#i think he's just a shitbag

[bougiebutchbitch]

cannot believe that 'yelling at your boss when he repeatedly almost gets you and your crew killed and lies to manipulate you into staying when you try to leave, is not emotional abuse, actually' and 'there is such a thing as a mutually toxic and unhealthy relationship where both parties are incredibly shitty to each other - and this is obviously where Ed and Izzy stand until S2, when it becomes blatantly abusive' is a controversial take. But as this is Abuse Apologism And Ableism, The FandomTM, I really should not be surprised

Just.

I was deep in physically and mentally abusive relationships in my teens/twenties - including relationships that started out with mutual toxicity and bad decisions on all sides, but which became outright physical & mental & other sorts of abuse with myself as the victim. I know my shit.

I suppose I can see where 'Izzy emotionally abused Ed' comes from IF people give literally the most uncharitable interpretation to Every Single Scene, and assume Izzy shouts angrily at Ed and negs him all the time rather than this being how he acts when he's incredibly stressed by circumstance caused directly by Ed and at the end of his fucking rope? Which, as we see in S2... Is not the case.

It's not freaking emotional abuse when you're shouting at your boss who keeps almost getting you and your crew killed. Even if this is NOT a kind or productive way to help Ed deal with his mental health, considering that Ed's actions have consequences that he repeatedly and blithely ignores, it's pretty fucking justified!

It's not freaking emotional abuse if your boss OPENLY LOVES MAIMING PEOPLE AND IS MORE THAN HAPPY TO BURN THEM ALIVE and you encourage that, while upholding his right to not kill with his own hands. Even if he has private breakdowns after the fact because he suffers from black-and-white thinking, dissociates himself from any wrongdoing, and is afraid of his potential to become 'a monster'.

Are these choices helpful? No. Are they kind? No. Is Izzy demonstrating Model Citizen Behaviour? Definitely not.

But it's sure as hell not emotional abuse. And it doesn't justify the physical and emotional abuse Ed puts Izzy through in S2.

Nothing you say can 'make' him hit you. If he chooses to hit you (or... choke you out then repeatedly mutilate you and pressure you to commit suicide and makes you constantly live in fear for your life and the lives of people you care about) he makes that decision himself. Yes, even if you shouted at him first. Yes, even if you were arguing. Yes, even if you were in the wrong in that argument. Yes, even if he has a Tragic BackstoryTM and mental health issues. This shit shouldn't be controversial.

Signed: one of those actual abuse survivors.

[sallymew4]

kids when they hear that their dad is back in town VS. kids when theyre hanging out with a conman that accidentally stole their wallet once

im not even joking btw

bonus heres me being crazy about them in dms ^^^

[cloverrallover]

ok I’m really not trying to act like I hate other interpretations of Anya and curly but omfggggg I’m like sitting here biting my fist at some of these posts dude. what do you mean Anya and curly could be a happy family. what do you mean she seems like she’d keep the baby. what do you mean she seemed like she forgave curly ?!?!?!???!??!?! what !?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!? girlie they r not healing together I’m sorry he’s literally half the reason their asses ended up dead in the middle of space 😭😭😭😭

[nerdy-hyperfixations]

It's hard being someone who does genuinely get infuriated with Ford's actions and acknowledges a lot of his flaws and the people he hurt, while also liking (and relating) to his character enough that I would like him to have nice things sometimes and don't believe he's satan

[gibbearish]

btw its interesting the way james tries to imply that like. well the videos that have plagiarism are the ones our dumb stupid annoying patrons requested about bad topics that didnt deserve to have the effort put in to covering them well so basically its fine. like obv thats interesting on its own but moreso the fact that he doesnt actually /say/ it, or like. give a list of the videos hes referring to, just says "those videos are very clear on which ones they were" i think as a nod meaning like "yknow the ones everyones talking about". unless what hes meaning is that like they put a note in certain videos saying "this video was requested by a patron, we here at james somertom incorporated do not espouse these views" which seems unlikely to me. idk methinks maybe it's because there is indeed a lot more than people think and with all the buzz he's not sure which ones have been discovered yet or not, so putting down a solid list that missed some would look like he was still hiding things whereas putting down a fully sourced list would be admitting to wayyyy more than anyone's found yet

[boysborntodie]

Does anyone want to see my Cherry/Bob/Johnny/Dally chart?? (ANALYSIS not ship!!!)

[aroaessidhe]

2023 reads // twitter thread

The Sun and The Void

Venezuelan inspired high fantasy

follows a young outcast swordswoman taken in by her grandmother, the dark sorceress for a noble family, who relies on the magic to keep her alive after being attacked by monstrous creatures

and a young noblewoman who’s the shame of her family because of her mixed heritage and desire to use magic

both are manipulated by those with more power than them into a plot to free an ancient evil god

mineral based magic, politics, nonhuman MCs

[malewifehenrycooldown]

Sometimes I think about that moment in NMH2 when Travis’s talks about how ‘despite assassins being super fucked up, are still human beings that deserve respect’ and I just… kinda get emotional over that because even though he is a pathetic loser, he’s not wrong!! He’s absolutely correct!!

Assassins are more than just tools! They are more than just bloodthirsty killers! They had lives! Dreams! Personalities! Interests!! Family!! They had things that they cared about but had no choice but to abandon them, because the life of an assassin is cruel one with constant competition. The genuine horror of it is realising that at any moment, a ranking fight would be set and on that day of the fight you’d have to accept the fact that you might not walk out the door, it’s sad!! It’s horrifying! And with each little bit of info on the assassins you get you can’t help but feel bad for them. Sure they knew what they were signing up for but that doesn’t mean they can’t have a dignified/honourable death !!

[cherryjasper]

rewatching batman 2022 and riddler really is the perfect rep for a chronically online 4chan weirdo who decides he's the arbiter of morals and justice with how he treated martha wayne. like, fine, fair, if you want to be mad at thomas wayne for ordering the silencing of a reporter, that's fair. but like. no shit the waynes would want to keep martha's traumatic childhood under wraps. you think she wouldn't be turned into a public spectacle if it came out her parents were brutally killed in a murder suicide, and she was put in a possibly abusive institution for years because of the trauma she got from it? that kind of trauma is one you spend most if not your whole life dealing with, and being rich and/or a public figure does not make you obligated to disclose your trauma. really, he could of stopped at "thomas wayne learned a reporter was planning to make an expose on him that would ruin his chances at election so he order for the reporter to be killed" and that would of been pretty bad already. but no, it was important that everyone knew that martha wayne was such a "freak" because she had a traumatic childhood and wasn't coping with it well, and she deserves to be treated as less than human because of it. great job riddler! you definitely always uphold justice and morality.

[dimiclaudeblaigan]

nah but listen.

i love ashnard.

THIS is what makes him such a great villain.

no excuses. no bullshit. no sad backstory.

sometimes it’s nice to have an antagonist who isn’t evil, but nowadays it’s so rare. sometimes it’s nice to have a true villain who doesn’t want to be pitied or seen as a “hero”, and won’t mince words when he’s confronted about his actions.

[brassandblue]

Having a lot of Thoughts about Arthur’s retirement from the Royal Navy not too long (roughly 10-15 years) after the conclusion of the Napoleonic Wars and how his personality/mental and emotional health did a sharp decline over the next 50 years. Like, imagine, it’s the 1820s, and you feel that politics are beginning to really hamper the thing you’ve put your heart and soul into supporting for the last 100+ years. You start to become disillusioned, recalling how one of your greatest maritime heroes had to fight the Admiralty for appropriate pay for his men and himself; you call how you’ve had to do much the same. 

It occurs to him that he has to really consider his future now, if it isn’t already too late-- he is a distinguished member of society at last, an Admiral, a Duke, and the facade of the elite is one he finally wears naturally after decades of crafting. What good can he do, out there at sea? He feels he needs to be at home, or at least out surveying the colonies, protecting Britain’s (his) interests. He’s had his royals, his government, the Admiralty, echoing the constant refrain of what is expected, what is needed of him. And what is needed is more. More money, more land, more power, more class, more knowledge, more charm, more charisma, more and more, more, more--

He thinks he’s up to the task of becoming That without losing himself and he sold his soul, debased his own principles in the attempt. In abandoning the Navy, despite it being an institution in and of itself, he cast away the virtues that he’d held while in it: Loyalty, consistency, discipline, frugality, moderation, commonality. He dove headlong into trying to meet impossible expectations and decided it was better to turn a blind eye, to enable the subjugation of others, and to profit off blood, than to be considered a failure.

[oldfritz]

idk why there’s reports that kanye’s retiring now. he dropped my beautiful dark twisted fantasy in 2010 and then was never heard from again….

[thebibliosphere]

Sat too long in my feelings about the Gotham Knights video game Jason Todd going to therapy and trying to engage with his siblings from a place of healing and hurt myself, so now I'm inflicting this on all of you, but:

Do you ever think about how Jason only ever gets to experience Dick as an extension of the breakdown of Dick and Bruce's relationship at that time? Granted, depending on the comic era, Dick maybe doesn't show up as much as he should, or Jason acts like an antagonistic little shit, but overall, Dick's falling out with Bruce overshadows all of it.

And, like, yeah, it's funny to joke that only Jason knows that Dick went through a shitbag teenage phase and that no one ever believes him. (Gaslight, Gate Keep, Gotham ✌) And Jason is irate about it because how can they not see through what is clearly The World's Best Big Brother Act? How can no one else see it's fake?

(Unless it's not fake, and Jason just wasn't worth loving... No, fuck off, he doesn't care, he doesn't. Leave him alone.)

But at the same time, what if Jason's the only one who realizes it's a trauma response?

What if Jason's in the middle of a therapy session or reading one of the self-help books we see him ordering, and he just has to take a moment to breathe because, of course, it's a fucking trauma response. Of course, it is.

Dick's not pretending to be anything. He was, in fact, so severely affected by Jason's death that he over-corrected and now refuses to let himself be anything other than the Perfect Big Brother. Because he can't. Because when he's not perfect, when he's not there for them, they die.

Suddenly the golden retriever's cheerfulness is less grating and more worrying. Dick's need for perfection is less an annoying personality trait to compete with and more an exhausted cry for help that no one else seems to see. Not even Dick.

Because Jason realizes now that he might have never managed to live up to the Golden Boy mantle, but Dick will never get to put it down, either. Because he can't let himself. Because bad shit happens when he does.

So what if that's what he hopes Dick reads between the lines in the email he sends him in GK?

What if, by saying, "Hey, I realize now trying to hold myself to your standards was damaging my relationship with you, but I need you to know it wasn't your fault," was also Jason saying, "Hey, this shit isn't healthy are you fucking okay?"

[adverbally]

This Must Be the Place

Written for the @steddieangstyaugust prompt “‘I didn’t know where else to go’” | wc: 2,262 | rated: T | cw: minor injuries, abuse | tags: steve’s shitbag dad, found family, wayne as a surrogate parental figure, steve is a munson now dammit, previous breakup, getting back together | title from “This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)” by Talking Heads

———

Steve sits in his car in front of the Munson house. He had helped them move in, just last year. He remembers dropping a box of Eddie’s books on his foot in the front yard and thinking he had broken a toe or two. Bringing the couch inside, with him and Wayne holding the ends and Eddie shouting unhelpful instructions from the doorway. Unpacking pots and pans in the kitchen while Eddie dozed on the sofa, still not fully recovered from his injuries. Kissing Eddie awake so they could sleep together in an actual bed.

It makes Steve’s eyes burn all over again. He scrubs at his face without thinking, then winces at the pressure on his bruised cheekbone and the sting of saltwater meeting the broken skin.

This was stupid. Why didn’t he just go to Robin’s? Her parents are nice enough. They would probably let him stay over for a few days, at least until his parents leave town again. But then Steve thinks about having to explain why he’s so beat up and why his dad was so mad, and it’s just too much for him to handle tonight.

Here, he won’t have to explain. It might be awkward, but he and Eddie have remained friendly even if they’ve been broken up for close to three months. Hopefully they’re friendly enough that Eddie will let Steve crash on his couch.

Steve gets out of the car before he can lose his nerve and forces himself to walk up the drive. It’s a pretty nice house, actually, not far from Dustin’s. Lush green lawn, solid red brick, shrubs beneath the ground floor windows. More importantly, the porch light is on.

He knocks on the door. There’s no answer. Great.

He wraps his arms around himself, trying to warm up. There hadn’t been enough time to grab a jacket, barely enough time to grab his keys and stuff his feet into the half-unlaced sneakers by the door, so he’s wearing ratty sweats and a long-sleeved t-shirt from his basketball days in below-freezing temperatures. He doesn’t even have socks on.

“Shit,” he sighs to himself. Maybe he’ll try Dustin next, since he’s in the neighborhood. He feels a little sick at the thought of Claudia Henderson fussing over him with the full power of her maternal concern, but it’s still better than trying to sleep in his car. Resigned to his fate, Steve is just turning to leave when the door opens.

It’s Wayne.

Somehow that’s worse than having to see Eddie like this. One year ago, Steve and Wayne were watching football and changing the oil in Eddie’s van and cooking together. Steve spent more time here than he did at his own house, and Wayne became more of a father to him than his dad had ever been. Then Steve had screwed that up, just like he screws everything up.

“Eddie isn’t home yet,” Wayne says, not unkindly. The rumble of his voice twists something in Steve’s chest. “Band practice.”

“I’m not really here for him, I guess, I just… I didn’t know where else to go.” He hopes Wayne will attribute the tremble in his voice to the way he’s shivering rather than the lump in his throat.

Wayne’s face softens and he pushes the door open wider, gesturing for Steve to come in. “You know you’re always welcome here.”

That’s it. The immediate relief and crashing adrenaline are more than Steve can handle, and he starts bawling right there on the Munsons’ doorstep. His jaw works, trying to form the words to say ‘sorry’ or ‘thank you’ or anything at all, but he’s sobbing too hard to speak, hunched over with the force of it.

“C’mere, son, before you freeze to death.” Wayne shepherds him inside with an arm around his trembling shoulders, shutting the door behind them before pulling Steve into a hug.

Steve doesn’t know how long they stand there, but it feels like forever. He knows Wayne isn’t a very tactile person, which makes him cry even more when Wayne doesn’t push him away, just lets him cry into his faded flannel shirt and talks to him softly.

“You’re safe here. It’s okay. You stay here as long as you need to, we’ll take care of you.”

When Steve manages to calm his sobs into hiccuping breaths, Wayne pats him on the back and lets him make the first move to pull away. He does, sniffling and pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes to counter the pressure in his sinuses. Crying always gives him a headache, and he expects it to be worse considering how hard his dad hit him.

“Sorry,” he rasps as Wayne hands him a tissue. “I didn’t–”

“Nope, none of that,” Wayne cuts him off, leading him through the living room, down the hall, and into the bathroom. “Nothin’ wrong with a good cry every once in a while, and you look like you earned that one.” He gestures at the closed toilet seat. “Here, let me patch you up.”

Steve tries to protest, but Wayne silences him with a sideways glance as he rummages in the medicine cabinet. “Thank you,” he says instead. The bright light in here makes him feel like a bug under a microscope, potential migraine trigger aside, so he looks down at the floor to reduce the glare.

Wayne starts with a warm washcloth, gently wiping the tear tracks and blood from his face. He stands between Steve and the light so it doesn’t shine in his eyes. “You don’t have to tell me what happened,” Wayne tells him, never looking away from his work, “but I’m worried about you, Steve.”

“It’s not that big of a deal.” Steve shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to see Wayne’s expression. “I’ve had worse.”

“Does it have anything to do with why you broke my kid’s heart?” He sits the washcloth aside and unwraps an alcohol wipe. “Not to mention your own.”

Of course it does. Steve can handle his dad’s temper, but Eddie shouldn’t have to. Ending their relationship was a small price to pay to keep Eddie safe. If their breakup just so happened to coincide with the last time Steve’s parents were in town…

“Ow, shit,” Steve hisses as Wayne swipes over the cut.

With a gentle grip on his chin, Wayne tilts Steve’s head side to side for a better look at the wound. “Don’t think it needs stitches.”

“That’s something, I guess,” Steve says dully, trying not to flinch when Wayne sticks a Band-Aid over it, putting pressure on the surrounding bruise.

“Sorry.” Wayne looks him over with a careful eye. “Anythin’ else hurt? Your head?”

There’s a difference between what hurts and what Wayne will be able to do something about. “Not really. Just sore. Cold.”

Wayne nods slowly, staring at him like he’s trying to gauge his honesty. “Well then, why don’t I get you set up on the couch with some blankets so you can warm up?”

It’s a little pathetic how much better Steve feels, curled up on the Munsons’ old couch, cocooned in a thick blanket wearing a pair of Wayne’s old pajama pants and a worn Anthrax tee borrowed from Eddie’s closet. It smells like home, like Eddie and Wayne, cigarette smoke and stale beer and Irish Spring. Steve feels himself relaxing for the first time in days, no longer having to worry about his dad’s reactions to every little thing he does.

“You need anythin’ else, just ask, alright?” Wayne tells him softly on his way to bed.

“Thanks, Wayne,” Steve murmurs back.

He floats between wakefulness and sleep for a long time, thinking too hard to fully drift off. He doesn’t know what time it is when he hears Eddie’s key in the door.

“Hey, why is Steve’s car here?” he calls without looking, too busy juggling his guitar case and an amplifier while trying not to trip over the cables draped over his shoulders.

“Steve is here, too,” Steve answers, hoping he’s not loud enough to disturb Wayne.

Eddie turns toward him and his face falls. “Jesus, Steve,” he exclaims, sitting down his gear as fast as he can without dropping it. It ends up in a heap near the front door while Eddie focuses on getting to Steve. He kneels next to the couch to get a better look at Steve’s face in the dim light. “What happened?”

Eddie reaches out to trace the very edge of the bruise across his cheek. He barely makes any contact but the gesture is so tender and loving that tears spring to Steve’s eyes.

“Shit, I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Eddie frets.

“No, I…” He huffs out a pained laugh. “I’m so sick of crying. And I’m sick of missing you. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to let you go like that—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Eddie hushes him and tucks his greasy, limp hair behind his ear. “We don’t have to hash it out right now.”

Steve shakes his head. “Let me tell you I’m sorry, at least. Please?” His voice cracks. “‘Cause I am, I’m so, so sorry. I was scared and I wanted you to be safe.”

“Sweetheart, it’s okay, I forgive you. I forgave you ages ago.” Eddie looks down and fiddles with one of his rings. “Like, when it happened. Dustin told me your parents were in town and I just knew that was why you ended things.”

“You see why I was worried?” Steve gestures at his own face for emphasis. “Not that it matters anymore. I guess Dad finally had enough. He said not to come back, that he was embarrassed to have me as a son.” He scoffs. “Like he even knows what it’s like to be a dad that’s more than just a sperm donor.”

Eddie’s face is dark with anger. “That’s his loss. He doesn’t know what he’s missing out on.”

“Is he, though?” Steve looks away as more tears overflow. “Missing out?”

“Yes,” Eddie says immediately, lowering his voice but leaning closer. “Anyone who has the chance to know Steve Harrington and throws it away– they can’t even imagine how much better their life could be with you in it. They don’t know how much protectiveness and compassion and worry and, and love they could have!”

Steve chuckles a little ruefully. “I guess that leaves more for you.”

“You’re damn right it does. Their loss is my gain.” His smile is fond, and he looks so beautiful in the lamplight with those deep, dark eyes and his nose still a little pink from the cold.

“I–” Steve clears his throat and tries again. “I love you. Still. Never stopped.”

Eddie laughs. It makes Steve’s heart sink, which Eddie must notice because he rushes to clarify, “No, I mean, I was trying to resist the urge to Han you. Um, like in Empire, how he’s like, ‘I know.’”

“It would be my honor to be Hanned by you.” Steve feels the smile bloom on his face, wide and genuine. It’s nice, even if it pulls at the edge of his bruise. “I would even infiltrate Jabba’s palace disguised as a bounty hunter to free you from your carbonite prison.”

“You’re hot when you’re nerdy.”

“I think you’re biased.”

“Come to bed with me.”

That stops Steve short. “Ed, I–”

“Just to sleep!” he clarifies. “Just, I don’t know, I hate the idea of you out here alone on the couch when you could be more comfortable in my room. The benefits of a government-funded mattress.” Eddie’s attempt at a joke falls flat when everything he says is so earnest. “I think we would both sleep better.”

He wants to, really wants to, and Eddie’s logic is surprisingly sound, but something within Steve is holding him back. It’s gotta be fear, it always is. Fear had forced Steve away from people he loves, kept him under his father’s thumb, made him give up when he should have tried harder. He doesn’t want to live like that anymore, not when Eddie is here on his knees, looking at Steve like he’s some awe-inspiring work of art, begging to take care of him.

“Okay.” Steve’s nod is small but his voice is steady. “Yeah, let’s go to bed.”

Eddie helps unwrap him from his blanket cocoon, steadying him when his foot catches in the hem of his borrowed pajama pants, and holds his hand to guide Steve down the hall to his bedroom. Steve watches him from under the covers as he throws his jacket over the back of his desk chair and strips down to his boxers. Eddie is beautiful, almost luminous in the dark, and familiar in a way that makes Steve ache. He missed him, so damn much, and he hopes he never has to miss him again.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you creeping on me,” Eddie teases as he slips into bed, immediately scooting close to Steve and pulling him into his arms.

Steve grumbles, “I was admiring, not creeping.” And he’s admiring again, letting his hand trace across Eddie’s chest, down his lean torso. His scars are more faded than Steve remembers them being.

“I love you,” Eddie whispers.

“‘I know,’” Steve replies in his best Harrison Ford voice, which just sounds ridiculous.

They both start laughing, even as Eddie says, “You asshole!” and squeezes him as punishment.

With Eddie warm and solid next to him, giggling in his ear, Steve thinks he might actually be okay.

[cottonlemonade]

Tattoo Artist!Suna [part 1]

Thinking about tattoo artist!Suna regularly volunteering his time at his local hospital.

Every two weeks he gives himself an afternoon off, grabs his supply case that is now just filled with sharpies and makes his way to the children’s ward. He has a little booklet of different designs he can offer them ranging from unicorns all the way to fire spewing dragons. Whenever it’s time for his visit, the kids already wait for him with their little hands and noses pressed to the glass. They start bouncing and yelling when they see him approach and he pulls his cap deeper into his face so they wouldn’t see him smile too hard.

Drawing his designs on them gives the kids a chance to unload, so he hears all about the injustice of just one pudding cup per meal and the insane difficulty of the latest Pokemon game. There is one little boy he has a particular soft spot for. He had broken his leg while riding his bike and was now stuck in rehabilitation for six weeks, because his mom had to go to work to provide because his (shitbag) dad left when he was a baby - Suna gave that jerk all kinds of colorful names in his head as the 5 year old went on and on and on about how great his mom was and how much he missed her but that she never went a day without visiting him.

By the end of the boy’s session Suna probably knew more about this kid’s mom than he did about any woman he dated in the last couple of months. He imagined a grade A soccer mom from his stories and so was surprised when the door to his room swung open and a young woman appeared, slightly out of breath and hair disheveled like she hurried to see her kid. The top button of her blouse was undone and only somewhat stuffed into her high waisted jeans, sitting just right on curvy hips.

Suna looked you appreciatively up and down, smiled and watched as the boy opened his arms and waited to be swooped into a hug which he immediately was.

Proudly, the boy showed off the sea serpent snaking up his arm.

“Thank you very much.”, the woman said to Suna, her voice sounding tired but happy.

“Hey kid.”, Suna looked at the boy, “How about I do your mom next?”

[part 2]

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

41 / 3k / soap soulmate au, part 10

...

Gaz's bullet slides neatly into the target's head, folding into his frontal cortex, his hypothalamus, and lodging to a satisfying stop in his brain stem.

Your job is done.

Ignoring the radio chatter between Gaz and Price, you slip away from the dead man. Your boots grind blood and broken glass into the carpet as you go. You should vanish before Soap's team can catch up to you. You head for the opposite corner of the mansion. They don’t have eyes there.

You slide the ground floor window open and pull Soap's radio collar from your neck. You’re about to remove the earpiece when it crackles in your ear. It's Ghost's voice.

"They got Johnny."

You pause. Your teammates are rough, but they won’t kill Johnny. Right? They won’t kill a soldier.

"Where is he?" Price's voice crackles back.

"Basement lounge," Ghost mutters. The radio catches shouting voices in the background.

"Can you get to him?" Price asks.

Gunshots crackle through the earpiece. Ghost curses. "Negative, sir. Too many mercs and he's agitatin' 'em as it is. Might be able to fish him out, but I'd need a better vantage point.”

“Is he in immediate danger?”

“Don’t think so.”

"Then keep yourself hidden, Lieutenant. Kyle and I are en route."

Your stomach twists. Price doesn't sound like he plans to negotiate. You switch the radio's to KorTac's frequency. "Horangi, what's going on?"

There's a long pause before he replies, and several other voices echo underneath his. "Where the hell are you? SAS is fucking up our whole job. The cargo is gone."

You force yourself to get a grip on your own cover story even as you slip through the window and drop silently to the ground. Snow squeaks under your boots. "How did he know about the cargo?" you ask, your voice careful and even.

"I don't know. Shit, maybe someone fed him information. Military dogs love their rats." There's a pause. Horangi's voice sounds more distant as he speaks away from the mic. "Oy, shitbag. Who gave you the intel?”

You let out a breath of relief. Johnny will have no choice but to give them your name in exchange for his freedom. You'll be far, far away before your teammates know you're gone. KorTac won't bother with trying to track you down. It'd be a waste of money. Even if they did, you've disappeared before. You know how not to be found.

It’ll be a clean break for you both.

Then Johnny's voice crackles into your ear through Horangi's mic.

"No rat," he says. You hear him smirking, but a snarl edges the bravado in his voice. "Your security's piss-poor."

What? No. Bad, that's bad. Johnny’s playing at taking the blame. Of course he is. He thinks he's protecting you. Stubborn idiot.

Horangi chuckles. “You want to die here? That can be arranged.”

Something under your sternum clenches. This is your fault. You stare down at the fresh snow in front of you. You can still leave. Your plan never involved seeing him again, and it certainly didn't involve helping him if he got his ass in trouble. But you're the one who told him where the hostages were. He's only in the basement lounge because of you.

With Price and Gaz in the way, and with Ghost seeking a higher vantage point, sniper in hand, your teammates don’t know how much trouble they’re in, either.

Goddamn him. Why can’t he just rat you out? Why can’t he just be as heartless as you are?

You turn and retrace your trek back to the mansion. You don't know what you're going to do to avoid the confrontation at hand and make a clean escape, but maybe you'll come up with something on the way.

...

You slip into the lounge behind your teammates. Soap is on his knees, hands ziptied behind his back with the barrel of Horangi's rifle to his head.

Every last one of your squadmates is here. With you, that's a dozen mercenaries. You check the upper corners, the catwalks—Ghost is nowhere to be found. Of course. There'd be no way for Ghost alone to snipe enough of your teammates in one go to pull Johnny out of this mess. Nor is there any alarm you can pull, no authority you can leverage to get your soulmate out of the position you put him in.

You switch your radio frequency back to 141's secure channel. "Ghost, don't shoot. I can talk them down."

But it's Price's voice that echoes back. "Stay put, love. We'll get it sorted."

"Listen to me--"

"You in position, Ghost?" Price asks calmly.

"Affirmative, sir."

"Good. Gaz and I will be there shortly. When I signal, you take out as many as you can. We'll clean up the rest. Until then, stay hidden. We don't need a body count of our own."

You ease your finger off the comm, hands shaking. A fucking bloodbath? That's Price's plan? You think back to how he stared across the interrogation table at you, his eyes crinkling in amusement at the barbs you threw back at him. He'd have killed anyone else.

No, focus. You pull the earpiece out and rip the radio unit, cords and all, away from you. It clatters to the ground. A few of your squadmates glance over. You push your way through them until Horangi's eyes fall on you. Johnny’s do, too, but you refuse to look at him.

"He's obviously military,” you say, pinning Horangi with as severe a look as you can summon. “You can't just kill him. You know what would happen."

Horangi scoffs and looks back down at Soap. "He could be impersonating a soldier for all I know. Besides, military mutts bark." He presses the muzzle of his rifle harder into Soap's skull. "So bark, or I shoot."

"If you let me up right now," Soap growls, "I won't rip your goddamn hands off. How about that?" 

Horangi tuts. "You're in no position to be making threats, mutt. Answer me or I'll shut you up permanently. Who gave you the intel?”

"He's not the only one," you interrupt again, talking fast. "He's... His team. They're looking for him."

Horangi’s gaze rises to you again, a strange look in his eye. You've said too much. "Where have you been?" he asks you with a hard stare.

"With the protectee."

"And where is he now?"

Silence swells between you and him. You feel your teammates' eyes on you now. This is your last chance to walk away. If you do, the path ahead of you will be free and clear. And whatever blood is spilled here in service of this stupid mission will be on your hands.

Soap sees the look on your face. "No, hen, don't--"

"I'm the rat," you say. "I fed him the information. The protectee is dead."

Soap curses and tries to lunge to his feet. Horangi pushes him down with the heel of his boot between his shoulder blades. Soap grunts in pain.

"How interesting," Horangi says. "And why would you do that?"

"Don't listen to her," Soap growls. "She's lyin'."

He's still fighting the cuffs around his wrists. His shoulders jerk with every tug, trying in vain to break the plastic tie. A horrible feeling clutches at his chest. He knows what you're doing, and everything in him rebels against the idea. He's so close to finally having you, so close to saving you from yourself.

He never wanted you to come here. He wanted you safe, far away. The thought of something happening to you is far worse than any of the pain he might have endured if you hadn’t come back for him.

You risk a glance at Soap. He looks stricken. You almost wish you could explain, but it wouldn't make a difference. He should know better. You do your job. That's who you are. Even if it means there’ll be hell to pay.

You force your eyes back to Horangi's. "The bastard deserved it," you say simply.

Horangi scoffs. "Obviously. And we deserve our paychecks.” He watches Soap struggle under his boot. "You know him?"

You glance down at Soap, taken off guard. "He's..."

Soap meets your gaze, his eyes still burning with fire despite the situation. “Hen,” he says. “You are makin’ a mistake.”

Horangi leans onto Soap’s shoulder, pinning him flatter. Soap grunts.

Horangi smirks. “He seems to know you. You know, if it were me, I'd just keep my mouth shut and let him take the blame. That's what he wants, isn't it?” He jabs the barrel of his rifle against Soap’s spine.

Soap’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t take his eyes off you.

"In fact," Horangi muses, "I might be more inclined to believe him than you. Not to mention our employer would be very disappointed to know someone on payroll sabotaged a very well-paying job. I don’t think you’d do that unless you had a good reason.”

You hear your teammates murmur behind you. Horangi is giving you an out. Your teammates will know what you did, but KorTac won't. Plausible deniability brings back the possibility of escape. You're shocked Horangi would offer at all, knowing now what you did.

But you steel yourself. You know what you have to do. "Check his left arm," you tell him.

Horangi examines you, but there's no skepticism in his eyes—only intrigue. He gestures to a few of the mercs behind you. Two push past you. They hold Soap down, and Horangi grabs Soap's cuffed wrists and pushes his sleeve up his arm. It's there plain as day—the soulmark bearing your name.

Soap grits his teeth. You're giving yourself up for him. You're going to take the fall in exchange for his freedom. Why can't you just do one goddamn thing he wants you to do? It should be him protecting you.

He tries to catch your eye again, but you look away from his furious glare. Deep down, a part of him understands you. That infuriates him even more. You're doing this out of some sick sense of duty. Just like everything else.

Horangi is impassive. "Ah. Guess that explains it."

A hand comes down hard on your shoulder, and you're pulled back hard as two of your teammates take you by the arms and ziptie you. You don't struggle. One of them kicks out the back of your knee and forces you to kneel. 

Soap snarls as he tries to shake the mercenaries pinning him down. "Get your hands off her!"

Horangi smirks down at Soap. "You really do like each other, eh? Cute."

Soap's blood burns through him. All his systems are haywire. He's angry at you, but he's more furious than he's ever been in his life at the men holding him down. He jerks again, taking one of the mercs by surprise. He manages to get to one knee before they're on him again, joined by two more of your comrades who stream in to help.

They force him to the ground once more. Horangi digs his knee into Soap's back and jabs him with the butt of his rifle. Another merc kicks a boot into his gut. But Soap doesn't stop. He's not going down without a fight. He won't sit there quietly and let anyone walk away with his woman.

Horangi looks down his rifle at Soap and rests his hand on the trigger, his smirk gone. "Careful," he says, voice low. "I still might just shoot you."

"Then you'd better kill me in one shot, because when I get my hands around your fuckin' neck--"

"Johnny, stop," you interject.

"Why?" he growls. "You think I'm just gonna sit here and watch you give yourself up?"

"You don't have a choice."

"The hell I don't."

Horangi pushes his rifle harder against Soap's skull. "Listen to her, mutt."

"Hey," you snap at him. One of your comrades behind you pulls your arms back, and you realize you're unconsciously fighting to get close. "Let him go."

When Soap sees you straining against your binds, trying to reach him, his heart clenches. He lets out a stream of expletives and throws his body weight against the mercs trying to hold him down.

"You care for him that much? Then again, I guess you don't have a choice."

"Horangi—"

“Yes, yes. Relax,” Horangi says to you, keeping his rifle trained on Soap. “I don’t plan to kill him. But we're not uncuffing him. Because we're not fucking idiots," he mutters. He steps off Soap and nods toward the back of the lounge where the bar and kitchen are. "Put him in the walk-in."

The mercs pull him roughly to his feet, jerking his arms behind his back. His gaze flicks to you, and he opens his mouth to say something, but you won't meet his eyes. It's like you're trying to shut him out completely, closing yourself into some emotional void. Just like in that interrogation room. He can’t fucking stand it.

Soap growls in frustration as he's hauled backward. He's torn between anger and desperation, wanting to make you understand how much he needs you. But you're so stubbornly set on building your stupid walls and keeping him out.

"This never would've happened if you'd just let me handle it," he snaps at you. "But you had to go runnin' off by yourself instead of listenin’ to me."

You stare at him in disbelief. He's still arguing this? How headstrong is he? "You're the one who refused to rat me out!” you retort, unable to stop yourself. “I was out the fucking window when you went all heroic and forced me to come back and save your ass!"

Soap's temper flares hotter. "Oh, I'm the one who went all heroic?" He yanks his arm against his captors' grip, but it hardly slows them down. “You’re the bloody martyr, aren’t you? Couldn't just let me handle it. Had to go sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong."

"You with a fucking gun to your head? That was you handling it?"

"I've been in worse situations," Soap shoots back, bristling. "I didn't need your help. And I damn sure don’t want you throwin’ yourself into danger like you've got a death wish."

You swallow. You were right to step in and take the fall for what you did, you realize. As rough-tempered as your soulmate is, he's just trying to protect you. He deserves better than you.

"This is... it's what I deserve," you say finally.

Soap's eyes widen in disbelief, his expression going from anger to shock to cold fury. "What you deserve?" he hisses, his voice low and enraged. "What you deserve is a good smack upside the head. You think you deserved to throw your life away for my sake? That's how little you think of yourself?"

"I betrayed my teammates and ruined our contract. I have to pay for that."

He's so fucking over it. You’re letting yourself be ripped away from him because of—what, a mistake you made? Loyalty to your team? Some misguided sense of penance and responsibility? Empty excuses. None of that should matter. You’re meant to be his.

"I don't give a damn what you think you deserve,” he says. “You're not the one who gets to decide that."

"And you are?"

You're looking at him like you don't believe him. It makes something in him snap loose.

"You still think you're expendable," he says, his voice hard. "As long as everyone else is safe. As long as you've done your bloody duty." He jerks his shoulders, angry and desperate to have you in his sight for a few more seconds. "Whatever you tell yourself, you’d best remember you made your goddamn choice to take what Iwanted most away from me. I swear to you, darlin’, when I get out of these cuffs, I will find you and make sure you never leave my sight again. That’s what I deserve.”

You say nothing. Your heart is in your feet as they wrestle him away.

You’re not worth this. You can't be. You've shown him—all but told him you were ready to abandon him mere minutes ago. He just doesn't care. Regardless of what you think, he keeps deciding you're worth the fucking trouble.

You're just trying to do one thing right by him. One thing. But he has to go and tear your heart in two about it anyway. Bastard.

"Let go of me!" Soap barks, voice echoing behind you as they drag him out of sight.

The sound of the large, industrial steel walk-in freezer banging open echoes through the basement, followed by clattering and Horangi barking orders. Then it slams closed.

That's it, then. The last time you'll see him.

You believe him when he says he'll never stop looking for you. You might be stubborn and set in your ways—he happens to be worse. But you know your employer, and you know what happens to traitors who kill the charges they're paid to protect. Regardless of what seemed right at the time.

You know there are prisons with which the CIA won’t interfere.

You're going to live the rest of your life in a cell. Because of your own damn sense of responsibility for some twisted form of penance for your past.

The moment you hear the lock on the walk-in click, whatever solemn self-assurance you felt turns to ash in your mouth. Penance bears a strong resemblance to empty self-righteousness and self-hatred. Worse—it feels a hell of a lot like you're condemning your stubborn bull of a soulmate to a lifetime of searching for a woman who refuses out of spite to be found.

Horangi and the others return, and the two mercenaries at your sides haul you away. You stumble along with them, numb. They drag you out of the building and push you toward the back of a bulletproof KorTac panel van.

What have you done?

...

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7 / part 8 / part 9 / [part 10] / part 11 / part 12

more Soap / masterlist