent, wondering exactly what’s happened to make the normally talkative man clam up.

“You’re uh… you’re listed as my husband now, so the symposium will allow you to come with me,” Urahara mumbles, still not meeting Erich’s gaze.

Erich freezes, claws digging into his skin as his hands tighten around each other, but the pain doesn’t miraculously wake him up from what has to be a nightmare. “Pardon?” he asks faintly, hoping desperately that he heard wrong.

Urahara swallows and repeats, “The Shihoin set up an arrangement a while back to make us look engaged in order to lessen scrutiny on you for uh… being around so much, but someone uh… someone… actually filed it. We’re married now. It’s fine, though! I’m… I asked Yoruichi to look into it so I’m sure it’ll be fixed soon! But until then, on paper we’re married, so you can get into places you otherwise couldn’t.”

(‘It’s fine, though’?)

(His own growing fondness of the man aside, Urahara barely tolerates him most days, and now it’s ‘fine’ that they’re listed as married?)

(There’s a catch here and he’s not looking forward to discovering it.)

“I’m surprised you’re going along with this,” Erich says as he leans forward a bit, scenting the air in an attempt to get a clearer understanding of Urahara’s state; all he smells is nervousness-caution-anxiety though, and that he could piece together just from the man’s body language. “You’ve been trying for months to get rid of me, and now you’re fine with me tagging along?”

“Maa, well… you’re… not as bad as some of the other bodyguards the Shihoin have foisted on me,” Urahara says with a grimace and a small shrug. “At least you listen to me instead of just trying to order me around.” He pauses and eyes Erich in consideration, one hand half-raising as if to reach out before he clearly thinks better of it and drops it back to his side. “Though you being a werelynx probably explains how you managed to keep up with me all the times I tried to dodge you.”

Erich hums, unwilling to confirm Urahara’s guess even if it is somewhat accurate; he has been utilizing on his lynx side when the moon isn’t full, but that’s not the only thing letting him keep up with the man. He’s always had a good sense of who a person is and how they will react, and that, more than anything else, has let him figure Urahara’s habits out with a minimum of issue.

But if Urahara wants to think it’s because he can enhance his senses while the moon is down, the man is welcome to his assumptions.

(It won’t help Urahara anyway.)

(He already knows the man’s habits.)

Urahara watches him for a moment, then cautiously asks, “Rerugen-san…?”

“There’s nothing we can do about it for now,” Erich says with a touch of resignation, eyes closing as one paw-like hand rises to rub at the side of his muzzle. “Get me registered for that symposium as well, and give me the paper you’re submitting. I might as well do my best to pretend knowledge of your field so I’m not entirely out of place.” He casts a despairing look down at his furred arms, ears flattening in annoyance as he adds, “Not like I’m going anywhere until moonset anyway.”

(Usually he’s tucked away somewhere private well before moonrise.)

(He’s spent his life keeping his were-form secret for exactly the sort of edge it let him have over Urahara.)

(He’s not about to discard that just because one person found out.)

“Ah… alright then,” Urahara agrees, tone bemused and gaze calculating. “I’ll get you a copy to read. If you have any questions let me know.”

Erich gives Urahara a sharp nod, internally hoping against hope that he won’t need to ask the man anything. As much as he’s come to like Urahara, he’s not unobservant; Urahara doesn’t do explanations, not willingly at least, and when he does explain things, he does a poor job of it. Not on purpose, Erich suspects, just… Urahara is a genius and rarely pauses to consider that no one else around him is.

(He’ll be better off looking things up online, he suspects.)

(Well… so long as Urahara doesn’t notice.)

(Otherwise the man will pout at him.)

(…why does he like Urahara again…?)

(Ugh, emotions are such a nuisance…)

#erich/kisuke #bleach #bleach/tanya #tanya the evil #this one is probably going to get continued at some point #i really like the premise i have #ah well #also i'll probably do another post with the kaito/tatsuki prompt as well #it should be fun too #Anonymous #replies

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iaal · 5 years ago

Text

Chrollo x Thief!reader (nsfw)

I wanted to do the Chrollo part for this ask but it ended up as something else entirely.I wasn’t planning on making it nsfw either but things got out of hand. The “one bed” part is still here so it kinda count tho…

!WARNING!: mild dom chrollo, heavy calculative goth spider, mild angst (I guess)

You pushed yourself into an alley, your back flat on the wall, holding your umbrella close to your chest and you instinctively held your breath as it would make you smaller, invisible. The sirens passed past you and you stayed still until they were blazing in the distance. When you only heard their echos far away you exhaled slowly, unable to contain the victorious smile growing on your lips. Celebration would have to wait, you managed to evade the police so far but staying in the open too long was only asking for trouble. You put off your mask and gloves, throwing them in a bin, as an extra step for insurance you lit them on fire. One more little touch and you’ll be ready to go – you ran your hands on your coat and pants – the textile morphed into minty green and neon pink, a far cry from the previous pitch black color you were wearing.

Slowly you started walking, joining the passerby on the main street, you disappeared in the crowd. Very soon they’ll have hunters on the scene though and you couldn’t take the risk to run into them. Just laying low for some time should be enough, at least until your trail cool off. Once you had put enough distance between the museum and yourself you started walking faster, taking shortcuts you had mapped beforehand. It has already been almost an hour since your heist and every seconds outside was increasing the likelihood of something going wrong.

When the outskirt of town came into view you broke into a run, it was mostly desert there and the rare people going around weren’t the kind to talk with law enforcement. Almost safe. Carefully, extending your en to be sure that no one has followed you entered a building after confirming you were really alone. The dilapidated building should have been a sight when it was still standing but now it was nothing more than rumble and dust. Many years ago the town tried expending and constructed high standing residence but after an economic crash most of them end up as skeleton, bare and standing forever in a half finished state. The one you were making your way into was nearly done though and luckily for you, if someone was to look at a plan they wouldn’t know a bunker was just underneath it. The rich really are paranoid. But so were you. You had arranged the bunker as a safe house and you were ready to let the world forget about you for a while. This place was perfect; remote, secret and big enough to stock food, water and everything you’ll need to last a month even if you planned to stay a week at most. You opened the heavy trap door and climbed down the ladder, your umbrella under your arm. It was done, no one will find you now.

“Welcome back.”

You froze on the spot. You didn’t detect anyone with your en earlier so he must have use zetsu, He was waiting for you. Either you turned around to face him or you could try to reach for the exit as you were still half way on the ladder but it would mean leaving you defenseless when you flee.

“You can’t get out, but you can try if it helps you understand the situation,” the voice answered your dilemma. The man behind you had a pleasant voice yet there was a coldness underneath that made your heart ready to leap out of your throat.

Taking on his offer you reached the door once again. It wasn’t just locked or stuck; you couldn’t even touch it. As much as you tried every time you got too close your hand got pushed back. Nen. He has trapped you with nen and you didn’t noticed until it was too late. You closed your eyes. Frustration, shame, anger at yourself for being so careless, everything was choking you and you just wanted to cry. Dying never scared you but this humiliation right when you felt at your highest was pure agony. This man shattered your perfect plan and your pride with it.

When you opened your eyes again the light was turned on. You jumped down and finally faced the man. He was sitting on the bed, looking at you dispassionately, letting you take your time to come to term with your failure.

After a moment he spoke again, “You have something I want,” he started but you already knew why he was here for. You clutched the umbrella. “Give it to me and I’ll be on my way and you’ll be free,” he offered.

“Take everything you want and get out then,” you still clunged to the hope he didn’t know about your hatsu.

“I could yes, but I have no use for an umbrella.”

The lump in your throat swell. He won’t have it. You didn’t care of what he’d do to you but he’d absolutely won’t have it.

There’s no reason to pretend now, you held his gaze.

“No,” you answered.

You both knew you couldn’t kill each other, not without risking nen getting stronger after death. If you killed him you’d end up stuck here until you die of starvation and if he killed you what he desire would forever stay an umbrella. Yet, It didn’t mean you were on equal footing. He obviously had more information about you than you had about him which was absolutely nothing. Was he alone? What was the conditions of his ability? How strong was he? Was it even his hatsu that kept you prisoner? Too much interrogation and the stakes were much higher for you. Even if you killed him you’d be doomed whereas he could kill you and gamble on finding an exorcist afterward.

“There’s no rush. You can think about it for a few more days” he suggested calmly.

“Days?”

Was he really going to stay that long? You couldn’t wrap your head about what he was planning, you were pretty convinced he’d attack you after hearing your refusal but he was still sitting on the bed, showing no sign of wanting to start a fight.

“It’s not like your were planning to leave this place anytime soon with everything you’ve packed in here, it shouldn’t be a problem,” he explained “And there’s always time to try other alternative afterward if you don’t change your mind,” he spoke with a flippancy that gave you the certainty he’d have no qualm about following through his threat.

“Isn’t it awfully kind of you to wait for my answer?” you sneered.

It was actually good, you could learn a lot about him and find a way to break out if you played your cards right. Yet this made you so uneasy. He was too calm so he wasn’t being generous because he felt like you had the upper hand, you were unable to read his intention. Plus you’ll need to cohabit with someone who clearly was ready to torture you. Nothing you could deal with right now, the only chance you had was to search for an opening. For the first time you really looked at him trying to analyze you opponent. The tattoo on his forehead and his black clothes could have a meaning. Maybe he was part of a cult, if that was the case the chance of having backup around was high. He seemed young, your age or a bit older but with nen users it was hard to tell. With his heavy coat you couldn’t get a look at his body but you could at least tell he was muscular. And well… he was quite the looker. Usually you didn’t think about men as “pretty” but he really was – big grey eyes with long lashes, pale flawless skin and a restrained icy charm that would have made you swoon if the situation was different. You shook your head and focused back. His attractiveness was not important, you needed more useful information.

The bunker didn’t look that big once you had filled it with all your stuff and with the two of you here it felt almost cramped. Apart from the bed the only furniture were a table with a stool and a shelf, a rudimentary bathroom was inside an alcove and you winced when you saw there was no door. It bothered you a lot, you wouldn’t have a moment for you alone as he could see everything you were doing. No chance of taking advantage of a blind spot to prepare an attack. On the corner of the eye you caught him following the direction of your stare.

“You don’t have to worry about me peeping if that’s what trouble you,” he said acknowledging the lack of privacy but seemingly misunderstanding where the real problem lied.

“How lucky I am to be kept prisoner by a perfect gentleman,” you said acidly.

You grabbed the stool and placed it as far as you could from the bed and put the umbrella under the it. You sat with your arms crossed over your chest, the man directly on your line of sight. He was also observing you slightly reclined with his hands planted on each side. It was going to be a long night.

After a while he put a book out of his coat and started reading, ignoring you. You rubbed your clammy palms on your thighs. What was the point if he wasn’t trying to make you change your mind? No more threats, nor arguments, he was just passing time after giving you all the information you needed to make your choice – give him what he wanted of suffer the consequences.

“Who are you?” you finally asked. This silent stand-off was straining your nerves.

“Chrollo,” he looked up to you leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

“Should I know this name?” you didn’t think he was a hunter, was his name known well enough to be recognized?

“No,” you felt a pang of annoyance at his answer, you didn’t care about his name you weren’t asking for a polite introduction.

“Nice to meet you Chrollo,” you answered with your most charming, obvious, fake smile, you could play this farce too. “I am -”

“I know who you are,” he interrupted.

He was referring to your real name and not the alias you used in this town, somehow you knew you were right. It confirmed that he had prepared this ambush for a long time and done his research right. So why? He seemed competent enough, if he really wanted to he could have executed the heist himself, why waiting for you to do it and then trapping himself with you? Sure your ability to change an object into another was handy but you could have fail or got caught before returning here. Something wasn’t adding up. You searched in his eyes for something, anything that could give you a hint but you found nothing – worst, you had the sensation Chrollo was the one reading into you, much like the book he still had in his hands. Looking away you tried to compose yourself.

The rest of the night was uneventful, Chrollo was still reading quietly and you were too much on high alert to dare pick a book yourself from the one you had stacked here to pass the time. The man was still a complete mystery and you’ve lost precious hours for nothing, only exhausting yourself.

You rubbed your stiff neck and were thinking about how you should formulate your next question to get as much clues as you could when your stomach rumbled loudly. In the dead silence the sound was unmistakable and you felt weirdly flustered that in such a dangerous predicament your body was so unconcerned.

Getting up you rummaged in the pile of food you had brought, searching for a light meal to fill your belly but when you rise up your shoulders bumped into something. You blanched when you realized he was standing just behind you. You hadn’t notice him moving at all. Chrollo put a hand on your shoulder to help you keep your balance and you felt dizzy. You didn’t grasped how vulnerable you were until this point – nothing could have stopped him if he had decide to attack you when you entered the bunker and you wouldn’t have see him coming if he had decide to strike right now. You were at his mercy and you should have been terrified but instead you were relieved. Relieved because never once you’ve been caught. You always had pride yourself at being smarter, more careful and craftier than the one pursuing you. Losing to Chrollo wasn’t shameful, knowing how formidable he was restored a bit of your dignity. Perhaps you were insane feeling that way, however it was like the weight on your chest vanished. Well, you were still going to die once the time was up but at least you wouldn’t blame yourself, you were pretty much done for as soon as you had attracted his attention.

“I didn’t meant to startle you,” he removed his hand and crouched down to pick some snacks for himself, “I have no plan of attacking you, not unless you give me a reason to.” The message was crystal clear.

Both of you ate in silence but you couldn’t take your eyes of him. Relaxed would have been pushing it but you were breathing more freely and you were really appreciating how entrancing he was. Did the Stockholm syndrome was already kicking in? Or some kind of suspension bridge effect now that you were certain you were going to die? Either way you weren’t even mad at him, just mesmerized.

“Why are you ready to die for a sword?” Chrollo asked abruptly, his eyes focused on your loot you had turned into an umbrella.

“I’m ready to die so no one could have it, it’s different,” you answered truthfully. Your nation had been colonized, had to live through an ethnic cleansing and their culture banned on their own land for the past two centuries. The sword was the symbol of you long gone kings and now was displayed as a curiosity for the conqueror to marvel at. It has never sat right with you and even though you knew getting the artifact back wouldn’t change anything at least you could give them a taste of the disgrace.

Chrollo nodded, sensing you wouldn’t say more on the subject and lied down on the bed, removing his coat to use it as a cover. As for you, the stool was making your ass sore so you were up, leaning against the wall. You didn’t know what came into you but you as soon as you thought you’d have liked to lie down too you found yourself with a knee on the mattress. Chrollo narrowed his eyes but still moved on his side to give you a bit of space. You removed your shoes and lied down. It was a tight squeeze but you managed to get it.

What were you doing? Your heart was pounding in your chest. Flirting with danger wasn’t new, sleeping next to it was. Chrollo warmth was radiating on your back and his chest was brushing against you with each slow breath. Being your future killer aside, you didn’t even knew the man, you’d only exchanged a few worlds so why were you so wet just being close to him? How messed up were you?

“I can hear your heart beating from here,” he noticed, your face immediately flushed at the words. “If you are so scared you should try sleeping elsewhere.” You didn’t get caught after all, but the shock has let you motionless. You took a deep breath. Why were you so shy? You literally had nothing to lose anymore and no one could judge you. What prevented you to do anything you wanted?

You turned around, meeting Chrollo cold eyes and pushed yourself against him. You felt light-headed, discovering a freedom you never knew existed. Nothing mattered, the only thing you had worked for your entire life was a failure, your death was coming and there’s nothing you could do about it. Taking a hitched breath you pressed your lips against his. Chrollo was still as you embraced him but you didn’t mind, you were intoxicated by just feeling his mouth against yours.

“You know that it won’t save you,” Chrollo said on your lips as a matter of fact. Oh you knew and it was morbidly adding to your excitation.

Without stopping you nodded, alternating between licking and biting at his lower lip. He wasn’t pushing you away, that’s all you needed. Never in you life have you felt so much need for someone, your whole body was on fire, your mind was fuzzy and a moan was bubbling in you throat ready to escape at the lightest provocation. Feeling his broad chest you found the zipper of his top and pulled it down, clawing at his bare skin as soon as you revealed it. Quickly you removed your own top and returned to the kiss even quicker, flushing your bare chest against his. The moan that you were keeping burst from your lips when Chrollo put his hand on your back to keep you against him, your whole body was covered in goosebumps and a shiver ran along your spine instantly when he started returning your kiss. His touch, his scent and now his taste…your senses were going into overdrive and it was still not enough.

Chrollo turned you on your back and lifted himself up, placing a knee between your legs, his tongue still playing with yours. Immediately you missed the contact of his skin and tried to follow him up but a hand on your shoulder kept you laying flat. His other hand undid your belt, and pushed your pants down your thighs, breaking the kiss he moved your legs on you chest to undress you completely. Both his hands under your knees, he parted your legs around him. Looking up at him you already were panting hard, just kissing made a mess out of you but he had the same impassive expression. Chrollo was looking at you, spread out underneath him, his gaze trailing from your clouded eyes to your chest and lingering between your thighs.

“You’re soaking wet,”he observed, his fingers were caressing your stomach and you closed your eyes in anticipation.

The sensation of his first finger entering you made your hips jerk up, your moaning were so loud it was almost a scream. A sad sight left your lips when he withdraw soon replaced by mewling when he insert one more fingers. With his other hand’s thumb he pushed in circle on your clit as he was exploring your core, properly making you melt. Bending down he kissed your jaw, his tongue tracing down your neck and stopping at your breast. Not too hard he bit your nipple, pulling it up as he was doing it, still relentlessly pumping into you. You buried your hands in his hair, everything he’s doing was too good.

His breath started to get labored and he removed the hand between your legs to position himself against you, unbending to kiss you once again, this time intensely. Your rubbed yourself on his hardness eliciting a low groan from him, he grabbed your ass to press you more on his cock, grinding harder when you started whimpering. You were so close. Suddenly he stopped, pushing on your hips so you wouldn’t move either.

“I don’t have a condom, we should stop here,” a blush was beautifully spread on his face when he looked up to you, still panting.

“I don’t care,” you whined.

“I do.” his tone didn’t leave place to any argument. You huffed and straighten yourself up, Chrollo sat beside you eyes closed trying to calm his breath.

Looking around you spot your sock, you grabbed it and pulled it to gauged the elasticity. Satisfied, you rolled it on itself, Chrollo was watching you with curiosity. Visualizing what you wanted to changed it into looked and felt like you ran you hand on the sock, changing its form to one of a condom.

“Impressive,” Chrollo admitted, “Is it really a condom? Or does it only has the shape?” he asked taking it from you and observing at all the angles.

“As long as the mass is around the same I can change everything into anything I want, it’s a real as the real deal. But the smaller it is the quicker it revert back so put it on now,” your hurried him.

Chrollo looked at you hungrily and undressed himself with an urge he didn’t have earlier. Seeing him completely bare in front of you send a fire in your groin, you placed yourself in the middle of bed when your hand smacked on something. It was the book Chrollo was reading earlier. You picked it up and move it out of the way, laying on your back.

“Turn around, on your knees,” he ordered and you happily obliged.

His hands cupped your ass before returning to your folds, resuming their teasing. It didn’t took him long to have you drenched and moaning again. When he removed his fingers this time it was to replace them by something much more delectable. Unhurriedly he sank into you humming when he was completely inside. Slowly he started to move, kneading at your hips with each lazy thrust. It was excruciating slow and you tried to go faster only for Chrollo to keep you in place.

“Harder…please,” you pleaded.

“In time,” he said in a breath, “I want to enjoy the moment a bit more,” he added.

His thrusts were wide, almost getting out before deliberately sliding back fully inside you. It was the sweetest torture you’ve ever experienced. Clawing at the sheet, you could only be patient. Fortunately you restraint got rewarded when Chrollo started to pick up the pace, slamming into you enthusiastically. You gasped when he took a handful of your hair – pulling so hard your back arch – banging you deep and fast.

“You’re screw up,” he breathed behind your ear, “Or maybe,” he gave your ass a slap, earning a choking moan from you, “ugh..maybe”, another slap “it’s only natural for Eros to intermingle with Thanatos.”

You couldn’t focus on what he was saying but the sound of his voice was just adding to your heat. Unable to support yourself anymore you snaked your hand around his neck. He was utterly ravaging you and it was electrifying. Another slap on your ass and you felt an explosion deep at your center dispersing in your body to all your extremities. The wave was violent and left you shaking, you fell forward still enduring Chrollo’s brutal pace. Soon his thrusts started to get chaotic, he was grunting and panting. His own orgasm was close. Sliding out of you he turned you so you’d face him, still in a haze you raised yourself on you elbow.

“Open your mouth,” you understood what he wanted, and you eagerly obeyed.

As soon as you lifted yourself up he pressed the head of his dick on your lips, you opened wider and took him in your mouth, bobbing your head and enjoying the saltiness of the precum flowing on your tongue. Chrollo shoved his dick deeper, fucking your face ruthlessly then held you still, nails raking your scalp while he was filling your throat with his cum. Tears well up to your eyes and you exhaled coughing when he pull out. Chrollo lied down breathing heavily beside you, and you let yourself fall back to bed. Your body was light and sore at the same time. You closed your eyes, physical and mental exhaustion caught up to you and your mind slipped away toward the embrace of sleep.

You woke up alone, naked and shivering. Putting back your clothes your looked around you. Your heart skipped a beat, you were alone. You jumped out of bed and pushed the stool aside. Lying on the floor was the sword you were ready to throw your life for. Not an umbrella, the real sword. It should have stayed in this form for eight days, something was very very wrong. Trembling, you placed your hands on it, visualizing an umbrella. Nothing. You tried with other objects only for the result to stay the same. You couldn’t use your ability.

So that’s was it. You sank into the floor, tears flowing down your cheeks. Chrollo didn’t care about the sword. Everything made so much sense all of the sudden. It was worthless for him, the most important object for you was trash in his eyes. He could have taken it with him when he left but it wasn’t even worth it. No, he took something even more precious, something you never imagined you’d lose, what you’ve considered a part of yourself, something you nurtured and polished for so long. And it was gone.

You cried for a long time, hugging the sword on your chest. Waiting to wake up from this nightmare.

#hxh #hunter x hunter #chrollo #chrollo scenario #ask #smut #chrollo lucilfer #I have not proofed read this one either #it's late and I just want to go to bed #but I need the instant gratification to post something #I'm a shitty writter #I found a ridiculous way to make the reader use her nen #but don't be a tough customer #I tried.

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believerindaydreams · 4 years ago

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Valentine fluff and stuff, Benny/Arcade <3 post the events of Raging Against the Machine

"Permission to court Arcade? My my, that's a trifle old fashioned, isn't it?" Daisy props the sniper rifle over her back, gives a little wave to Boone as they exit the dinosaur's mouth.

Benny shrugs. "He's welcome to ask my mother if he wants to...we're like that in the Boot Riders is all. Fucking is one thing, but where marriage is concerned you ask the matriarch."

"You could hardly consider me the matriarch of anything. And I didn't raise that boy to just take orders from anyone, especially one of...us."

"Orders about what?" Arcade's left off his coat in the Mojave heatwave, and his lover down to sharp black trousers and a blue shirt rolled up to the elbows makes him momentarily wish that Daisy wasn't here, or indeed the rest of the population of Novac.

Lover, heh. The thing he most regrets about all this is giving up that fond familiar term for a new and alien one.

"Anything," Daisy says mildly. "I won't spoil the surprise if Benny hasn't told you yet."

"...if he hadn't told you- uh, okay. I can wait." He throws Benny a confused look, gets a cheerful stonewall of a response.

Really, there's no need to inform Daisy that he let famously laidback Arcade Gannon be the one to propose first.

***

*one week earlier*

"I'm prescribing you a break. Medically."

"House had a point plugging himself into a mainframe," Benny growls, tossing yet another clipboard into the ever-growing stack besides him. "It would save a lot of trouble to do this all mentally- do you know how many pages of negotiations I'm dealing with for the sharecropper farms alone?"

"No, and that isn't the point. You need to stop acting like we're in perpetual crisis mode, the war's been over for a month-"

"The crises don't stop just because of a sudden outbreak of peace."

"You've got Swank. You've got a room full of clerks back there," Arcade says, gesturing. The Tops presidential suite is almost unrecognizable now from its earlier iteration as a swinger pad; there are charts on the walls, hurrying subordinates, and the bar has been cleared of liquor in favor of a shiny new terminal for Benny's private use. "You have responsibilities, yes, but you need to ease off at some point. Unless you actually want everyone to start thinking you're another Mr House in the making."

Not only has the thought occurred to him, now wasn't even for the first time today, but- you can hardly say that to Arcade.

"I couldn't relax here if I wanted to. Look at this mess. There isn't a place in New Vegas where I could go without having a lot of hangers on trying to get my attention, at least I can hear myself think in here."

"True. That's why I bought a house."

"The fuck- you what?" Squatting is one thing. Actually, literally, owning property, putting in for an official deed claim with the antiquated RobCo property machinery...not only is it an incredible pain, it's incredibly expensive. Even the Kings didn't bother with that, and the Old Mormon Fort is technically rented.

"Well. I had a few gold bars burning a hole in my pocket...and some free time, since the horrendous bloodbath of a New Vegas conquest singularly failed to happen."

"I thought you were donating that to the Followers."

"I thought it'd be good to use it for purposes that advance a Follower agenda. Such as insuring that our newly independent city-state has the opportunity to demonstrate it can exist without its interim dictator." Arcade leans over the bar, kisses his forehead in a gently, oddly chaste way.

It seems odd to Benny at first, until Arcade pulls back and he realises they have an audience. There is no way everyone from the back office needed a pencil all at the same time.

Well, if there's an audience he might as well live up to it. Benny flicks them a smile, adjusts the folds of his collar. "That's different. If you wanted to sweep me off my feet for a long dirty weekend, why didn't you start with the lead?"

He pulls Arcade close for a much more enthusiastic embrace, lips and tongues interlocked, until the doctor actually overbalances. For one terrifying moment he thinks he'll lose control, helplessly watch Arcade go falling headfirst into the wall or the floor or something equally painful.

It doesn't happen. He sustains the weight, until Arcade manages to pull back and stand up again, apparently unaware that anything could have happened. It's all right. They're all right.

"The things I'll do to advance a healthy socio-political agenda," his lover retorts, rather pink-faced, to general clapping and cheers.

***

Phoenix Point, the house is called; and Benny almost regrets it.

It's right across the street from an old tools factory, one of the places he'd resorted to while hunting up Lucky 38 access codes, heart in his mouth every minute. It hasn't been long before he'd known that Arcade's gambit with the Fiends had ended with his rescue by the courier; it had been considerably more worrying, that she had him than they. Fiends being killable.

Marilyn...he still has nightmares, justified ones.

The mistrust eases as Arcade opens the small barbed wire gate, though- it's pre-war security, with a physical and electrical lock. The outer door offers a hefty piece of metal plating, impenetrable to two centuries of decay.

This better not be like a vault. Arcade knows his opinion on those-

but then his lover unlocks the door and lets them inside, and it isn't like that at all.

Light, that's the first thing he notices. Real sunlight, glinting off the water in an open courtyard- a reservoir then, water to waste. That's an immediately soothing sight right there, unmitigated luxury for anyone raised to Mojave dust.

He makes for it immediately, tasting its sweet clarity- no rads, the Pip-Boy silence confirms that. In place of a Geiger counter he can hear Mr New Vegas, endlessly ruminating about love; and the faint whistle of a stewpot on the boil.

And his lover's quick breathing, behind him.

Benny turns, grins at Arcade's self-conscious pose; lying down but with an elbow propping up his chin, all that height shown off even horizontally as compared to the array of ferns and broc flowers behind him. "Is the rest of it this nice?"

"I certainly hope so. I went to more trouble than I needed to, perhaps- the Lucky 38 has been, uh, liberated of a number of books. Brought out some supplies for the workshop, that kind of thing...put together a wardrobe for you," Arcade says, looking very nearly pained. "Even articles that I do not have any comprehension why a sane person would wear."

Benny laughs, but can't sustain it; too much at once, too deeply meant to him. "I love it. I love it already, I love you."

"You haven't even seen it yet."

He draws his lover close, the scent of herbs and animal warmth and the brightening light of the Strip all melding together into one glorious sensation. "I will. Because..."

He doesn't know how to say how a home is holy to him, or how there's no one else in the world he would trust to shape it for him. Or how to say anything at all that means what he needs it to, when words are his worthless stock in trade.

"Because it's you," he says eventually; because that's honest.

Arcade laughs, strokes his hair. "Glad to hear it. Imagine trying to woo the Chairman of the Tops without a reasonably impressive dowry."

That rings false, he almost pulls away. "You don't need to buy me."

"I thought you appreciated that kind of ironic backchat."

"I do, but...not from you. Not with that sincere Followers face of yours." With that ready impatience for the truly immoral, the willingness to speak truth to power. "You're my moral center. Keep on keeping me honest, please."

Arcade favors him with a distinctly stunned expression. "Oddly, I'm rather in the habit of thinking that's what you are to me. You're braver than I am, as far as accepting the risk of failure to try to steer towards better outcomes. There are times when indecision itself can become paralysing."

The sunset isn't visible from behind the high fencing, but there's a rich blueness fading to purple above them. "In that case...carpe diem?"

"Seize the day?"

"Is that what it means? The impression I got was that it meant something more like 'jump my bones'. That'll teach me to listen to ex-Legion prostitutes."

"...you have a profoundly terrible sense of timing," Arcade murmurs, and rolls over on top of him.

"Uh."

"Carpe diem, then?"

Maybe his voice does fail him; but he kisses his way into a yes.

#fallout new vegas

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corkcitylibraries · 3 years ago

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National Heritage Week | Frank O’Connor – Librarian

by Jim McKeon

Writer, Frank O’Connor, was just twenty years of age when he was released from Gormanstown Interment Camp. Cork had been badly hit by the Civil War. It was still a smouldering ruin. Because the city and county had been the focal point of much of the bloodiest fighting the turmoil of the Civil War lingered there longer than it did elsewhere in the country. In the spring of 1924, the city was still edgy. O’Connor had no money and no job. Under the new government all teachers were required to learn the Irish language. For a few months he taught Irish to the teachers at the Protestant school in St Luke’s Cross, near his home. He was paid a few shillings a week for this. He struggled by, a twenty-year old in his father’s patched up, old hand-me-down trousers teaching middle-aged teachers how to speak the Irish language. It was frustrating, especially if you were on the losing side in the Civil War. MacCurtain and MacSwiney had tragically died but he still met Corkery and Seán O’Faoláin regularly. As so often before Daniel Corkery, forever in O’Connor’s background, stepped in and arranged an interview for a job. Cork dramatist, Lennox Robison, who was secretary of the Carnegie Library, was organising rural libraries and he was looking for young men and women to train as librarians. After a tough interview O’Connor got the job. His mother packed his little cardboard suitcase, including a big holy picture of the Sacred Heart, and he set off for Sligo.

Bust of Frank O’Connor - on display in the City Library, Grand Parade

At last he had enough books to read. Even for 1924, the wages were poor, thirty shillings a week. His lodgings were twenty-seven and sixpence. He had a half-crown (12.5 cent) left for cigarettes and drink. He posted his dirty laundry on to Cork every week. His mother washed it, with unconditional love, and posted it back, and sometimes included five shillings for her son. As a librarian he was all hands. His boss said he was untrainable. He kept busy by reading poetry books and getting them off by heart. He was blessed with a phenomenal memory. The only thing of note in Sligo was that he celebrated his twenty-first birthday far from home. After six months he was sent to Wicklow, where a new library was to be opened.

When he arrived a local priest wanted to close down the library. Lennox Robinson had just been heavily criticised and fired from his library position because of a controversial story he wrote about a pregnant girl who felt she had mysterious visit by the Holy Ghost. O’Connor’s boss was Geoffrey Phibbs, an influential fellow poet with controversial opinions on many aspects of life. The two young poets became great friends. Phibbs escorted O’Connor to Dublin and introduced him to Lady Gregory, George Russell (AE) and Yeats. AE was editor of the Irish Statesman and encouraged O’Connor to send him on something for publication. He sent a verse translation of Suibne Geilt Aspires and when AE published it 14 March 1924, it carried for the first time the pseudonym Frank O’Connor. It must be remembered that he was a young civil servant and he may have been contemplating on keeping his job by using a pen name ever since Lennox Robinson’s enforced resignation. He chose his confirmation name, Francis, and his mother’s maiden name, O’Connor. The prominence AE and the Irish Statesman gave him thrust him into literary view. Yeats had great time for O’Connor and said that he did for Ireland what Chekhov did for Russia. But the young librarian missed home and his mother. A vacancy came up in Cork. AE tried to talk him out of it and warned him he’d be miserable back in Cork. It never occurred to O’Connor that he would not return home. Like his father he was, at that stage, a one-town man..

Notwithstanding AE’s forebodings, he accepted the job of Cork’s first county librarian in December 1925. He was just twenty-two years of age. His salary of five pounds a week was more than anyone in Harrington’s Square had ever dreamed of earning. The library was at twenty-five Patrick Street which was still in the process of being rebuilt. Minnie was happy that her son was back home again and his father, Big Mick, was impressed that a pension went with his son’s new job. The city was still in a poor condition. The foundation of the Irish Free State in 1922 augured a period of new confidence in Cork. But in 1924 a public inquiry found:

…limited progress had been made on rebuilding Cork’s city centre since it had been burned down in 1920. Criticism was made of the poor quality of maintenance of the city streets, many of which were still paved with timber blocks. Part of Anderson’s Quay had fallen into the river. The public water supply was of poor quality…There was virtually no building in progress in the city.

In the burning of Cork not alone had many of the character and physical structures of the city been lost, but so also had thousands of jobs and many peoples’ homes. The Cork Examiner reported that thousands were rendered idle by the destruction. The rebuilding was tediously slow mainly because of the shortage of funding. Britain’s refusal to accept blame and pay compensation didn’t help. The Civil War itself and the post-war political divide were also major factors in delaying the building progress. This was another chapter in Frank O’Connor’s Cork, a damaged city struggling to survive. He opened his library over a shop near the corner of Winthrop Street. It was five years since the burning yet major buildings, just yards away, like Roches Stores and Cash & Co, were still rubble. Rebuilding had not yet started in these two well-known shops. In January 1927, Roches Stores finally re-opened for business. Summing up, the burning of Cork had a unifying effect on a people that had been collectively damaged by the event. It also exposed divisions in Cork society at the time. A Church/political divide came to the surface during this traumatic time. It was demonstrated through criticism by councillors of Bishop Coholan for his refusal to condemn the burning. Many republicans were unhappy because they felt the clerical comments were often selective. Frank O’Connor had a huge responsibility for a young and inexperienced man. He was given a cheque for three thousand pounds to set up and stock his library. He made his first mistake. At that time an anti-Catholic bias still lingered in commerce. He naively lodged the cheque in the nearby and more practical catholic bank when the accepted practice was to use the protestant bank. This innocent action caused a major committee dispute and O’Connor was accused of having a personal and ulterior motive. Then, when he insured the building, the insurance company gave him a cheque as a personal thank you. He didn’t want it and kept it for years but never cashed it. He sums up this whole chaotic scenario:

By the time the Cork County Council had done with organizing my sub-committee it consisted of a hundred and ten members, and anyone who has ever had to deal with a public body will realize the chaos this involved. Finally I managed to get my committee together in one of the large council rooms, and by a majority it approved my choice of bankers. There was, I admit, a great deal of heat. Some of the councillors felt I had acted in a very high-handed way, and one protested against my appearing in a green shirt – a thing which, he said, he would not tolerate from anybody.

When he finally got his stock of books together and organised his new library, he decided that he should have closer contact with the rural community. If they couldn’t come to him then he’d go to them. He bought a van, packed it with boxes of books, and drove all over the county. After six months this affected his health. He was exhausted from working long hours driving all over West Cork and he wrote almost every night. In a letter to old Wicklow colleague, Phibbs, he wrote, I’m working like a brute beast. He became ill and had to have a serious operation in the Bon Secours Hospital. He spent two weeks in hospital and six weeks convalescing. It shows his stubbornness when he shocked the nuns in the hospital by refusing to receive the sacraments before the operation.

Cork had a long tradition of theatre and a critical play-going audience, but in 1927 there was only one drama group in the city, the newly formed Cork Shakespearian Company. Daniel Corkery’s little theatre had closed in 1913 and groups like Munster Players, Leeside Players and Father Matthew Players were also defunct. On 8 August 1927 Micheál MacLiammoir and Hilton Edwards brought their touring company to Cork. They performed The High Steppers’in the Pavillion Theatre in Patrick Street. This venue later became a cinema and is presently HMV music shop. After the opening night there was a party at Seán and Geraldene Neeson’s home. Geraldene was Terence MacSwiney’s bridesmaid when he married in England. MacLiammoir encouraged O’Connor to revive drama in Cork. O’Connor was inspired and was instrumental in forming the Cork Drama League. Although he knew nothing about drama he threw himself headlong at the project. Old friend, Seán Hendrick, recalls:

That Michael knew nothing about producing plays and I knew nothing about stage-managing them did not trouble us at all…The producer was to be given a free hand in the choice of both plays and cast and members were bound to accept the parts allotted them. There were to be no stars and an all-round uniformity of performance was to be aimed at.

Undaunted, Frank O’Connor tore into their new venture. Lennox Robinson’s play, The Round Table, was to be the first production. It was its first appearance in Cork and there were some slight adjustments to suit the local audience. The curtain-raiser was Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard. Typically, O’Connor wrote the programme notes, directed The Round Table, and appeared in both plays. The Round Table was a difficult play to produce. It had fourteen characters. Many of them doubled up and played two roles. They had trouble trying to cast the part of Daisy Drennan, but one night Geraldine Neeson brought along a pretty young girl to audition. Although she had a terrible stammer she was a natural actress. Not alone did she get the part but that night O’Connor walked her home. From then on Nancy McCarthy became his leading lady and for years to come she was to flit in and out of his life. The company’s first play opened on 28 February 1928 in Gregg Hall in the South Mall, a theatre venue no longer used in Cork. They got high praise all round especially Nancy McCarthy. They immediately started rehearsing for their second venture, The Cherry Orchard. Cork City was now back on its feet and completely rebuilt and people were getting used to a new freedom and sense of safety. Theatre was a hugely popular event. Plays at that time generally had an Irish theme and written by the likes of Yeats, Synge, Robinson and T. C. Murray. That had been the custom and they were very popular with Cork audiences. But the young Frank O’Connor had other ideas. He was into French and German and Russian theatre and he wanted to offer the Cork public something different.

English drama, no matter how significant it may be in its own setting can have no beneficial effect upon a country which is subjected to cultural influences only from one source. The Cork Drama League proposes to give the best of American and continental theatre, of Chekhov, of Martine Sierra, of Eugene O’Neill and those other dramatists whose work, as a result of the dominating influence of the English theatre, is quite unknown in Cork.

That was a more than subtle dig at Fr, O’Flynn, a local priest, who had founded the Cork Shakespearian Company in 1924. The two men did not get on. From 20 December to 30 December1927 they exchanged four letters in the Cork Examiner trading insults. Fr, O’Flynn signed his letters The Producer while O’Connor used his name in Irish. Seán Hendrick joined in the attack calling himself Spectator. Everyone in Cork knew who both men were. Ironically, they were more alike than they cared to admit; they were two proud Cork men, they both loved Shakespeare and they both loved Irish. Two more plays were produced, The Cherry Orchard and A Doll’s House. Both got fine reviews, but the audiences were poor. Maybe the Cork Drama League was going too far too soon, and Cork wasn’t ready for them. By now O’Connor was spending most of his time with Nancy McCarthy. Nancy was a religious girl from a well-known Cork family. He brought her home to see his mother and the couple went on a three-week holiday to Donegal. They stayed in houses three miles apart. They met every day for a year outside of St, Peter and Paul’s church after mass. They were engaged for a while but it did not work out. She would not marry him. He would not marry in a Catholic church and there was no way Nancy would marry outside the Church. She was one of ten siblings and he was an only child. She felt he was spoiled. This was quite true. By now he was being regularly published in the Irish Statesman. He had a poem dedicated to Nancy published 9 May 1928. The last two lines are filled with melodrama:

That even within this darkness of our body keeps

Communion with the brightness of a world we dream

Frank O’Connor was beginning to feel that AE was right. He should never have left Dublin. He was no longer enjoying his years in Cork. It was no longer the place he had known. O’Faoláin was in America and recently he had found it difficult to talk to Corkery. He made it plain that he was taking sides and that O’Connor was on the wrong side. O’Connor was restless and felt that Cork was threatening to suffocate him. He missed Wicklow where he could talk literature and art to Phibbs and go on to Dublin to meet AE and Yeats. AE would give him all the latest books and gossip, and Sunday evening he could go to the Abbey Theatre and see a series of continental plays, Chekhov, Strindberg and contemporary German plays. Eventually, getting frustrated with the parochialism of Cork and his lack of success with Nancy McCarthy, he applied for the job as municipal librarian in Ballsbridge. On Saturday 1 December 1928 he packed his case and left for Dublin. He still felt it was only a temporary move. Nothing could cure him of the notion that Cork needed him and he needed Cork. Nothing but death could ever cure him of this.

Jim McKeon’s book Frank O’Connor: A Life is available to borrow from Cork City Libraries

Jim McKeon has been involved in theatre all his life and has many film scripts, plays and books to his name. His best-known work is probably the biography of Frank O'Connor. He also toured Ireland and the US with his one-man-show on the writer's life. Jim is also an award-winning theatre director and poet.

#corkcitylibraries #Nationalheritageweek #frankoconnor

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rickyriddle · 4 years ago

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AnR: a study of psychopathy and antisocial personality disorder

Hey there! So here’s another analysis, not about a specific character, but AnR characters that would fit the psychopath/sociopath/antisocial personality disorder/conduct disorder. Those who are familiar with my other analysis would probably guess that I’ll be talking about Otoya. But I also referred to Nio and Hitsugi as sociopaths in previous analysis. I want to correct certain things I may have said that was incorrect as well as used more recent discovery I made about those disorders. I also want to include another character I didn’t really talk about regarding psychopathy/ASPD: Yuri Meichi. Without further ado, let’s take a look at those four characters and if weather or not they fit the diagnosis.

First I’ll explain the different distinction between the different conditions based on my understanding of those:

Primary Psychopathy: Most commonly referred as psychopathy. When specialists talk about psychopaths, most of the time they mean those who have primary psychopathy. Primary psychopathy is innate, meaning that primary psychopaths are born that way. Primary psychopathy is characterized by callousness, shallow affect, manipulation, and superficial charm. Not all primary psychopaths have antisocial personality disorder. They all have certain narcissistic traits (such as grandiose) but again, not all primary psychopaths could be diagnosed with narcissistic personality disorder either. Primary psychopaths have a defecting empathy, meaning that they can’t and will never feel empathy. They are usually viewed as high-functioning.

Secondary psychopathy: Usually referred to as sociopathy, even tho the term sociopath is outdated. Secondary psychopaths are made, they have been mold that way by their environment and possible trauma. Secondary psychopathy is associated with impulsivity and lack of long-term goals, and is related to hostile behaviors. Unlike primary psychopaths, secondary psychopaths are often emotionally unstable and can experience guilt and empathy. Their empathy isn’t defective but instead dysfunctional. All secondary psychopaths meet the criteria for antisocial personality disorder and they are more likely to also have borderline personality disorder. They are also more likely to be low-functioning.

Antisocial Personality Disorder: Also often used as a synonyme of sociopathy. The criteria are failure to obey laws and norms, lying, deception, and manipulation for profit or self-amusement, impulsive behavior, irritability and aggression, blatantly disregards the safety of self and others, a pattern of irresponsibility and lack of remorse. The person needs to be at least 18, have conduct behavior before 15 and the antisocial behaviors aren’t related to schizophrenia or bipolar disorder. People with ASPD can feel empathy and love towards those they bond with and their level of functioning depends of their IQ, education and environment.

Conduct Disorder: Considered the precursor of ASPD. Conduct disorder is characterized by antisocial behaviors in children and teenagers. The causes can be diverse, such as genetic, environment or even a low IQ. The signs of conduct disorder are bullying, aggressiveness, use of weapons, cruelty (towards humans or animals), stealing, forced sexual activities, vandalism, deceptiveness and serious rule violation. Whether those issues are treated or not can determine if those antisocial behaviors will continue in adulthood (and become ASPD) or not.

In this analysis, I’ll refer to primary psychopathy as PP, secondary psychopathy as SP, antisocial personality disorder as ASPD, conduct disorder as CD and narcissistic personality disorder as NPD.

In two of my recent posts I mentioned something Minakata said in KnR Room 4: “Recognizing that Otoya is an intrinsic psychopath and that Hitsugi is an acquired psychopath due to the environment and breeding.”

To me, there was no doubt that Otoya is a psychopath (PP). Minakata confirmed that Otoya is born that way therefore, she’s a primary psychopath. Then for Hitsugi, in her analysis I interpret the acquired psychopath as secondary psychopathy. And when I made the analysis, I thought that SP = ASPD and refer to Hitsugi as a sociopath, but given what I learned recently it might have been incorrect.

So, Minakata wrote psychopath “サイコパス” (saikopasu), which is based on the English word, therefore an anglicism. It sounds more like the pop-culture term instead of the medical term, which is 精神病質 (seishinbyō-shitsu). Therefore, I can be 100% that Minakata used the term psychopath in the medical sense and instead may just be a catch-all term for PP/PS/ASPD/CD. So, “acquired psychopath” doesn’t necessarily mean “secondary psychopath” but rather that Hitsugi acquire traits that are often associated with the whole psychopathy/ASPD spectrum. But, I firmly believe that “intrinsic psychopath” means “primary psychopath” since it’s the only condition among the spectrum who is innate.

So now that I correct that, let’s analyse the said characters and see if they fit any of those diagnosis.

Otoya, Hitsugi and Nio would all technically fit the CD diagnosis. They tend to be bullies, aggressive, use weapons (granted they are assassins but still), cruel, forced sexual activities (for Otoya, may or may not be applicable to Hitsugi), they are extremely deceptive and do violate rules. All of those behaviors are way more serious than a regular teenager rebellion and does harm others. But, even if they could all be diagnosed with CD (given that they are all underage) those three are all different and will probably have different diagnosis as they grow older. So let’s analyse them separately.

I’ll start with the easiest, Otoya. As I said, we know Otoya is born that way, therefore a PP. But just to be sure, let check if she does fit the criteria:

Callousness: I think it’s pretty obvious that Otoya has no sympathy or empathy for anyone and a total disregard for others. She’s insensitive and has no issues with abusing, torturing and killing people.

Shallow affect: This one mean shallow emotions. It doesn’t mean a lack of emotions, just that the emotional responses are low. I’m gonna base it on the manga version and say that despite Otoya’s cheerful attitude, she’s pretty emotionally shallow. Her cheerfulness is just an act. We can see after she failed and during KnR 5 that she’s actually quite cold.

Manipulation: Manipulation is basically Otoya’s middle name. All she does in the series is deceive, lie and manipulate to achieve her goals and simply for her personal pleasure. It’s as natural as breathing to her.

Superficial charm: I’d say Otoya is rather charismatic, she can easily charm people and gain their trust, but we know it’s not sincere. She’s smooth, engaging, charming, slick and voluble.

Otoya also have a defective empathy. You can’t possibly have empathy and commit all the atrocities she did, and she also show no remorse for her actions. She’s incapable of feeling those emotions. PP are born with a thinner amygdala, which is responsible for empathy, stress and fear. Her brain is incapable to feel empathy and remorse and never will.

But, Otoya’s actions show that she might not only be a PP. Otoya is a sadist who feel sexual pleasure from torturing and killing women. I don’t think we will argue if I say that she probably have sadistic personality disorder and sexual sadism disorder, as well as erotophonophilia (paraphilia of sexual arousal and gratification from the death of a human being, also known as lust murder). Those are not always linked to PP. In fact, unlike what people think, PP are rarely killers or even sadist, most of them are high-functioning and have normal jobs and aren’t committing any crimes. But, it’s true that most serial killers were either psychopaths or have ASPD, or both.

As I said earlier, Otoya would probably be diagnosed with CD. CD isn’t necessary to be a PP but it is for the ASPD diagnosis, meaning that in addition of being a PP, Otoya also have ASPD (well, technically she’s 16 so she couldn’t be officially diagnosis, but it’s safe to assume her behaviors won’t change at this point). At the very least, we can say that Otoya is antisocial, and PP and ASPD are often comorbid. Let’s see if she fits the criteria of ASPD:

Failure to obey laws and norms: I mean… she’s a goddamn serial killer who kills for sexual pleasure.

Lying, deception, and manipulation for profit or self-amusement: This is a trait that overlap with PP. I already explained her manipulative nature.

Impulsive behavior: This one may seems to contradict the shallow emotions. Impulsive means making reckless decision or spontaneous decision. It means that if she has a sudden desire, she may not resist it. Impulsive isn’t a synonym of hot-headed (being easily or constantly mad). You can have low emotions and still be impulsive. So yes, Otoya is rather impulsive, she tends to make decision on a whim without thinking of consequences.

Irritability and aggression: Again, even if someone is emotionally shallow doesn’t mean they have zero emotions. With the right trigger, even someone cold can get irritated and aggressive. In Otoya’s case, she can be quite aggressive if someone interrupt her when she’s having “fun” (aka torturing and killing) as we saw when Tokaku saved Haru from her.

Blatantly disregards the safety of self and others: In the manga Otoya was getting her ass kicked by Tokaku yet she continued to laugh and enjoy herself despite her injuries. The girl doesn’t care about her own safety and given her occupation, she doesn’t care about others’ safety either.

A pattern of irresponsibility: Otoya went overboard with killing and ended up attractive the attention of a detective, reason why she joined Class Black. Instead of recognizing that what she’s doing is wrong, she blames the detective for ruining her fun and literally want a serial killer insurance so she’ll never have to get into trouble for killing. I think it’s a form of irresponsibility, instead of fixing her behaviors or at least be more careful, she prefers to just have someone to clean up her mess forever.

Lack of remorse: Another trait that overlap with PP. I don’t think I need to explain this one again.

So in conclusion, Otoya is born a psychopath, but acquired antisocial behaviours due to her environment as well as sadism. Her natural lack of empathy probably make those easier to acquire. Otoya will never genuinely change as a person, she may change her behaviour to get what she wants but she will always the same. Right now, she would be diagnosed with PP and CD, but it makes no doubt that when she’ll be 18 she would be diagnosed with ASPD. So my final diagnosis: Antisocial Primary Psychopath.

Then, we have Hitsugi. So let’s throw the PP out of the possibility since we know she isn’t born that way and was mold by her environment. I would also discard SP given that Hitsugi seems pretty high-functioning as a person. SP tend to be anxious, fearful, hostile and emotionally unstable and it doesn’t seem to be the case with Hitsugi. On the contrary, Hitsugi said that she doesn’t feel much, showing that she does have shallow emotions (not a lack of emotions, mind you). As I said earlier, Hitsugi would most likely be diagnosed with CD. Hitsugi has no problem with hurting and killing people if it suits her or even just for curiosity and she didn’t feel any remorse for that. She’s deceptive, manipulative and a pathological liar. Regarding the forced sexual activities I mentioned earlier, I’m not saying that Hitsugi is a rapist or a sexual predator like Otoya seems to be. I meant it in a way that Hitsugi seems somewhat forceful and assertive when it comes to intimacy, kissing Chitaru even if the latter may not fully consent or be comfortable with it (I’m mainly referencing their second kiss after Chitaru learned the truth and was distressed, it was, in my opinion, inappropriate for Hitsugi to kiss her and seemed like she was taking advantage of Chitaru’s vulnerability).

It’s true, however, that Hitsugi loves and feel regrets for hurting Chitaru, but that’s because she bond with her. Hitsugi doesn’t feel remorse for any other people than Chitaru. Also, it’s true that Hitsugi shows signs of low-self esteem, which is not mutually exclusive with CD. In fact, from what I read, it’s common. I suppose that those with CD who grow up to have ASPD eventually lose their low self-esteem, but Hitsugi is still young.

We don’t know exactly Hitsugi’s past but we can assume that she was brought into the assassination business at a young age and that she eventually lost her capacity to have empathy and started to feel empty. But, thanks to Chitaru, in a way, Hitsugi was able to reconnect with her lost feelings and there may be some hope for her to outgrow her CD and not develop ASPD. But, if Hitsugi never met Chitaru or met her as an adult, there’s no doubt in my mind that she would have ASPD (but not be a SP).

So in conclusion, Hitsugi isn’t born like that, she was mold by her environment, and she does exhibit a lot of antisocial behaviours. So my final diagnosis: Conduct Disorder with chances of antisocial tendencies in adulthood.

Now let’s analyse Nio. In my analysis of her I did say she may have ASPD, but I clarified that given her age she would rather be diagnosed with CD. Nio is unlikely to have PP given that she’s capable of bonding and feeling genuine love. So, when she’ll be 18, would she still be more likely to have regular ASPD or SP?

First, let’s see if she does fit the ASPD criteria:

Failure to obey laws and norms: Even if Nio is following Yuri’s orders, she doesn’t seem to be someone who follow rules in general or the law. She doesn’t listen to her teacher and did broke the Clack Rules (she tried to kill Haru without sending a notice). I don’t have much example for this one.

Lying, deception, and manipulation for profit or self-amusement: Nio’s whole character is about deception. She acts all cheerful, enthusiastic and friendly while truly she doesn’t care about others, she even said she hate them, and enjoy seeing them fail and suffer. She did lied several time and manipulated Haru, all of this mainly for profit or just for fun.

Impulsive behavior: I wouldn’t say Nio is particularly impulsive nor do I really have example, except maybe her decision to kill Haru.

Irritability and aggression: Even if Nio acts friendly, she clearly stated hating all her classmates and got pretty angry with Haru at the end, probably because she was tired of pretending.

Blatantly disregards the safety of self and others: Nio did choose to fight Tokaku one on one even tho Tokaku is a much better fighter. Nio is ready to take risks. She doesn’t care about others’ safety as she gladly accepted to let Haruki try to commit suicide to win (with a huge grin on her face).

A pattern of irresponsibility: Not much instance in the series except in her flashbacks where we see she was a really undisciplined child. We can assume that even if she used to be irresponsible, with Yuri’s strict education it wouldn’t weird if Nio lost this trait over time.

Lack of remorse: Nio never showed genuine sympathy or empathy towards anyone (except Yuri) and doesn’t seem to have any remorse for any of her actions.

She fits most of them but not perfectly. But as I said, ASPD can only be diagnosed as an adult and Nio is only 15. So it’s possible that she might not have developed fully all the ASPD traits. To me, given that she’ll remain with Yuri, who basically abused her as a kid and groomed her, it’s unlikely that she will change. She’ll most likely have ASPD in adulthood. And, given that her relationship with Yuri is unhealthy, there’s a chance that she might end up more emotionally unstable. Abusive relationship on long-term have terrible effect on one psyche. So to me, Nio eventually turning to a secondary psychopath would be a high possibility.

The differences between Nio and Hitsugi regarding their respective relationship is that even if ChitaHitsu is also toxic, the abusive one is Hitsugi, not her partner. So there’s a chance that thanks to Chitaru’s influence she might change and outgrow her CD. Nio on the other end is the victim, Yuri being the abusive one. If Nio grows while still being affected by Yuri’s abuse she’s unlikely to get better.

In conclusion, Nio currently has CD and will most likely have ASPD as an adult as well as SP. She’s not born that way and was mold by her environment and Yuri’s abuse. My final diagnosis: Conduct Disorder with future Antisocial Personality Disorder and possible Secondary Psychopathy.

And now, last but not least, Yuri Meichi. Now you might remember that in my last psychopaths/sociopaths anime characters list I said that Yuri was either a psychopath or a high-functioning sociopath. Well, let’s break it down.

Yuri being an adult I won’t mention CD for her. So let see if she’s born that way or mold by comparing PP and SP criterial. Callousness? Yuri doesn’t seem to care about anyone and is pretty insensitive to others pain. Shallow affect? Well, Yuri is pretty emotionally shallow. She barely show any emotion except what appears to be mild-interest. Throughout the entire series she almost only smile calmly, even while beating up a kid. She’s a calm and cold person. Manipulation? There isn’t much instances that show if Yuri is manipulative, but we did see that she manipulate Nio as a kid and basically groomed her. Superficial charm? Yuri is quite charismatic. She can be smooth, engaging, charming, slick and voluble and we know it isn’t sincere.

What about the SP traits? Impulsivity and lack of long-term goals? Yuri pretty much succeeded in life and is one of the most powerful person in the world who is always calm and rational. Hostile behaviors? Yuri can be intimidating as a person, but she isn’t acting in a hostile and aggressive way.

So it doesn’t seem that Yuri have SP and is more likely to have PP, therefore be born that way. But could she also have ASPD? Let’s see.

Failure to obey laws and norms: Yuri makes me think she’s lawful evil. She makes the law.

Lying, deception, and manipulation for profit or self-amusement: She does that, but it’s also a trait that overlap with PP.

Impulsive behavior: Nope.

Irritability and aggression: Nope.

Blatantly disregards the safety of self and others: Disregards for others perhaps, even thought she didn’t let the injured assassins dies (yet let countless people die for the clan).

A pattern of irresponsibility: Not really

Lack of remorse: Yes, but again, it overlap with PP.

So it seems that all the ASPD traits Yuri has are also PP traits. So therefore, I don’t think she would qualify as having ASPD. And given that she’s 30 now, she’s unlikely to change.

So in conclusion, Yuri is most likely born that way. My final diagnosis: Primary Psychopathy

Phew, that was long. So, among the four characters I analysed, they are all at different places on the spectrum. Here’s a good diagram to illustrate it. I’ll show on it where the characters are or will be in a couple of years:

Thanks for reading, if you have any comments or questions feel free to ask me and see you next time!

#akuma no riddle #riddle story of devil #anr #Otoya Takechi #Hitsugi Kirigaya #Nio Hashiri #Yuri Meichi #psychopathy #primary psychopathy #secondary psychopathy #psychopath #sociopath #antisocial personality disorder #ASPD #conduct disorder #analysis

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shewhowillnotbenamed1 · 5 years ago

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Atrium

Part one | Part two

----------

The mahogany grandfather clock clanged. Eleven chimes to dictate the hour. It was 11 PM, and Rachel Roth was seated at the heavy wooden desk in the library, working. Everyone else was long gone. They had left in trickles, then twos and threes, and suddenly she found herself alone. Far into the hours of the night.

She should have been home hours ago or at least packed, but there were a few more items on the list she wanted accomplished by tonight. Right now, she was rearranging the schedule. She felt that it could stand to be tighter, given the debacle she'd had with the volunteers at the start. Rachel needed to ensure that they were maximizing their outputs and efficiencies, so that they weren't at risk of missing the deadline. It was a tentative deadline, but she wanted to hold herself to it.

The luminous crescent loomed above the pyramid skylights. A waning crescent. Rachel stared at it and sighed. Time truly escaped her, she hadn't stayed this late at the manor before. Rachel contemplated giving herself only ten more minutes, though it would likely become half an hour. She stretched her arms overhead, fully devoted to dock her sleep, while she was here, she might as well tackle a few agenda items for tomorrow.

Rachel glanced up at the sound of sloping steps approaching. "Jason," she confirmed. She turned the page in the planner and ticked off a task on her numbered list.

"Still here?" Was all he offered as a greeting. It wasn't the first time he seemed overly concerned about her. Though this time, an almost intoxicated was carved upon the face, sculpted in a silhouette of shadow.

"Still here." She echoed. Rachel shut her date book, realizing where this was headed.

He surveyed her sharply, though his voice was coy. "It's pretty late, Rachel..." But here he was. Again. Telling her one thing with his words, another with his actions - and his body.

Rachel rolled up the blueprints. Knowing that no more work was to be accomplished tonight so long as Jason Todd continued inching toward her.

His dark blue eyes were nearly navy under the night sky. And as they bored into her, the pens suddenly needed to be organized. She shuffled them in a straight single file on the dark wood. "Yes." Rachel uttered in a quiet voice. "I know."

"And we're alone." And yet, he took another step towards her.

"Yes, we are."

"Yes. We are."

"Yes." Rachel dropped the last pen into place. Her heartbeat racing, as she stared at him in the moonlight. "Since we are - alone..."

"Alone and late... The start of any interesting story..." Jason nodded, with eyes practically consuming her. "Yes, continue."

"I - never asked, though, I had been meaning to..."

"Please, Roth, ask away..." Her back pressed to the desk, as he sidled up to her. "I'm all ears."

"Jason -" She started. "Do you have any others...?"

"Any others...?" He asked, his hands on either side of her petite frame.

"Spots...?"

The space thinned between them. Steadily and steadily it thinned, as their bodies neared.

"Spots?" Jason cocked his head. "I have a lot of spots. I'm almost certain you do as well..." His fingers brushed the pale ones clamping onto the wood, while each syllable he spoke curved into her rouge-lined cheek.

Rachel's lips parted. "Hiding - spots...?" The pale girl all but choked out, doing her best to breathe. Suddenly, the large palms drawing to close in on her hips, had stilled - for the moment. The dark-haired man pondered her words.

"Hm... Hiding spots?" The full lips smirking knowingly at her, the dark blue alight with the most wonderful mischief. "Alright, Roth, I see."

"You do?" Part of her didn't want Jason to stop just yet.

"Yes... You want us to go on another adventure." Rachel did like the sound of that. With him. He curled his fingers around hers and wove them together. "Let's get lost together."

She intended to.

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

"Stay close to me, Roth," Jason purred as he guided her.

Under an archway, back through the atrium and to a side entrance they went. Though this time there was no need to run or rush, they walked smoothly through the library. A left and a right, and they were at the secluded staircase next to a bookcase of 90's contemporaries. Stair after stair, they climbed higher, hand-in-hand, until they reached a creaky door at the top. He gestured for her to go ahead. She entered the dark room cautiously, glanced around in the dark.

Jason flipped on a switch.

Rachel stared at the room, wondering what Jason was up to. It was nice, though sparsely lit. At the present, it was treated like something of an attic. There were some old items that had been stored up here over the years. Dusty boxes. Chairs. Photographs and letters. Worn books and old ones with dusty jackets. And behind it all, she could see an interior window overlooking the entirety of the library. The way this room was situated, it was almost a sort of a loft above it all. Or a projection room.

"This is the unofficial top floor, the sky parlor." He explained. "As you can see, it doesn't get much use." Something in his tone of voice implied that could change. With little persuasion on her part no doubt. "It's off the beaten path, but I like it. Up here it's quiet and, you can see nearly everything and everyone - but no one can see you."

Jason trailed off. Standing silently for several moments, as they held each other's gaze. "Rachel..."

"Yes?"

"I was thinking about you... But mostly, this old library."

"Oh really?" Her lips quirked in amusement. "What about the library, Jason?"

"It should never intimidate someone like you, Roth." He said carefully. "And if you don't believe me, there's no way it can from way up here."

"Huh... Well, let's see..." With a measured stride, she reached the glass. "It certainly is a nice view. We're even closer to the skylight." Rachel marveled.

"Now... look down."

Rachel's palm pressed to the window for a while. "I suppose it's not as intimidating when you're staring down at it like this... But then again, I don't see all the boxes and half-completed renovations from here, so you're right..." She nudged the man standing at her right. "It's all about perspective - isn't it?"

"Exactly." A smile curved onto Jason Todd's full lips, and it was a genuine one. "Perspectives are funny that way."

"They are..." Rachel nodded. "But flawed. And yet we all seem to think we've perceived things correctly. Even the first time we see it."

Jason watched her closely. "So how did you perceive me...when we met?"

"Well..." She bit her lip. "I thought you were a prick. And a bit...spoiled." The dark-haired man placed a hand on his heart. But, with a crooked smile to show that there was no love lost. "Sometimes, it even seemed like you were just trying to get a thrill out of making my life more difficult." Rachel was hurling insults at him again. And he found he was... titillated by it. Verbal spars with Rachel were far more satiating than any physical one.

With a punching bag or a partner.

"Difficult, how?" Jason inquired. Just what did she mean? He knew what he hoped she meant.

"You were infuriating..." Rachel folded her arms. "You convinced my volunteers to disappear, so I would have no choice, but to turn to you." He placed a hand in his jeans pocket. "And you bribed them with Thai food every day that week for insurance."

Oh. That.

"I..." He cleared his throat.

For once, he didn't have the perfect retort ready to roll off the tongue. He didn't know how to respond to that. Her accusations were completely true, of course.

But still.

"You...knew, huh?"

"Yes. I knew." Suddenly, he didn't know why he ever underestimated her at all.

"You knew. And you shared a sandwich with me and... told me that story about your life." Jason ran a hand down his face. He was turning the faintest shade of red.

"That's right, Jason." Rachel said flatly. "I knew what you did."

"Rachel what...?" For the first time in a while, he was disappointed in his own actions, and for a second, he almost felt disgusted with himself. A split second. That quickly faded. Because, something else overtook him instead.

Admiration.

Gods, this woman - she was good.

He was...impressed.

Rachel was truly a formidable adversary.

But... if she had known.

"Why wouldn't you just call me out?"

"I wanted you to admit it..." She shrugged. "I wanted you to admit that you were sabotaging things for your own selfish ends." Now Rachel stepped closer to him. "At first. But you actually helped me. And, I realize as it went on with us working together. Something changed..."

"That so?" Jason managed. "Tell me - what changed?" The tables had turned. Once more he was hanging on her every word. He was desperate to hear her speak. Jason needed to hear her say it.

"What you showed me that day - tonight... Everything you told me." Rachel's eyes twinkled. "I knew that there was more to you. You do affect me, I can't pretend." His arms were on either side of her, as her back was pressed into the glass.

Suddenly, her hand reached out for his arm. Cool fingers were running down his bicep. His hands smoothing up and down her arms in turn.

"And...?" Jason asked. Though he was certain he knew the answer.

"I don't know... I..." She shook her head. He hooked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.

"Don't stop now."

"Maybe," Rachel tried. "Maybe...I wanted to play that twisted little game with you... I think I enjoyed it a little..." She whispered. "Maybe more than a little..."

"Yeah, Roth?" The hot breath murmured into her ear.

"And I think... you knew what I wanted - or what I needed. Isn't that why you did all those things?" He fingered her collar, exhaling and inhaling her scent. Like she was a rich bouquet of violet and lilac. "Anyone who would go through all of this trouble just to spend day after day with me restoring an old library, couldn't be all bad."

Probing her indigo orbs long and hard before he confessed. "Hell, you figured me out faster than anyone else." Than anyone had tried to. "And I like it - I like it a lot." His lips stroked that last sentence seamlessly into her own. Rachel took a sharp intake of breath. She gripped his forearm to support her trembling body. "But, it's late and you should go."

"No. I think I want to stay a while..." He froze. If he ever wanted to hear those words. But, he had to be sure she meant it. Finally, they had managed to come together. No matter how much he needed this, he didn't want her to have a single regret.

"Are you sure...? I don't think you've ever..." Jason mused. "Been at the library this late."

"That hardly matters - I'm not scared of darkness, if that's what you mean." She said simply. "I never have been."

"It's not the dark..." Jason scoffed. "Are you sure you'll feel the same tomorrow, if you're here like this?"

"I like everything I've seen so far. Even the parts that need fixing, and the ones that don't." Rachel's lips turned up, as she spoke earnestly. "But, I want to see all of it."

"You think you can handle it?"

"Yes." The pale fingers tightened on his arm. "I want to be here."

"Rachel." His hot breath traced her ear. "You know library isn't what I'm talking about, so this is your last chance to leave."

"I'm staying, Jason." Rachel replied in a way that left no question. "And you know full well I wanted you to steal me away the moment I saw you standing there - dripping... "

"Gods, I don't think I can let you leave." Pressing her into the glass, he slid his tongue over the reddening skin of her neck, for a long taste. His eyes closed as he savored it.

Jason enjoyed her perfume. Subtle and sweet, a hybrid of caramelized sugar and flower mixing in equal measure. A dash of salt married into the natural flavor of her skin, meaning he could taste the ways he made her pulse race. "This time, will you show me one of yours?" His nose running along her ear shot shivers down Rachel's spine. "Your secret spot?"

He gazed down at her, his hands cradling her curves. "Yes." She whispered before catching his lower lip between her teeth.

And there in the sky parlor, a blue jay and a raven took flight.

#jayrae #raex #redrae #jason todd #red hood #raven roth #rachel roth #raven #library au #me #fanfiction #writing #dc #teen titans #titans #Didn't forget this one!!!!#Now begins the onslaught of the sequels and part twos #Considering making this into a full story...#More on the way!!!!!!

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five-wow · 5 years ago

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I WATCHED 10.22. HERE ARE SOME THOUGHTS UNDER THE CUT. i promise they won’t all be in full caps, but i feel i should also warn you that this was not proofread.

the episode is starting! it has started. the start has started.

lots of flashbacks from 10.21 with VERY dramatic music in the background and it’s very much working on me. EMOTIONS.

oh my gosh we’re now getting a flashback (a new one, not “previously on”) to wo fat and victor hesse planning some evil shit with daiyu mei serving them tea and it is EVEN MORE DRAMATIC than the previously on was. i am IMPRESSED. also maybe laughing a little bit, but in a way where i’m genuinely enjoying the extreme “LOOK, THIS IS BAD” of it, gosh.

fun way to remind us of how it all started, with these two planning anton’s extraction! they get to show us bits and pieces from the pilot while we still get something new.

wo fat: “blood. is blood.” hmmm, the show seems to want us to think he has a point but i’m mostly amused this is coming from the ultimate bad guy because yes, that seems about right. (hashtag you don’t owe people anything just because you’re related to them, shuddup.)

daiyu mei looks all shy and awkward when wo fat asks for her input but i’ve decided that’s an act to keep victor underestimating her.

steve and cole are in a car and fjdkfdjk wait catherine is a super code breaker now? idk, she may have displayed some skills that leaned that way in the past, but now she’s suddenly well-known as one of the best in that field even though that’s not even her field as far as we know? i. i don’t mind catherine getting brought up in conversation but this is such an odd way to do it.

“we were together for a buncha years” hahaha, fandom never really knows how to define the start and end of their relationship and it seems steve doesn’t, either.

“she was the one that got away. what’re you gonna do?” well, look sad and frowny while this guy you barely know throws you a somewhat awkward look because you’re suddenly baring your heart to him, apparently! (for real though, i get that people will be upset at this phrasing and i’m sort of thinking this is a lead in to things i won’t like at the end of the episode and that’s bad but for what it’s worth, i don’t mind this at all! she did slip away from him at a time where he thought they were going somewhere else and he’s talking in past tense now.)

cole is worried he ruined steve’s day by bringing up catherine and that’s sweet, actually! seals emotionally supporting seals.

OOF it is TIME for danny to get ABDUCTED. also: i love that steve immediately drops everything, including the very important super secret difficult to arrange meeting to maybe finally get some insight into this cipher that doris left him, to race to wherever danny is in his car. i feel like alerting hpd (or anyone else in five-0 who might be closer) would be a good idea, but it makes a lot of sense for steve to need to Be There himself.

ohhhhh steve continually nearly crashing his truck while yelling for danny but only hearing gunshots over the line is 👌👌👌. THE ANGST. THE TENSION. very good, very good.

the camaro is BURNING. well that’s one way to smack us in the face with the end of an era, damn.

steve is ALSO BURNING because he obviously tried to get inside the car ahhhh.

fjdkf steve calls tani with instruction about cameras and tani asks if everything is okay because he sounds upset and all he says is “danny’s been taken” and that’s how tani an junior find out, poor dears.

steve, instructing hpd: “we’re looking for detective danny williams. you know who he is, my partner, right? we’re looking for him.” YOU KNOW WHO HE IS. MY PARTNER.

steve is already out of breath from sheer stress and he’s just standing around the tech table with the team, my gosh. (I LOVE THIS.)

danny, bloody and chained up and facing his captor, a woman he already knows is very, very dangerous: [makes a joke about exchanging insurance information because they burned his car] (LOVE HIM TOO.)

OOF though, daiyu mei lets danny know she knows he has two kids and the jokes are over because that’s definitely the line with danny, god.

here’s the scene from the one preview clip i watched! i’m really enjoying daiyu mei, by the way. she’s still a totally bonkers way to bring the threat of wo fat back even after he’s dead, but she is genuinely threatening.

“i have the person you care about most in the world” hello yes i’m still yelling about that one and might not stop soon

daiyu mei telling steve not to make the same mistake he did with his father and “allow a loved one to die” is so mean but so good and narratively pretty darn cool.

we’re not even eleven minutes in and we’re already at “come alone, commander, or your friend dies”. [insert that escalated quickly meme]

steve thinks he has zero options except give in to exactly what daiyu mei wants and it’s very unsteve of him but also fits perfectly with the mindset they’ve maneouvred him into over the past few episodes and with DANNY BEING GONE so i like it. i like that steve is very obviously freaking the fuck out.

never though i would say this, but... steve, you should listen to adam. it’s shocking, especially this season, but he is making an actual good judgment.

steve alone in the elevator on the verge of either a panic attack or breaking down crying and curling up into a ball is A LOT.

steve goes to the meeting alone, gets a location and confirmation that danny is alive and then hands over the cipher, and that’s good but also... i mean, for real, if he had just printed some random symbols on a similar piece of paper (maybe even the same symbols but in a different order!) how on earth would daiyu mei have known?

OH. OHHHH. danny does the badass steve-ish thing where he pulls himself up by his shackles to somehow get himself free, holy fuck, yes man.

IT WORKS. knocked out the guard, got the keys, got a gun - damn son. not only do we get worried out of his mind steve, we ALSO get bamf danny, ahhhh.

AND THEN HE GETS SHOT IN THE SHOULDER, which is where all those promo pictures came from obviously, and also means we’re about to tick off the hurt part of h/c in an even bolder font than we already had.

fdjkfdjkfd steve’s litany of comforting little nonsense lines while he’s dragging danny to the car and getting him into it and NOT GETTING BEHIND THE WHEEL BUT STAYING WITH DANNY IN THE BACK is killing me slowly.

fdjkfd steve hugging danny’s bloody face in his lap oh my god

apparently that wasn’t GOOD ENOUGH YET because then they’re at the hospital and steve tells the doctor’s what’s up and they’re about to roll danny away and danny, half dead and according to steve in and out of consciousness, somehow finds the time to try to grAB AT STEVE’S ARM BLINDLY. steve: “hey, i’m with you buddy, it’s okay.” DEAD. NOT DANNY, ME. I AM VERY DEAD.

the entire team is stressed and worried and just dead quiet, watching danny and steve. ohhhh boy.

oh fuck oh fuck steve is praying and red-eyed and furious and telling god “you wanna take somebody? take me. not him, you take me.” and i have a very big massive weak spot for exactly this.

cole comes to find steve to offer to figure out the cipher thing and steve has a very hard time giving a single flying shit and then HANDS COLE HIS GUN. welllll. just letting go of stuff they never would have normally left and right, here. i was kind of expecting steve’s badge to follow.

tani has a lot of good worried moments and i love that.

danny is out of surgery!!! steve gets to see him!!!

oh GOD we get a sad version of all for one while steve is in danny’s hospital room and grabs danny’s hand and i am. oh. oh. not okay.

STILL ONLY JUST PAST THE HALFWAY POINT OF THE EPISODE.

it’s honestly kind of weird that cole has this much screentime (i know he was supposed to be back for the season 11 that will never happen, but with the way things turned out that’s not very relevant anymore in story), but i mind it less than i thought i would have. i like him, and i’m glad he has quinn with him now, because i always want more of her.

danny wakes up and his slightly loopy conversation with steve has me fjdkfdjkfd. d: [says you’re supposed to be happy when a patient wakes up] s, like he might still be about to cry: “i’m happy.” d: “yeah? yeah, me too.”

steve is hurting and blaming himself for everything (very in character) and danny tells him he’s already annoying and that if he had a dollar for every time steve saved his life he’d have like twenty bucks (also very in character) and i’m glad for that bit of comic relief and they need it, too, but somebody also needs to give steve a good shake until the thought that this is on him leaves his head. if anyone except daiyu mei is responsible here, it’s doris. blame doris, jfc.

danny, after nearly dying and only just waking up in the hospital, while he still has trouble speaking: “put [the call steve is getting] on speaker, would you, i’m bored.” more jokes! but it also makes me go fjdkfdjk because you will not convince me that this is not danny, extremely injured, still trying to take care of steve by distracting him from all the misery they’re in.

fjdkfd OKAY SO. plot stuff: the cipher translates to coordinates that apparently lead to the place where the mcgarretts thought doris was buried. steve says he knows the place because his dad used to take him there and ? because i always thought john sent his kids away pretty soon after doris died so he can’t have had much time to visit her grave a lot with them, but also just, the drama of it, wow, doris. send your son an encrypted message that sends him to your fake grave, why don’t you.

jfkdsjlfksljfds the mcgarretts have a family mausoleum now, apparently, omfg. and there was still a space with doris’s name on it? even though they’ve known for how many years by now that she was still alive oh my gosh

cole is along for the ride to doris’s fake grave and steve keeps dropping these little nuggets from his family history and cole keeps (rightfully!) looking a little confused and/or alarmed, poor guy, hahaha.

daiyu mei is running full tilt and doing some mad parcour shit in a suit and what looks like high heels and there is a whole action scene here with lots of players and constant shooting and some one-on-one fighting, but i am fully distracted by the shoewear.

oh, false alarm, probably! not quite high heels, just something ballarina like with a very tiny heel. that’s better.

fjdkfjdkfd OOF daiyu mei nearly kills steve, steve gets the upper hand, daiyu mei says some things and we’re given another flashback to wo fat and victor hesse and this time also john when he was held hostage, and suddenly we’re told he’s not surprised that doris had a secret son (wo fat) and that he suspected her death was staged.

OH MY GU==fdj

okay so those were typos but i’m LEAVING THEM because “whatever happens next, don’t tell my son. it would be too hard on him.” HELLO JOHN, FUCK YOU JOHN. he wanted??? to keep this secret??? from steve??? and also he doesn’t even acknowledge that he maybe has more than just a son. maybe there is a person called mary out there somewhere? might ring a bell, if you think about it long and hard.

wo fat: “you’re a good man, john mcgarrett.” i really don’t know if we’re supposed to agree with things wo fat says but he’s mostly voicing the opposite of what i feel this episode.

daiyu mei to steve: “you are your father.” oh gosh. oh no.

ahh, here’s a point where cole’s presence really starts to take away from other characters. he shows up to steve and daiyu mei’s confrontation to back steve up, and that obviously should have been any other character that we’ve known for way longer and have way more attachment to (junior! that would have been so good, or maybe lou, who’s also been here for seven years, or tani, who keeps worrying), especially, very very much especially when steve goes “book her, cole”. that’s just confusing, too. so far the cole and steve parallels have been thrown at us and now he’s suddenly in danny’s place.

32 minutes out of 42 and we’re at “one week later” and steve hopping through his garden to get to the beach chairs where danny is sitting. this is good but worrying for how early it comes.

danny says he misses the very nice nurse who brought him jello and steve tells him not to confuse a caregiver for someone who cares and danny goes “yeah? you know jealousy is not uh, pretty on you.” and then they’re both awkwardly quiet for a moment. dear lord.

AND THEN THINGS WENT PEARSHAPED. danny: “you all packed?” my heart is sinking fast. maybe i should just quit here and leave it at danny telling steve jealousy is not pretty on him (which implies other things are pretty on steve - let’s get back to that).

steve to danny, who is talking up hawaii (which is of course very good): “who are you?” i am having FLASHBACKS to junior asking tani that exact same thing just a few episodes ago.

danny seriously questions steve’s decision to just up and leave hawaii a bunch of times and yes, danny, good, grill him. this is a stupid plan.

danny: “you know, it don’t feel like it’s gonna be okay. it feels like- my main dude is leaving me.” HI STEVE. MAYBE DON’T. MAYBE DON’T GO. MAYBE DON’T HURT DANNY.

“you got a phone, right?” we’re seriously at that point. we are. seriously at that point. wow.

steve forces danny to get up to give him the frigging tenderest, dopily smiliest hug and it is so very sweet yet so very wrong.

“I LOVE YOU, MAN.” / “I LOVE YOU TOO.” THEY DID NOT YELL THAT BUT I AM BECAUSE THIS IS ALL I’VE WANTED FOR TWO YEARS and now it’s under these circumstances which ugh BUT I AM STILL HYPED. THEY GOT TO SAY IT AGAIN. GOOD. FUCKING GOOD.

“don’t make me come looking for you” danny says after he sits back down and without another word steve starts walking away and then he stops and looks back and catches danny looking over his shoulder but quickly looking away again and holy fucking damn if this isn’t how stories go when they try to tell us that two characters shouldn’t be parting because they don’t want to. turn around, steve. it’s so easy.

EDDIE. my gosh, ANOTHER blond guy who loves steve to pieces and who steve Should Not Just Leave, wtf.

eddie gets an i love you too and then a kiss and my heart! is having a hard time today!

oh LORD there’s a knock at the door and it’s the whole entire team and lou!!! is making me cry!!! and everyone whispers how much steve means to them at him while they’re hugging him and fjdkfd what. why is he leaving! it’s starting to sound like a worse decision by the second.

i could cry at all of these goodbyes seperately but right now i am also crying at tani immediately hugging noelani when she joins the pile of people who have said goodbye. ohhhh.

EVERYONE IS CRYING. not cool. VERY UNCOOL. also, honestly, i love that danny got to say goodbye seperately and it’s fitting that he just can’t watch steve actually walk out the door but also... he should have been here, gdi. now there’s this huge emotional team moment and he’s absent and it’s weird.

steve boards a plane and sits down and his phone beeps and it’s danny texting him “miss you already” and i cannot believe this is actual canon and had to pause to kind of laugh/gasp for air for a little bit.

and catherine shows up! i’ve been braced for this so i’m not surprised and it’s less bad than i thought in many ways but also. they talk about cath driving danny’s car and steve says they can’t have danny williams driving his own car and if that’s true, then why the hell are you leaving, steve. what are you doing to danny? (also. uh. danny’s car kind of went up in flames? he has a new one already? i. what.)

cath asks if steve is ready and they hold hands and steve turns to look out the plane window and smiles and that’s very suddenly it.

you know what? you know what, for the most part, i absolutely loved this. i was prepared for VERY BAD THINGS and i don’t enjoy steve leaving at the end at all and i have MANY NOTES on how things could have maybe ended even better but i. i am okay with this. i am okay with this! that is honestly more than i thought i would be able to say and i’m just VERY RELIEVED right now.

as for the show ending with steve and cath... that was weird, but... he also held danny’s hand this episode and that was supposedly platonic, and steve and cath did not suddenly have a big romantic kiss or get engaged, so i am choosing to take this as a platonic reunion with a person from steve’s past he still cares about, someone who travels a lot and was in hawaii to break that code and therefore this makes sense. he leaves with cath, and then, in a few weeks’ time, he comes back to danny (the person he cares about most in the world), and canon just, y’know, forgot to mention that little tidbit. it happens.

anyway, i had EMOTIONS and i still need to let all of this sink in and i hope you’re all doing okay after this whirlwind of a thing and ahhhh, it is so very weird that it’s over now. 💖

#h50 #h50 spoilers #10.22 #*#finale #[LOUD SCREAMING]

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turtle-to-eternity · 3 years ago

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Psychiatric Medications Are Good, Actually

You may think getting prescribed medication to regulate your mood, or improve your focus, or manage your anxiety, is weakness.

Maybe you think you should be able to handle it on your own, and that if you can't it's your fault.

Maybe you think the mental healthcare system just isn't worth it.

None of that is true. Let me explain.

Listen, our minds are projected by our brains. The brain is a physical organ like any other. It's not divine, it's not special, it is just as prone to defect and error as any other part of the human body.

Is a man with no legs weak for using a wheelchair? No.

Is a woman with a missing hand weak for using a prosthetic? No.

Is a person with diabetes weak for taking insulin? No.

Then why would anyone be weak for taking psychiatric medication?

A brain is not supposed to leave you frequently feeling anxious, or self-loathing, or depressed. If it does, it's not working right.

Medication fixes that. Just like insulin fixes a diabetic's high blood sugar. You aren't going to leave a broken leg untreated. Don't try to leave a broken brain untreated.

I have experienced first hand how life-changing psychiatric medication is for those with dysfunctional brain chemistry.

But before we get to that, a story about how even seeking help can be a struggle. And how that should never stop you.

I regret no part of my effort to improve my lot in life. Go to the bottom of this post to see the important point, if you feel uncomfortable reading my story.

So after going a general physician about my numerous mental health concerns, and getting put on Zoloft, I was directed towards a psychiatry office about 45 minutes away from me.

I did not have insurance, and even though I had $10,000 at my disposal I suspect that was why they gave me a nurse practitioner. They gave a first time psychiatry patient a provider that was RIDICULOUSLY underqualified compared to the actual psychiatrist.

Oh boy, did it show.

She started reading questions out from her clipboard, half of which I already answered filling out paperwork, and actively stopped me from talking whenever I tried to expand upon anything relevant to my issues. She could not have given less of a damn about my concern.

Of course I gave '9's and '10's to questions relating to mood swings, concentration, and daydreaming, and trouble sleeping. She also especially wanted me to shut up when I started talking about how awful school is/was. She just completely ignored all I said that could be even tangentially related to ADHD.

At the end she said I was depressed and anxious and threw out Zoloft (which I had only been on for a week) and gave me Effexor for depression and anxiety, and Trazodone for sleep and depression.

I had to forcibly bring up ADHD myself. About how hard it was to so much as watch a tv show consistently. About my despair at not progressing in my GED program. She said 'Can't never could.'

'I'd like to try Strattera.' I said.

'Well we could put you on Wellbutrin.' She said after a deep sigh.

'Strattera has a better chance of results, and I don't want to leave without trying something for my problems.' I said, barely civilly.

So she gave me a script for the maximum daily dosage of Strattera. I felt good. I took a stand and even had a shot at progress. However, it was disturbing how stubbornly opposed she was to even the idea of ADHD.

Strattera didn't really work. It leveled out my mood and gave me some motivation, but my mind still pushed itself away from anything that demanded concentration. Be it work or leisure.

However, Effexor greatly dampened my sense of anxiety in everyday life. I started a photography hobby, walked around outside no matter how many people were there, and started 'dating' (for lack of a better term) online. It definitely worked.

So when I came back to that nurse, I told her about how things had improved. How Strattera calmed me down to a moderate degree. She was quick to put the credit entirely on antidepressants, though. Naturally. Strattera wasn't doing its most important job and had terrible side effects for me, so I asked to try another ADHD medication.

'Well maybe you could take the Strattera a little closer to when you want to, like, do stuff. Then it'll work better for you.'

That is not remotely how Strattera works.

Holy god damn, this lady has absolutely no knowledge about ADHD or the medications she is giving me.

'I'd like to try a first line medication.' I said firmly.

'Well there's a lot of medications for ADHD, honey.' She said smugly.

Then she absolutely floored me.

'You haven't really been evaluated for ADHD yet so we can't really give you amphetamines.'

What.

Why did you ask me all those questions before, then? Why did Strattera affect me in a way consistent with an ADHD person? Why are you being so suspiciously stubborn?

'So how can I be evaluated, then?' I asked her.

'You said no insurance, right?' She asked back.

When I confirmed that, she got up and said 'Let me go ask the doctor if you can get some stimulants, sweetie.'

15 minutes later she came back with a script for Wellbutrin.

I was in despair.

My life, on hold for years, now for another month. When help was just in arm's reach.

I started spending tons of money on food. The Wellbutrin replacing Strattera brought back the mood swings within days. The first day they came back, I called that office to cancel my follow up appointment. I was going back to the doctor I originally saw.

But for the month up to that, I ate like crazy. I gained back 20 pounds. I stopped blogging, I stopped Duolingo, I stopped doing anything but watching YouTube videos and sleeping.

I did get a job that I had applied for before my fall off the deep end. My state of mind greatly improved once I had work. But still I did nothing.

Then I went back to the original doctor.

He was patient, understanding, and asked relevant questions. This general practitioner spent more time talking with me in 1 visit than a psychiatric nurse had in 2.

He diagnosed me with ADHD, and gave me 5mg Focalin.

The weight of the world came off my shoulders. The Focalin has had absolutely no effect on me but drowsiness. But that doesn't matter right now. I am being taken seriously, and am being helped.

And this right here is the important part.

The medication helped immensely.

Once I got back to taking the Effexor regularly, my mood drastically improved. I talk to real people of my own volition occasionally. I take pictures of myself without fear. I am making plans and believing in them. I am believing in myself, for the first time in my life.

Yes, 1 nurse treated me like I didn't matter.

But 1 doctor changed everything for me.

He listens to me, works with me, and is invested in helping me. He is going to get my medications right, make sure they stay right.

Then, once I find the right stimulant, I will be unstoppable.

This life is mine, I will never lose hold of it again.

#life blogging #self improvement #actually adhd #mental heath awareness #mental health #mental heath support #depression #anxiety #antidepressants

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moodyvalentinestories · 4 years ago

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Direction – Nine | Hunt x HWU MC (Danielle)

Warnings: Viktor being his digusting self.

Summary: Thomas has a realisation, and there is a genuine conversation taken place between him and Danielle. But then there's also Viktor...

Words: 2200+

Notes: Don't worry, it gets worse 🙃

❥ Previous Chapter: Eight ❥ Moodyvalentine’s Masterlist

It wasn’t until he’d spoken it aloud that Thomas realised how true it rang. Not just in regards to the events of the day, but the events of the past two or so weeks. It had never been Danielle’s fault – though she most certainly could have handled things better, and it had been quite naïve of her to enter into a contract with someone like Montmartre when she knew nothing about him – and he’d been treating her most unfairly.

He recalled that night in her apartment and how, though he’d wanted so badly to trust her, he simply couldn’t. He recalled asking for insurance – for blackmail material, essentially – and he recalled the box that was sitting in a desk drawer in his office at home. He’d told her he would never use what was in it against her, and he’d wanted to mean it then, but he knew he didn’t. He knew that he never could believe that she truly wasn’t out to get him, and he knew that he’d expected to find an article about him and alleged indiscretions towards his students any day.

He also knew that he, upon leaving her apartment, had had half a mind to release what he’d held in his hands right away – to be the quickest to draw – and he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt so ashamed of his own thoughts before. He was, however, sure that he’d never been so relieved to not have done what he’d meant to do, then.

“Dear Lord,” he breathed, hoping she wouldn’t hear, but knowing she was paying far too much attention to his every word or action, just as she always did.

When he felt her hand on his shoulder, squeezing ever so lightly, and heard her quiet question of “Thomas, what’s wrong?”, he was afraid to lift his eyes to hers because he knew just what he’d find. Sympathy he didn’t deserve from her and worry for him. He knew, from her tone of voice and the way she used his given name, because despite the insults they’d traded on so many occasions, despite her aloofness in response to his, she’d always cared.

And just now that meant she was worried, because she always could read him well enough to know something troubled him, and to his absolute horror, it also meant that she apologised again. “I’m sorry for getting you into this. I’m so—”

“Stop,” he said, with a little more force behind it than he intended, and Danielle quieted immediately. The look of worry on her face stayed, however, and Thomas took a deep breath before he continued. “I should be apologising to you.”

Her eyebrows drew together in confusion and she shook her head. “No, you shouldn’t. You didn’t do anything.” She hesitated for a moment before adding, “Did you?”

“I shouldn’t have asked for it,” he said quietly, putting that confused look right back on her face. “And I certainly shouldn’t have taken it. I’ll give it back to you right after we wrap for the day, I promise.”

She seemed to realise then what he meant, and she shook her head. “You were right to ask for insurance. You couldn’t have known if I—”

“But I should have,” he said urgently. “I should have known you better than that. I did – I do – know you better than that.”

Danielle shook her head again, a faint smile on her lips. “Just because we’ve worked together once doesn’t mean you have to trust me. I understand. At the end of the day, I was just one of your students.”

Though he’d told her many a time while she’d been at the university – he remembered at least three distinct instances when the words ‘you’re just a student’ had been uttered – Thomas found himself vehemently disagreeing. “You never were just a student, Danielle,” he said with a rueful smile. “You were the student.”

“The student?” she asked, her tone somewhere between amused and bewildered.

He nodded. “The student. You must have noticed I tortured you a fair bit more than most of your classmates.”

“Everyone just assumed you hated me more than the others,” she said with a chuckle.

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “And why did you think I did it?”

Her smile turned bashful. “I knew you were doing it to push me to succeed. You wanted me to succeed.”

“I still do,” he said. It took quite a bit of effort for him to get out his next words, having been reluctant to let her know for so long. “You’ve come a long way since you walked into my classroom that first day and I – I’m proud of you.”

Danielle simply stood and stared at him for what felt like an eternity before she broke into what must have been the brightest smile he’d ever seen on her. “You are?”

“I am,” he confirmed, his lips forming a smile of his own. “Very.”

She bit her lip in an obvious attempt to tamp down her grin, which fell off her face all too soon. Thomas found he missed it immediately and wished he knew what to say to put it back on her face again. “I still screwed up. And I’m still sorry. God, Hunt, I’m so sorry.”

He bristled at the way she’d returned to calling him that after she’d used his first name earlier. It felt wrong now, somehow, and before he could stop himself, he told her as much.

“Thomas,” he said abruptly. “I think I’d prefer if you called me Thomas.”

She looked at him with a puzzled expression, then gave him a little half-smirk. “You always told me not to call you that. I remember. Hated it more than when I dropped the Professor before the Hunt, and that’s saying something.”

“You were my student then,” he said with a bit of a shrug.

She inclined her head and studied him for a moment too long before asking, “And what am I now?”

“You’re… you’re…” He was at a loss then, unable to find a word for it. Was she a friend? A colleague? Neither sounded quite right, but there wasn’t anything else he could think of. “I don’t know.”

The smile she gave him then was a far cry from the ones he’d received just moments ago, and he cursed himself for having brought it on. It looked sad more than anything else, and it shouldn’t have. “I thought as much,” she said, losing even that trace of a smile along the way. “Well, I suppose I’ll let you get back to work then. You’ve Zoe and Chris here, maybe you can get to reshooting that scene in the tavern cellar.”

Thomas was inclined to stop her – use his authority as a director to turn the suggestion down – but he knew they wouldn’t get anywhere if both Montmartre and she were on set, and since one of them he couldn’t make leave, he let her go. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he said, and it sounded much more like a question than he thought it should have.

“See you tomorrow,” Danielle said and left him standing there by himself.

She was glad no one was in the room when she got to wardrobe because she wasn’t sure she could stand having company just now. It was a strange feeling that she had – nothing bad had happened, after all – but it wasn’t as if she could help it. Those knots in her stomach were there for one reason or another, and they weren’t going to go away just like that.

Perhaps once she got home, and made herself a nice cup of hot chocolate with loads of whipped cream and a few marshmallows, they would go away. Or at least be replaced with a proper stomach ache.

Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like that was going to happen anytime soon, as there was a knock on the door before she could even get started on taking off her costume. She closed her eyes for a moment, then called out, “I’m going home, Hunt. You won’t change my mind.”

It wasn’t Hunt, though, and she supposed she might’ve known if she hadn’t been so in her head. No, the person she saw step into the room when she glanced at the door was, of course, Viktor.

She very much did not feel like dealing with him at the moment, but it was just as well, since she wanted to free Hunt of his blackmail more than ever now. She turned fully towards him, a forced smile on her lips. “I was just going to get out of my costume,” she said, noting the gleam in his eye and trying very hard not to shudder. “We’ve decided it’s best to proceed with another scene, as this one clearly didn’t work today.”

“We, is it?” Viktor remarked, an eyebrow raised.

Danielle bit back a sigh. “Well, I guess it was more Hunt’s decision than mine. But I agree,” she half-lied.

Viktor hummed. “I suppose that means you’re free for the rest of the day, does it?”

An unpleasant shiver ran down her spine at that, but she nodded, trying to find another smile in her. It wasn’t convincing by any means, but Viktor didn’t appear to notice, or if he did, he didn’t care. “I suppose it does.”

There was a moment of silence during which he almost seemed to be waiting for something. Eventually, he said, “Do you need help getting out of that?”

Danielle swallowed as he stepped closer, but she didn’t tell him no just yet. It wouldn’t do to make him angry, not if she wanted to go through with her plan. Which she had every intention of doing.

She startled when she felt his hand on her back, fiddling with the top button. There was a chuckle that may as well have come from a Bond villain as far as she was concerned, but she let him go on until he’d undone all the buttons. His hand found its way inside the garment, and that was where she stopped him.

“Viktor,” she said as softly as she could manage, trying for a tone somewhere between disappointed and seductive, “Not here.”

Here would have been marginally safer, she knew. There were people not too far that she could call out to, but just the thought of Hunt walking in and finding them had her feeling sick for reasons she couldn’t bear examining just now. She knew why, though, after that talk they’d had. She knew very well.

Viktor clucked his tongue behind her, startling her yet again, before he said, “Will you accompany me to lunch, then?”

It wasn’t a question or invitation, Danielle knew. She made herself put on the smile that had slipped when she’d felt his hands on her and turned back to him. “Of course.”

“Then I shall leave you to it,” he said with a vaguely triumphant grin. “I’ll meet you out front.”

She gave a quick nod, and Viktor blessedly slipped out of the room again, closing the door behind him. Once he was gone, she took a moment to sit down and calm herself. She’d never have admitted it to anyone, really, but she was scared shitless. Because even though she had a plan – and all arrangements had already been made, luckily – there was no guarantee that it would work.

Eventually – she wasn’t quite sure how long it took her to compose herself and she only hoped it wasn’t so long as to make Viktor suspicious – she quickly took off her costume and got into her everyday clothes. She was glad that she’d chosen a fairly form-fitting dress for the day, if not originally intended for Viktor’s benefit but rather someone else’s, and decided that it would do just fine.

She took another moment, perhaps a minute, before she went to meet Viktor. She took a longer way to the front gate than necessary so as to not run into Hunt, and perhaps to give her even more time, but found him standing by his town car.

“I’d almost begun to wonder if you’d run away,” he said, though he seemed to be teasing rather than suspicious.

Danielle was glad for it and responded in kind, “Well, perhaps I should have asked you to stay and help me out of the costume.”

The gleam in his eye was as predatory as his grin and Danielle suppressed the urge to throw up. “I should have quite liked that.” He took another good look at her, then turned to open the door of the car. “But I suppose I won’t have to wait much longer now, will I?”

She steeled herself with a good, deep breath, and then climbed into the car, Viktor following right after. “No,” she said, rather quietly. “Not much longer.”

Once the door was closed, the driver started the engine, clearly having received instructions as to where they were going before Danielle had got into the car. She briefly wondered if that should worry her, but decided that it couldn’t be helped now, anyway. She only hoped they were going where she’d thought they would.

Just as they drove off, she chanced another look out of the window, and her heart nearly stopped upon seeing Hunt standing right there, having quite obviously seen her get into the car. She tried her best to ignore the crestfallen expression on his face – though she supposed the sight would be burned into her brain until the end of her days, heart-breaking as it was – and consoled herself with the knowledge that he’d understand tomorrow.

Tags: @lilyoffandoms @oneemofungirl @trappedinfandoms @silversparrow02 @alj4890 @alleksa16 @i-bloody-love-drake-walker

#hwu #hwu hunt #thomas hunt #professor hunt #danielle

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justlookfrightened · 5 years ago

Note

Zimbits 32 “You could have died.”

Bitty tucked his laptop in his messenger bag and tried to tiptoe out of the bedroom without waking Jack. No one should be up at 5:30 in the morning – Bitty included himself in that thought, but last night staying with Jack seemed more important than getting to sleep until 6:30 and still make it to seven o’clock practice – and Jack had a game tonight.

It almost worked, until the edge of Bitty’s bag caught the door and bounced off the doorstop. That was enough for Jack to roll over and crack an eye open.

“Leaving already, bud?” he asked, voice raspy from sleep.

“I have to, sweet pea, or I’ll be late for practice,” Bitty said, going back to the bed to lean down and give Jack a kiss. “Love you. Talk after the game?”

Jack mumbled something affirmative and buried his face in Bitty’s pillow.

At least Bitty could take the car and not have to depend on trains and buses or have to do fifty minutes in a rideshare. Jack first suggested buying him a car last summer when Bitty was living in Providence, but Bitty was adamant that a car, even a used car, was too big of a gift.

“I couldn’t,” Bitty said. “My mama and daddy would have a fit, and besides, I can’t afford the insurance and all. And don’t just say you’d pay for that too.”

So Jack had simply gone out and bought himself a second car, a new Prius, and handed the second set of keys to Bitty.

“It’s my car,” Jack said. “But you have blanket permission to drive it whenever you want. And I made sure my insurance would cover you.”

Bitty had squawked, but Jack pointed out that lots of his teammates had two cars, and he didn’t need to have his SUV just to run errands. Then over the summer Bitty got used to having a car when he needed one. He didn’t keep it at Samwell all the time, but knowing he could make the drive from Providence in less than an hour made it easier to see Jack mid-week. Which was important, since neither of them usually had weekends off.

Bitty connected his phone to the car’s speakers, started a peppy playlist to keep himself awake, and headed north. Traffic wasn’t bad this early, so he should even have time to grab a coffee.

Jack’s phone was making noise. It was still dark. His alarm shouldn’t have been going off yet. Did he forget to change it for a game day?

No, not his alarm. That was his phone actually ringing. He grabbed it and looked at it. Bitty? He shouldn’t have made it back to Samwell yet. Maybe he had car trouble?

“Hello? Bits, you okay?”

“Excuse me, with whom am I speaking?”

“Who is this?” Jack’s confusion was rapidly dissolving into fear.

“This is Sergeant Zach Terry with the Massachusetts State Police, and your number is the emergency contact on this phone, which belongs to –”

“Bitty.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Eric Bittle. What happened? Is he okay?”

“First could you confirm your identity, sir.”

“Jack Zimmermann.”

The police officer continued as though he didn’t recognize Jack’s name.

“Mr. Bittle was in a car crash,” he said. “He’s being taken by ambulance to UMass Memorial Medical Center. The car he was driving – a 2016 Toyota Prius – is registered in Rhode Island in your name –”

“They’re taking him to the hospital?” Jack said. “So he’s alive?”

“I can’t share medical information,” Sgt. Terry said. “The ambulance left here about 20 minutes ago. You can call the hospital, but unless you can demonstrate that you are family –”

“I’m his emergency contact –”

“On his phone,” the sergeant said, not unkindly. “If he’s conscious, he can allow them to share information with you.”

If he’s conscious? Shit, shit, shit, shit.

“In the meantime, sir, once the accident investigation is complete, what do you want to do with your car?” the sergeant said. “It’s going to be totalled, I’m sure of that, but it’s got to go somewhere.”

His car. Who cared? But it hit something. Someone? Or someone hit it?

“I don’t care about the car,” Jack said. “I’ll call my agent, they’ll deal with it. What happened? Was anyone else hurt?”

“The deer that caused the whole mess,” the sergeant said. “And the other driver that swerved to avoid it and hit your car was also injured. He was transported to the local hospital.”

So he wasn’t hurt as badly. Fuck. Jack should be happy someone wasn’t going to a trauma center, unconscious and alone, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

If he wanted information, who would they give it to? Bitty’s parents? He should call them anyway. But Jack looked at himself, sunk onto his bedroom floor with his back against the bed, hands shaking.

He looked at his phone again, searching the contacts.

“Shitty? It’s Bitty.”

Bitty awoke to a pounding headache and the sense that he was somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be. The sheets were scratchy, and the light was too bright and he was flat on his back instead of curled up with Senor Bun.

He tried to turn to his side and found he couldn’t. Also his left shoulder and side were on fire.

“Bits?”

Jack. Jack was here. Was he hurt too?

“What happened?” Bitty asked. “Where are we?”

“UMass hospital,” Jack said, as Bitty slowly turned only his head to the other side. “Worcester. You were in a car accident this morning.”

“Your car –”

“Is not something I’m worried about now,” Jack said. “At all. How’re you feeling?”

“Hurts,” Bitty said.

“Yeah, I imagine,” Jack said. “You were in and out a few times, but they gave you some pain meds, so you probably don’t remember.”

Bitty stared at the ceiling, trying to recall. Nope. Nothing about being in this hospital. Or … a car accident?”

“What happened?�� Bitty said. “I have no idea how I got here.”

“You were driving back to Samwell this morning,” Jack said, and Bitty started to nod but stopped because it made his head swim.

“I remember that. Early practice.”

“Yeah, you, um, didn’t make it to practice,” Jack said. “Someone swerved to avoid a deer near Uxbridge and they lost control and hit you in the driver’s side. Got the deer anyway, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Bitty said. “I didn’t –”

“Don’t,” Jack said. “Don’t apologize. You were driving up the highway not doing anything wrong, and some idiot drove into you. Doesn’t everyone know you don’t swerve to avoid a deer because you could cause a worse accident? You might have died.”

“But if I hadn’t driven back this morning …”

“This is not your fault,” Jack said. “It’s not your fault, and it’s not my fault for insisting that you should drive the car. I could have gotten up and taken you in the truck.”

Even in his cloudy state, Bitty got what Jack was saying.

“Sweetpea, maybe it’s not my fault but it most certainly isn’t yours,” he said. “Who’s to say we both wouldn’t have been in the hospital then?”

Jack snorted at that. “Not likely. I don’t have your lead foot.”

“Haha,” Bitty said. “Have they told you what’s wrong with me? Concussion, I’m pretty sure.”

“Yeah, once your parents told them they could let me in and talk to me,” Jack said, trying not to be bitter. At least they had allowed the hospital to pull him into the loop. It was just that they had to in the first place that rankled. “They’ll be here in a couple of hours, by the way. So, concussion, laceration to the side of your face, dislocated left shoulder, badly bruised ribs. They were afraid they were cracked, but you avoided that.”

“Ugh,” Bitty said. “How long before I can skate?”

Jack shrugged. “Too soon to tell,” he said. “Couple weeks at the very least, and longer for contact. But probably not the whole season. I should call your manager – or Hall directly. He’ll want to come see you now you’re awake, too.”

“Now – what time is it?” Bitty asked.

“About three,” Jack said.

“In the afternoon?”

Jack nodded, and Bitty could see how exhausted he looked. He was dressed in full Burger-King-robber getup, dark track pants and hoodie, he hadn’t shaved and the pallor of skin only emphasized the dark circles under his eyes.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” Bitty said. “You have a game.”

“I’m not playing tonight,” Jack said. “I’m scratched for a family emergency.”

“Family, huh?” Bitty couldn’t help but smile.

“Family,” Jack said. “They’ll probably let you go either tonight or tomorrow morning. I’ll stay here until I can take you home with me.”

#omgcheckplease #omg check please #zimbits #my fic #prompt fill

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the-fox-knows · 4 years ago

Text

‘I’ll Tell You a Story’

Resigned, but not Hopeless (3)

Ragnar mayn’t have known the land intimately, but he knew that where there was a manor, a hamlet would be nestled nearby. It was there that they would find the supplies needed. The woman, Molly – he silently tested the feel of her name on his tongue – had made it clear that she had some preliminary knowledge in how to treat his wounds. After extensive fighting and some rather enjoyable acts, regardless of their authenticity (the taste of berries still sweetened his mouth), the gash he had sustained in battle was lancing pain through his leg. He would soon be unable to walk on it without losing every last ounce of breath. Even riding made him grit his teeth.

When asked, Molly confirmed his theory of a nearby village, relaying a quick route ere interrupting herself.

“You don’t mean to attack them, do you?”

As best he could, he spared a quizzical glance over his shoulder at the ridiculous assumption.

“If you think me capable of executing a one-man assault in my current state I fear you either give too much credence to my skill or believe me to be a fool.”

Behind him, she mumbled something unintelligible to his ears. Then she said a little louder and in a tongue recognizable to him, “they are only farmers after all.”

“You disabuse the farmers when you do not know them. Do not be so quick to underestimate farmers’ capabilities.”

“I disabuse the farmers because I know them,” she returned. “They are pitiful to watch when tax season is due.”

“Your master,” Ragnar began, “he is unkind to his tenants?”

“Extremely so,” she answered immediately. “His mother was better, but she died two years ago. But I no longer have a master,” she added, her tone full of derision and aimed at the back of his head. Ragnar indulged in a brief grin.

“If it is disagreeable for you to be without a master - I can be yours.”

“No you cannot!” and her arms withdrew from around his waist, giving him a rough shove to the back, causing him to wince. “And don’t you dare even think it!” Her tone was full of feeling as he felt her hands settle behind him, refusing to once more embrace him. He did not smile again, though his demeanor suggested amusement rather than the reverse.

After a time, Ragnar returned to their original point.

“I was a farmer.”

Silence followed this statement until Molly responded with a curt, “really,” indicative of acknowledging what he said without possessing interest.

“When I think of it, it seems now to belong to another life.”

While his goal was to draw her out, he could not help getting caught up in those not-too-distant memories of a simpler time when his only responsibility was for himself, his modest land, and any trouble Rollo might have gotten into.

Unknown to him, the object of his current interests was now fully listening to him as his words struck her with familiarity. The past was another life that belonged to another person; more care-free and ignorant of what would become of them.

“You say nothing to this?” Ragnar questioned, returning to the present. “I thought you would scoff or laugh or make one of those unintelligible sounds women are so fond of making.”

She made one now in response, though, she coupled it with an answer.

“You may have been a farmer, but you are, before anything, a Northman.”

“Why ‘before anything’?’” he inquired, curious at her sentiment.

“Because farmers tend the land and their families; they do not seek distant shores to pillage and plunder, to rape and kill.” After speaking her meaning she withdrew once more and he felt the stiffness of either fear or worry or perhaps even hatred enter her.

He could not deny that those actions named were unknown to the men of his community – of his country. But it was also true that what those actions provided in the long-term was future prosperity for his people and the beginnings of a security gained in the ever-vast and changing world. A foreigner’s ignorance could be excused. As it was, further talking was proving to be less and less enjoyable while stabs of pain cut him to the bone with every other stride of the horse.

Therefore, they both of them remained ensconced in their own thoughts for the remainder of their flight through the woods. Once or twice they were forced to be still or pick around a less open path to avoid the approaching sound of a mounted guard, but other than a few close encounters they detangled from the low branches and, at times, unruly bush unmolested.

She would tend to him, and then he would find the way back to his camp. A string of well-aimed curses to be delivered to Horik circulated his mind, indulging in the foulest of insults simply because he knew he would never be able to use them and survive. His approach would have to be one of patience and cunning. He sniffed, swallowing back blood and mucus. It was nothing foreign to his nature. Had he not done the very same with Haraldson?

Behind him, Molly grumbled something.

She would be coming with him to the camp. And then…

He wasn’t certain.

He could try to tie her up again, though he suspected that she would be sensitive to any motions towards that and would slip away before he had the chance of hauling her pretty behind once more onto the boat. What a state of fury she would be in. In spite of his dark thoughts, he smiled at the image it conjured of her rich, long hair flying madly about her head, of her color rising with exertion.

Ragnar was not yet certain of how he would do it, but he was certain of wanting her. That was enough. Her words returned to him: ‘pillage and plunder, to rape and kill.’ It was what she expected from him, he realized. What she did not expect, however, was that his interest in her, while assuredly charmed by her physiognomy, was of a somewhat wholesome nature. Somewhat.

He no longer felt her book against his back; that item that had become something akin to a cumbersome talisman that he refused to part with. Now returned to its key, and the ultimate fountain that could spurt forth answers to questions that had had the chance to grow and multiply with the time given it, the book’s value was diminished only by its true owner. But only so long as he had the true owner.

“Give me your book,” Ragnar said without preamble. They had come to the eaves of the forest and could now see the quaint hamlet Molly had directed them to. It sat nestled in the lap of a small valley – a poor location if they ever needed to defend themselves, Ragnar automatically considered.

“No. Why?” She clutched it to her chest.

“There is something I would ask you about it.”

“Ask me now,” she persisted, unrelenting.

With a huff of impatience and a grunt of pain, he turned to look at her over his shoulder.

“Consider that your book has been in my care this past half decade,” he pointed out. “In your own presence are you so unwilling to let me handle its pages?”

He caught her eye, challenging her.

With a huff of her own, she exclaimed, “fine! Take the journal! Ask your questions. Kidnap me a third time, why don’t you!” Though, most of this was said in her own language, her general ire was felt without need of translation.

He accepted the book thrust into his lap, albeit with a small hiss of pain at her force, and then said, “thank you. Now off you go.”

“I beg your pardon?” She canted her head at the shooing motion he was making with his hand. Before she could wonder at his apparent changeability, he elaborated.

“Your neat little basket is not with us, yet we are still in need of the contents it held. That hamlet is our new basket. And this,” he grasped the book, “is my insurance.”

“Your insurance? For what?”

“For your return.”

He saw her quick comprehension and was glad for it. The pain was growing to an unbearable level, making his breathing a tricky accomplishment.

“I have not any money,” she said at once. “And I cannot go to them like this,” she added, looking down at her own bloodied state.

“I have no money either, and I am in an even worse state than you.”

After a heart beat’s pause, she stated, “you mean me to steal what we need, don’t you.”

When his answer was a curled lip, she continued.

“And on my own! What if I am caught? Your security will mean nothing then.”

“And if we ride in together do you suppose none will recognize me for what I am, and this beast for what he is, and come to the conclusion that we are unlikely friends?”

She sat silently behind him for several seconds before abruptly pushing away from him with a sound of disgust. She spat something out at him in her own language as she swung her leg over and landed with a thump beside the horse.

“Don’t forget to find yourself something pretty,” he couldn’t help calling after her. Her response was a hand gesture with her middle finger extended. He did not know its significance, but he felt confident in hazarding a guess.

. . .

It was perhaps the worst possible time to sneak around a hamlet in bloodied clothes and with the intent of thievery. The sun was full-up, the women were at work in their homes and the men busy in the fields or walking the many by-ways of little footpaths. Molly thought initially that she might turn her gown inside out, but a quick look told her that the rusting brown of the blood had soaked through to her chemise and had even tainted her skin.

With the constant evidence of recent violence etched upon her person, an impression of color on her very skin, Molly walked without the sense of walking. The weakness in her legs did not inhibit her progress, but it did give the feeling of numbness. She wouldn’t have known she was walking had she been devoid of her senses. As it was, those senses were at an absolute opposite of what they had been immediately following Emory’s death and her and the Viking’s mad dash to the forest. She was hyper aware of every little sight and sound; every movement that turned out to be only the wind caressing a bush or an animal prowling about on its own business.

She made deliberate strides towards the back of the houses, ducking around doors and windows, and all the while feeling a perverse sense of equal anger and amusement. It had never been a thought that this day would see her sneaking around as a pantomime spy, rigged up in the clothes of a time she formerly would have only considered wearing for Halloween or RenFests. She oddly felt a mixture of Inspector Clausue and Maid Marion within her.

Domestic humming was on the air and the squeal of a child startled her by its suddenness. It was not a squeal of discovery, but simply a child’s delight of having a voice and using it. There was no line of helpfully strung laundry as there usually is in those films catering towards thieves with a conscious. Nor was there a bowl of milk or a husk of bread on the windowsill that she might easily snatch. The likelihood of alcohol was near to none.

Molly sighed, bracing her back against the outer wall of the croft.

Was her journal truly this important to her? Why did she not simply abandon the Viking to his fate and discover a new one for herself?

‘Because I know that his words were true – I wouldn’t last a single night on my own. Not this time.’

Before, the danger had gone with the Viking’s on their ship. Presently, the guards of her former employer were symbiotic with the land; they knew its personality and, in return, it would sustain them. If only she hadn’t called out that warning to the Viking as he had battled Emory. If only she had not let herself be dragged away by the very man who had given her some of her worst nightmares, waking her in cold sweats. If only she had not submitted to his insane idea of false love-making, only to be the witness of two more murders involving the security of her former employer’s.

If only, if only, if only…

If only they had kept hold of that damned basket!

Taking a breath, she closed her eyes, psyching her mind in preparation of the crimes her body was about to commit. Momentary guilt crept on her that her worry stemmed more from the fear of getting caught than the act itself – and what it would mean to those she took from. What if this was their only supper? Their last pale of milk?

Too many considerations and not enough hours in the day. Thinking would be her downfall, therefore, she closed the door on that strain of morals temporarily and gave herself to the mantra of ‘action’.

The humming drifted in and out of hearing, sometimes near, sometimes further. It was during one of the humming’s absences that Molly stole her resolve and crept into the back door of the small croft. All at once, she could see nothing as the space was considerably darker than the brilliant day outside. The humming remained in the only other room of the home, however, so Molly did her best to sidle out of the doorjamb so as not to be haloed by its light. Within a few seconds her eyes adjusted and she could see that the mother was in the midst of preparing a meal; formed dough sat on the work table, flour spread around its surface and the smell of yeast in the air.

The humming flourished into abrupt singing of questionable talent, easily startling Molly in her current state. She froze where she was, an out-stretched hand hovering over a small clay cauldron. The singing continued, unabashed and contained in that second room. Molly breathed out and finished grabbing the cauldron. It was chipped and worn and by the looks of it, not much used if the layer of dust was any story to go by.

Now in possession of her first steal, the rest came a little easier. Food, clothes, milk if there was any; that was her grocery list. Over and over she repeated it until she had collected them all and was on the verge of departing with the stealth of an alley-cat when a pair of eyes arrested her escape. She and the woman were both frozen, yet those eyes and their inevitable descent to the blood stain on Molly’s gown, was the breaking of the spell. Those lungs, well practiced in singing ditties and country love songs, had little difficulty in raising the alarm with an ear-shattering scream as she came at Molly with whatever she had in her hand.

Practically electrified into motion, Molly ducked out of the way, awkwardly clutching all her goods to her chest and ran for the door. Her pace did not relent as she ran flat out across the land she had moments before been creeping down. Sounds of a village coming alive with panic and distress spurred her faster, though the incline of the hill snatched at her breath. She was practically doubled over by the time she reached the summit and the welcoming protection of the forest.

Momentarily caught up in prey mentality, she abandoned the Viking’s instructions of meeting him past the second spruce that crowned the lip of the hill, a large tree that provided sufficient cover, and ran straight for the immediate cover that the overlapping trees offered.

Fortunately for her the Viking had been waiting for her the moment he heard the first scream. The sound of pounding hooves reached Molly and, recognizing it – as well as the shout of her name – the flight left her. She slowed to a stop and teetering towards a tree so that her weight might be taken as she regained breath and balance.

The Viking rode up to her, the mar of pain clear on his features, though his next words a sign of his natural humor.

“I am impressed. You managed to rouse the entire hamlet with your glare and another’s blood alone. Most shield-maidens are not so successful their first time.”

That very glare showed itself now, peeking through her eyelashes and up at the mounted man she seemed unable to shake.

. . .

“Would you hold still? I’ve barely even touched you yet,” Molly entreated with utmost exasperation. The clay cauldron now had meaning in its inanimate life, as it was filled nearly to the brim with stream water and placed cleverly over designed sticks and branches to hang over a fire. It was a small fire, though the smoke still took some persuasion in exiting out the shallow cave’s entrance.

Cave was perhaps a generous word for Molly and the Viking’s current hiding place; it was more an alcove in the rock. Regardless of its proper term, it was a suitable declivity that had been discovered by Molly many years prior. A mere slip of an entrance that appeared non-existent when looking directly at it, but which had the width to accommodate a broad-shouldered Viking. It did not, however, have the space to entertain the horse they had commandeered. Commandeered and reluctantly returned. They could not have his presence outside the rocky cliff-face giving away their presence; therefore a hard slap to the stallion’s rear had sent him galloping off through the trees.

“Your hands are cold,” the Viking complained. He was laid flat at Molly’s command, one of his smaller knives in her hand as she tore away at the fabric around his leg. His propensity for cracks and half-smiles was causing an ache in her jaw for all the times she grit her teeth. Only he could draw this reaction from her. If it had been any other, in any other time, after any other experience she knew she would not be this sour – it was not her nature.

The trauma of the afternoon’s events had receded somewhat during her ‘reconnaissance’ mission; she’d had a goal, an aim that distracted other thoughts from fermenting. Before that, the return of her journal had been like a sudden beam of sunlight that no cloud could dampen for the brief moments of happiness it brought. But then the facts of her situation returned; etched in vivid detail as each came to the forefront of her mind.

“Shall I stick your leg in the fire, then? It will surely . . .” she intended to say ‘cauterize’ but knew not the term for it in her second language. Instead, she clamped her mouth and redoubled her focus on clearing away any obstructions around the wound - her jaw tight.

Along with the clothes she’d relieved the singing woman of, Molly had also snatched up a random cotton sheet. Presently it lay in torn strips, each awaiting their turn for a dip into the boiling water, while those already treated to the sauna were draped over a long branch, drying. Molly took one now, wringing out the excess water before applying its purity to the coating of dried blood. The Viking hissed again but was ignored as she pressed gently around the wound, teasing flakes and grime away. Slowly and with the help of the many cotton strips, Molly made progress in distinguishing between whole flesh and the clean line of tortured skin. It was not as deep as she’d anticipated, though its length was daunting. Stretching from just below his groin, it curved in a graceful arc until just reaching the side of his knee.

As she worked further up his leg, her eyes darted periodically to see where his were looking. She was very aware of his partial nudity and the fact that her hands were inching closer to a personal area on any human. Her disquiet easily took form as memory of the Viking between her legs came willingly to taunt her; his kissing her in a way she’d never been kissed before, and the fear that he might expect more.

For his part, he remained mostly silent; watching her work or fixing his gaze to random points of the cave’s ceiling. It was easy to tell that he was visibly exhausted. The weight of the day showed in every inch of his haggard form. Molly was then reminded that she only knew the contours of his day from the point of reunion. The events preceding that meeting (specifically why he was injured to begin with) were still a mystery to her.

Seeing him as he was now - tired, quiet, though still marred by the scars of the day — the mud and blood that seemed a staple to his appearance — only confused her vision of him. It was a contradiction to see this frightening image of violence succumb to the weaknesses that afflicted mortal men; which in turn forced the admission that he was nothing more than a man. The fear of his violating her was real . . . yet, as she looked down at him in the fickle light of the small fire, a small voice in her head felt confident against that supposition. She couldn’t say why or that she even wanted to trust this voice in her head, but the grime that coated him notwithstanding, Molly almost considered him to appear vulnerable. She found it both reassuring and unnerving to view him this way. Despite her opinion of him - and the fact that he was the root of her current situation - he was also her only shield now.

“You are staring at me,” he said, his eyes swiveling to look at her. His voice was low in his throat.

Embarrassed at being caught, she deflected and asked, “how did you get this?” She referred to the thin line of red highlighting his thigh. Once healed, it would be only a faint scar.

“Someone mistook me for ingredients for their dinner.”

She looked back up at him.

“It’s fortunate they realized you were too tough to chew before choking on you,” she returned, not missing a beat. “It would be a shame to suffocate on something unpleasant.”

“Fortunate for me to be tended so nicely,” he returned, grinning. His first since she’d begun her treatment. She turned her gaze back to his leg.

“Where is that from? You didn’t have it earlier?” he asked.

The Viking was looking at her face, nodding his chin in her direction. His arms were clearly too exhausted to function.

“What are you talking about?”

“A scratch. On your face. You did not have it this afternoon.”

Molly straightened up and brought a hand to her left cheek then her right where she felt a thin line raised above her skin. With her fingers she traced the scratch across her cheekbone, feeling dry bumpiness and seeing no blood when she pulled her hand away.

“It’s nothing. I must have gotten it in the forest.”

She suddenly remembered exactly when she got it. The sound of her breathing clouding her mind; the leaves underfoot as she worked to get away; there was no escape, even as her legs sprinted past all hopes of expectations towards the illusion of freedom. The low branch struck her face, whipping past her as she flew by, not pausing for a moment as she ran from the Viking — his taste still potent in her mouth.

“It is not so bad, I think. The blood made it appear far worse than it was. It’s as well that you likely will not need stitches for I lack the skill for such an operation,” she said, turning back to his wound with methodical intent. With a will, she shut the events of the afternoon out of her mind. Hysteria was only a thought away afterall.

“Stitches? You thought to sew me up like a garment?”

“Not quite,” Molly said, amused in spite of herself at his assumption. “But very like. Had the cut gone deeper, the skin would have needed help in healing back together. Still, I need to – to . . . Oh! There is no word for it! I need to clean it so that . . . so that it can heal with cleanness.” Her frustration was apparent as more words failed her. Though, that frustration quickly turned to another train of thought as she suddenly considered that boiled water alone would not be able to enter his wound to disinfect it. She’d burn him terribly and cause more problems than what they were already dealing with. What she really needed was alcohol. Pure, straightforward alcohol. It would sting him most assuredly but the risk of infection would be considerably lower.

“If your furrowed brow is an indication of your thoughts,” the Viking began, distracting her from her worries, “you are either meaning to translate an uncooperative word or there is more to be said about my leg that you wish not to share.”

“It’s neither actually – or, well, mayhap there is some truth to the latter. I need alcohol – for your leg. Not to drink.”

“I remember you said. What is its purpose?”

“It cleans; ridding the wound of . . . germs, thus stopping infection and probable amputation due to gangrene,” she relayed, falling back on English words in her impatience. He watched her with a studied air. “Do not ask me to translate, I don’t have the words. What’s important is that alcohol is needed and we have none,” she finished.

“I have survived worse than this. I will likely manage without your medicine,” he said unconcerned.

Molly looked him over once more before turning her head – done with him for the present. Mindful of the fire, she situated herself towards the entrance of the cave and looked out. Night had fallen and the cool breeze that greeted her warmed cheeks refreshed her spirits.

There was much to think about . . . and yet, she wanted nothing more than to embrace a blank state of mind and let all the kinks of the moment sort themselves out. She was beyond the point of reasoning with herself over the wisdom of helping this Viking. She had made her decision – or rather, it had been made for her. She could not imagine returning to that terrifying existence of not knowing whose goodwill she could trust as she had done upon being received into her former Mistress’ employ. The Viking certainly was not one she could trust, but he was still the lesser of two evils.

At least she hoped it was so.

Something told her it was so.

Molly looked back at him to see if she could still see the horrible monster that had suffered exaggerated villainy through her imagination. He was asleep, or perhaps only his eyes were closed. His breath came evenly; his clothed chest rising and falling, creating mountains and valleys of shadows that shifted with each inhale. He was calm.

It surprised her to recognize the man in the nightmare, but so it was.

Again he had found her, appearing behind her and with that stupid cock-eyed grin that expressed much more than simple mirth. Was it fate that had drawn them together, she wondered. Fate was a thing far easier to believe in and turn to after having passed through the veils of time, and it was to that nuanced entity she reserved most of her questions. Was the Viking’s reappearance perhaps symmetry of her experiences these past six years? Was his presence - their meeting - the precursor to a miraculous return home?

Inevitably, thoughts turned towards the hypothetical and scenarios began playing out in Molly’s mind’s eye. She envisioned reuniting with her family and her friends; of what their reactions would be and what possible excuse she could give for having been missing for more than half a decade. As she ran down the list of plausible reasons and coming up with the grand total of nil, the hopelessness of her fate struck her anew. It was one thing to want something beyond belief, another to achieve that self-made utopia. She may return one day, to her time and her people – but there was no going back.

“Why are you crying?” his voice came out of the quiet, breaking her musings, though, he spoke barely above a whisper. In reaction, she hastily wiped her face and denied the accusation.

“You may have fooled me had you not thoroughly rubbed away the evidence; the light is not so good so I may have been persuaded that it was not tears in your eyes, but a natural brightness.”

“Does it matter that I was crying?”

“I thought I would ask,” he shrugged, “you have been taking care of me. I would not like to think that the strain has emotionally exhausted you.”

Molly stared at him, mouth unsure of a forthcoming answer to his ridiculous statement, when suddenly, the purest sound escaped her. She laughed.

“That is an improvement to your scowling,” he remarked.

Ignoring him, she clasped her hands over her face, resting her knuckles against her bent knees and let the gentle chuckles waver between pent up hysterics. A giggle here, a masked sob there; it was the release that was coming all day - since the moment she had witnessed Emory’s murder.

“Regardless of your health, an acquaintance with you is likely to exhaust anybody,” she resumed after a brief time; her voice thick.

“I have heard it said,” he smiled. She noticed that there was no double meaning in the current expression.

Prompted by the rawness of the moment, she asked, “what do you want with me?”

His smile broadened before assuming a more sober air. Bringing her journal forth, he considered the green leather of its binding as if viewing it for the first time. Turning it in his hands, his eyes met hers and held the contact.

“Out of all my . . . visits to this land I have never encountered a random meeting. I once met the brother of King Aelle. It was not a good introduction for him,” his tone possessed a matter-of-factness that attempted to disguise itself with an amount of playfulness. It only served to engage the listener the more, and Molly couldn’t help feeling intrigued.

“Yet, the meeting itself held purpose. We received our ransom. We also humiliated the King. In my heart I know that there are yet more meetings to be had with that King; whether by myself or with a horde of men at my disposal. It is the nature of Fate is it not? Those we are destined to have in our lives, weaving in and out of our tale, for good or ill. We will meet them . . . and sometimes we will meet them again.”

His gaze held hers strongly now.

“It is destiny that we have met again,” he said quietly, “for, as I know of unfinished business with Aelle, I have known that you are my key to something new. You were a woman from another land when first we met; with raiment foreign to the peoples of my lands and to the lands of the Christians; with mysterious treasures and a book of fine quality containing a script illegible to all – including my monk. You ask of me what I want with you, and I will tell you – I want to know what you know. I would have it all.”

Molly did not shy away from his gaze as an ensuing silence fell between them. The space they occupied in that small cave needed a moment of its own ere they began speaking again. The snap and crack of the fire was enough to fill the void at present as each felt a fresh wall of hostility evaporate in the stuffy space.

Slowly, Molly reached a hand out, wordlessly asking for her journal. The Viking didn’t hesitate in returning it once more.

It was a Celtic design on the cover, bought specifically in anticipation for her trip to the UK. She traced the Celtic knots and whorls, toying with the pages between as she psyched herself up for another glimpse of a life forever lost to her.

Opening to a random page she read the entry. The lines grew blurry as tears clouded her vision, but she would not blink lest the salty tear-drop smudge her writing. She managed a few paragraphs before decisively shutting the journal and wiping her eyes. She looked up to see that the Viking was watching her.

“What you ask of me is . . . personal,” Molly admitted. Her voice was hushed. “What you call a book is a journal, my journal. It is my writing in these pages.”

The Viking was surprised.

“And what is a – a gornull that women have the ability to write in them. What is written in them?”

“It is a place to record the events of a day; of the events of a certain time.”

“Why? What is the point of that?” he continued to search.

Molly stared at him, amazed at his genuine ignorance of why such a practice would be beneficial.

“For memory,” she explained. The Viking still did not look convinced of its usefulness.

“So a bunch of women are daily writing down the mundane routine of their duties and chores – “

“Men and women; and it is more than simply documenting the mundane. It captures the moments shared with people, of emotions and places. It is a thing to look back on when you are old and grey and share with your children and grandchildren.”

“They are your stories then?” he concluded, grasping at an explanation that made sense to him. He seemed eager now.

“Yes. They are stories – sometimes badly told,” she admitted, thinking of her own dismal writing, “but stories nonetheless.”

“Will you read them to me?” he asked, sounding hopeful. She hesitated.

“No. I don’t know. Not right now, at least,” she wavered. She was unsure of the rapid progress in their communications and felt the impulse to revert to terms of antipathy and suspicion.

“You need rest and I – “ she sighed. “I need to think.”

She said no more to the Viking that night, and he in turn followed her instructions. The cave eventually filled with soft snores as weariness carried the Viking towards the regenerative sleep he had required hours prior. Molly did not watch him, but she could not help but wait for that inhale every time he mumbled out an exhale through parted lips. She feared he would die in the night and leave her defenseless in, what was now, enemy territory.

The quiet night opened to her, stilling the ticking clock of Time in an illusion of gained hours in which to contemplate her new circumstances. Only the fire was an indication of movement during the dead of night when any tint of dawn would be impossible to disturb her ruminations.

Alcohol and death. Those were her present concerns. They existed in the immediacy of unraveling events that she perhaps had the power to prevent. Sentiments and hopeful thoughts could be appreciated only in the peripheral at present.

The consequences of his death implied various outcomes. Relying on previous information, Molly assumed that he must have been separated from his brethren, for she doubted he had made it all the way to Wessex on his own. Her concern lay not in returning his body to his kin, but in avoiding those kin should he perish. She must also take into consideration the as-of-yet nameless foe the Viking had engaged with before their meeting. It was also true that she could not know how long her former master would pursue the hunt, and if she was not careful she might become the easily caught prey between three fierce forces. The only difference of that scenario should the Viking live would be the assumed protection he would extend over her should they make it to his Viking friends.

‘But then,’ Molly continued voicelessly, pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows, ‘I would have to – again – find a way to escape him.’

The fear of the unknown and the half-guessed in regards to being taken to his lands raised a series of warning bells should he try to trick her onto a boat. Not least due to her own superstition of not leaving these shores. It was on this island that the doorway had opened for her unwilling passage. It was, therefore, this island that she must remain should that doorway ever open for her again.

Looking over her shoulder, Molly watched him. The flickering light cast by the diminishing fire nearly concealed the tattoos she’d earlier noticed on the sides of his shaved head, making the color appear as the first growth of hair after a buzz cut. He had aged since their first encounter. She remembered his hair being thicker atop his scalp and his beard not so long. There was some grey there too, and momentarily she wondered how old he was.

Her eyes traveled down towards his wound. Its redness had not faded, nor did she expect it to. Of course there was a possibility that it would not get infected, though, she felt that was a big ‘if’. Creeping slowly towards the fore of her mind, an idea was formulating into an impulsive sketch of a plan.

The gamekeeper kept a still near abouts. The bluff they sheltered at the base of was south of the manor. Molly knew the gamekeeper preferred height for his precious still; she had once come across it and was nearly chased away by his shouts and some farming implement she hadn’t had the time to inspect.

Turning her gaze back to the outside world, she craned her head to look up at the pitch night. It was unlikely that he would be there at this time. She was also encouraged by the lack of moonlight that would have highlighted her progress to any who may have been watching.

Reclining back into herself, Molly huddled her knees close to her chest, resting her brow against them. It was a risk. Was she willing to go that far in order to maintain her shield? She looked back at him, gritting her teeth, though not in anger or annoyance directed at him. It was a reflexive action against the fear of cowardice.

She did not like him; she knew plainly that her only interest in caring for him was selfish. Yet there was that spark of humanity that had been instilled in her through her religion. Sanctity for life. Unrelated to her own desires, his death was not something she craved. And if their second meeting was truly Fate she would never forgive herself for remaining passive when she had the power to act.

Chapter Four→

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