#micro tri gloss

[fruchtfleisch-art]

If micro-fics are still withstanding, why not something about Shinobu’s parents! Perhaps contrasted with how Kosaku’s were, or maybe even Kira’s?

Idk, im just fascinated with in-laws and families !!!

I love thinking about families too, this was a really fun prompt! I wish I'd had some space to write about Kira's parents as well, but this already is a tadge too long... I guess emotional neglect is the thread connecting their families, albeit on completely opposite ends of the spectrum. Neglect is so fun and versatile like that!

Big HUGE thanks to @toytle for reading this over for me, you caught so many word repetitions and overstuffed sentences I glossed right over in my first edit, haha. This fic is much better now thanks to you!

It’s unfortunate, but Kosaku can’t stay in the kitchen forever. He eases the flow of the faucet from a torrent to a trickle, sets his bowl in the sink, and listens, his heart in his throat, to the heavy, solid silence emanating from the dining room.

Shinobu hasn’t said a word for almost five minutes, her father twice that, but Kosaku doesn’t want to go back. He would give anything to be somewhere else, away from this cramped little house where everything is dingy and shabby and a little off-kilter, even the yellowed lines of grout lining the checkered tile counter. There’s no towel to dry his hands with, so he wipes them on his pants, feeling the square lump of his lighter in his pocket.

A quick glance towards the dining room confirms a total lack of movement since he went to rinse his dish out.

In five steps, with a brief pause to jam his feet into his shoes, he’s out on the engawa, the door lurching stiffly shut behind him. It’s freezing, the crisp air crackly in his lungs, but the view of the road below is clear. A few stars have emerged in the darkness settling over the sky like a thin slick of oil, following in the rosy wake of the pale sun. Kosaku puts his glasses on, smooths his hair back, and lights a cigarette.

He's not going to be out here for long, just until he figures out what he wants to say. He can’t think around Shinobu’s father, crumbles under his hard stare and his gravel-voiced accusations.

‘What do you want, money?” he’d asked in lieu of a greeting.

“This is a fine mess,” he’d said, after weathering their feeble attempts to talk around the issue at hand. “You’ll be expecting me to feed you, I suppose.”

Then, as they sat down to eat, to Shinobu: “Why are you doing this? Haven’t you caused me enough trouble?”

It’s all the worse for the apathy behind such cutting words, for his complete disinterest in anything said in response. Her father isn’t a big man, but he drains all the energy out of the room, with only cold contempt to replace it.

Shinobu adores romance movies, and there’s always a scene where the male lead swoops in with a heartfelt confession, the admission of which becomes shield and sword against anything standing in the way of his lover’s happiness. But life isn’t a movie, and when Kosaku tried to say something-anything- the words dried up and died on his tongue, and he found himself staring down into his lap, wishing he could wake up and find the last few weeks to be nothing more than a terrible dream.

Shinobu’s voice catches his ear, low and furious and only slightly muffled by the wall between them. The dining room window is cracked open a few centimeters; Kosaku can hear her as clearly as if he had his ear pressed to the door in the kitchen.

“Why can’t you just be happy for me? I don’t know why I even bothered.”

Her father, dull and scratchy: “You don’t call, you don’t visit, but now when you need something-“

“That’s not fair-“

“Life’s not fair. I don’t know why you can’t seem to get that through your head-“

Kosaku feels a sudden rush of gratitude towards his parents, who, although not the least bit pleased with him, at least waited for Shinobu to leave before saying so. He sits down, trying not to shiver as the cold seeps into his legs, then his core, like a stripe of ice creeping up his spine.

He sits and doesn’t think of much at all, letting the argument wash over him as pure noise, as meaningless as the rattle and hush of the wind in the bare branches of the trees. It’s full dark, the glowing tip of his cigarette the only point of brightness on a street cloaked in shadow, as remote and lifeless as the surface of the moon.

There’s the distant glare of yellow halogen headlights further down the road, the remote sound of the motor like a windup toy. Kosaku watches as it pulls up to the house, tires crunching to a stop on the gravel drive.

The man who slides out of the car is thin and shabby, lank hair hanging in his eyes. His shirtsleeves are rolled back to the elbows, and his canvas pants are ragged and splotched with old stains. He looks like a manual laborer, or some kind of repairman, but it’s far too late for somebody like that to come here.

Kosaku doesn’t see the resemblance to Shinobu’s father until he’s at the foot of the engawa, but it’s unmistakable up close. The man glances at Kosaku as he walks up to the front door, then cocks his head, listening to the argument like a spaniel hearing the clumsy wingbeats of a particularly fat duck. A smile worms its way across his face.

“Cigarette?” the man asks, holding his hand out to Kosaku.

“Huh?”

The outstretched hand closes, jabs a finger towards his face. “You’re the runt who knocked my sister up. Give me a goddamn cigarette.”

Kosaku lights it for him, too.

Shinobu’s brother sucks his first draught in hard and blows a dense cloud of smoke, settling down next to Kosaku with a satisfied sigh.

“So,“ Kosaku says, swallowing hard. He wets his lips. Shinobu never said anything about a brother.

“Why aren’t you in there?” the brother asks. His hands are red and chapped, speckled with tiny iridescent dots: fish scales. He must be a dock worker. Maybe she’s embarrassed.

“Sounds like they’re talking about you,” he continues. “You don’t have anything to say for yourself?”

Kosaku doesn’t know what he would say, though. Everything is happening so fast. A few months ago he had a girlfriend. Now he has a fiancé, soon to be a wife. And the baby, of course. Their child. Milestones that were once distant possibilities are suddenly only a hair’s breadth from the present.

“You’re not gonna run off, are you?” the brother asks.

“No!” Kosaku says, startled. “Never. I love her.”

“Alright. If you say so.”

His cigarette is starting to taste bad, thick and ashy on his tongue. Would it be rude to leave, or would the brother follow him inside? Would Shinobu be happy to see either of them?

“It’s kind of funny, isn’t it? This whole thing?”

“No, it’s not,” Kosaku says quietly.

“What, you don’t think so? She was an oops baby, too. Did she ever tell you that?” He leans in, his voice low and dangerous, close enough for Kosaku to see the stubble on his lip and the shallow pits of old acne scars on his cheek. “Hey, here’s some brotherly advice, from me to you: don’t wait twelve years after your first child is born to start fucking your neighbor’s wife. But if you do, if you really can’t help it, don’t forget to wear a condom, alright?”

Kosaku doesn’t understand what kind of reaction he’s trying to get out of him. He didn’t want to know that. Shinobu’s brother grins, his eyes bright and pitiless under the shaggy fringe of his bangs.

“Well. Best of luck.” He stands, flicking his cigarette off into the bushes, and stretches. “Take care of her, I guess. When’s the wedding?”

Kosaku doesn’t want to tell him. Shinobu has good reason not to talk about her brother. What was it like, growing up with a sibling over ten years distant from you, old enough to understand why his family is coming apart, but young enough to blame you for it?

The front door bangs open and Shinobu storms out, face set in a hard look of resignation. Kosaku scrambles to his feet as she passes him on her way to his car, ready for… something. He’s not sure what to expect: shouting, cursing, thrown shoes?

There’s none of that, just a deep, awful silence that seems to ooze from the gap between door and jamb, the frame swollen from cold, or damp, or both. The quiet shrouds them like a dark, dirty blanket, and Kosaku feels his breath catch, burning, in his chest.

“Be seeing you,” Shinobu’s brother says, but Kosaku doesn’t know which one of them he’s addressing. He pulls the door open, a thin strip of orange light spilling out onto the three of them, and then it groans shut, leaving Kosaku and Shinobu in darkness.

She shifts closer to him, arms wrapped around herself. Kosaku drops his cigarette and grinds it out with a gritty crunch.

“Let’s-“

“Can we-“

“Let’s just go,” he says. It’s not a romantic statement by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s decisive. “We can go to my parents’ place, or your dorm- anywhere you want.”

Shinobu sniffles. She looks cold, her nose red and her face pale and waxy, eyes ringed in dark circles. He wonders how well she’s been sleeping. “It’s a long drive back.”

“I can do it.” Kosaku takes her hand and it’s like a block of ice. He doesn’t start the car until he feels some warmth seeping in, until she clenches back, until he feels the bones in his fingers shift and ache.

[mariamariquinha]

Bossa Nova (Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon x f!reader) - Nine

Eight | Ten

Summary: The LASD couldn't sustain its reputation as an honest police officer if it tried hard. In that case, no one tried.

Word count: 9.695.

Warnings: Bad words, talks about corruption, talks about sexism and racism, mentions of oral sex, mention of drug crimes, violence and other things related, strip clubs, sex workers, use of weed and... did I say sexism?

Author’s Note: I think this got a lot more personal than I thought, so I'm sorry if anyone has family members within the LASD who aren't corrupt - this isn't about them. This chapter doesn't have much romance, I'll warn you right away, but it's an important progression in the main characters' relationship. Give it a try!

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Join my taglist! Don’t forget to reblog, comment and like! As always, I would love to know what you’re all thinking! ❤

****

You didn't like your mother very much, but you definitely loved her. She was your mother, after all, and even though you knew you wouldn't be friends with her if you had that choice, you would love her like you love something because that's how it should be. You didn't think it was an obligation, and she didn't treat you badly, but there was always that feeling that because you were the first kid, she tested the options so much that she left you an arm's length away, and if it were different it would be weird. 

Again, you understood. She was your mother.

When you had the whole context of the divorce, she always came with comments. She noticed your house, your clothes, your silence; she insisted that Theodore say something, that he apologize, and you had to be definitive for it to stop.

But she was your mother. 

Emma didn't say things because she didn't like to commit, but you knew when she betrayed that direct opinion that your mother had about everything. It was like something mirrored, that instead of loud voices and cigarette smoke, you received a calculating coldness in sudden, discreet and passive comments. So you didn't confront her because, well, she wasn't your mother.

You knew you were on the edge since the situation with Ballard – so did she. And before all of that, there was the snickering, the ‘are you sure you are okay?’ with condescendent tone, the ‘maybe you should take some days off’ with a hint of a joke. You knew her and you knew each one of those mannerisms. 

Isla's situation wouldn't have grow so much in you if it weren't for the daily stress of things, yes, but it was the comment that Emma made when she went to ask you about Gina that made you stop, look and make sure you had actually heard that.

“I mean, look what getting close to Nick did to you. You weren't like this when you were still married.”

You weren't even talking about that – you had taken days to redo the work on the report, you were barely sleeping and honestly nothing she was saying had reached your ear until that moment. For her, it was another comment that you would ignore, another small micro-aggression that would pass, so she continued typing on the computer and the weight of the air in her office seemed to fall solely on you.

“... I beg your pardon?” 

She glanced at you and went back to the computer screen. 

“Yeah, you know. Women tend to rely on male powerful figures when in lack of it. Freud said something about it, didn’t he?”

“Emma, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

That did catch her attention. She backed away, then saw your offended expression and actually turned to you, alert.

“I’m sorry if I said something wrong,” And even that sounded wrong. 

“It's not just that, you're acting like an idiot to everyone here! Walsh treated me like an idiot and harassed me, which you glossed over and blamed on me. Gina was concise and conscientious about finding out about Isla and Nick because it would sink the Department, and you did nothing. What is that?” 

Emma hesitated. With a lick of her lips, she probably calculated that being all about ‘I’m wrong, right?’ wouldn’t work, so she took her time. 

“... I’m thinking of what’s best for you. Protecting your integrity for what it’s to come.”

“And what the fuck is to come? Tell me, Emma, what is it? I-” You took a deep breath. “Do you want to know? I don't want to know. I really don't want to. Whatever shit you or Magalon are warning me about in fucking code, I don't want to know.” 

“What did Magalon tell you?”

“I feel like I'm talking to my ex… Have you heard what I said before?” You pressed, getting on your feet with a huff of frustration. “Make a fucking decision Emma, ​​just… Make a fucking decision. And don't ever disrespect me like that again.” 

****

“My husband was a member of the group.”

Isla had a calm voice despite the context in which she was inserted. There were no handcuffs on her wrists or a guard inside the room; everything was done very smoothly. Her lawyer was there, tho, and he was sending Zapata some glares while they talked. There was a palpable tension in the air, as if a black cloud of violence or distortion hung within that interrogation room.

Really, you shouldn't even be there, watching. Henderson was sitting to one side as he watched through the glass the conversation Zapata and Emma were having with the woman, and that should be enough for them. Even so, it was Emma who suggested that you participate indirectly, as if using a petty way to see if you were really immersed in the work like you said. 

According to the file, Isla was of Albanian origin. The parents were immigrants and ran a small textile business in Coney Island, but they weren’t anything but a fast topic of conversation. The features of her face, such as the more rounded nose and the full face, were soft, even if her lips were dry. She was in a wheelchair, her arm had a bandage. 

Looking at it that way, she didn't look so much like Debbie. Maybe their comparison was in the attitude: the two seemed equally taken by a feeling that hovered only in Nick. One that you didn't know what it was and that maybe nobody could put their finger on.

She spoke of everything. Kosovo, her relationship with a man named Oliver Clark, her marriage and children – Selim, with 5, and Dafina, with 9. 

You just noticed that Nick entered the room when you smelled his cologne. Bad smell, as always, enough to break any serious moment with that fragrance. You couldn’t help but make a face, pinching your nostrils once and clearing your throat. He ignored you, of course. Benny appeared right behind him with two cups of coffee – you two shared a brief look.

“We have the search warrant,” He said to everyone in the room, eyeing the scene in front of you with a stern face. “I also got WPP.”  

A little late for that.

“Anything important?” Took you time to understand that the question was directed to you. When the silence became too much, you turned to him and saw everyone staring. 

“... Nothing I didn't already imagine. I'll have better luck when I have the equipment,” You leaned over the table, just a touch, and read the notes you’d taken. “Leica M6 35mm, Pentax K1000 and… Nikon 35 Ti. Analog. This Leica is a rarity, I think it was the one she used for the Long Beach homicides.”

“Couldn't it have been someone else?” Henderson asked. 

“Is that just a stupid question or do you want to make sure we've tested all options?”

“Both. So?” Nick pressed, arms crossed and nothing but harshness on his tone. 

You observed him for a beat, considered your chances there. 

“... The Leica is from the beginning of the last century, like, the 30's to the 50's. At least this model she said she has. In addition to being rare, not everyone nowadays can handle it because the resources are basically mechanical. It would be an absurd coincidence, which is not quite the case.”

“We've dealt with coincidences before.”

“Well, you would know the truth better than anyone.”

O’Brien didn’t answer. You rolled your eyes, going back to the notes before giving Isla another look. 

“How long has she been doing this?” The question was kind of thrown up in the air, as no one dared to answer. You glared at them, specifically at Nick, who huffed in annoyance before saying something.

“Two years.”

“And the case landed in your lap…” You said. “It seems that you really work with coincidences.”  

Again, no answer. Feeling like you couldn't get from point A to B with anyone there, you jotted down some more information on paper and stretched your back, rolling your shoulders.

“It will be manual stuff then. They’ll have to look at each negative.”

“If it can be done then I don't see a problem.”

“It's a good opportunity to tell me anything else I don't already know,” You conceded, voice contained to prevent any progression there. It was like swallowing a fucking lamp. 

Everyone was quiet when they heard Isla speak again, attentive as they watched every detail of the story that should no longer be news to Nick's ears. You were so concentrated that the noises of chairs dragging on the floor didn't even call your attention. Someone said something, the door opened and closed, and suddenly there was a cup of coffee right next to you.

Benny tapped the lid twice.

“Decaf,” He mouthed discreetly before retrieving his proximity and leaving the room. 

You and Henderson shared a glance, but he didn’t say a thing. You two were busy anyway. 

****

Benny didn't have a very organized routine, but he could count how many times he thought about you after that shitty lunch: two.

1. That coffee wasn't for you, but he thought of you when he noticed that the Starbucks server had made the wrong order. It was kind of spontaneous. Suddenly you were there, at the front of his mind, like you were hovering around and ready to just emerge. He put it there, left the cup as if saying ‘you can have it if you want, but if you don’t it’s fine’. No one brought the subject up.

2. Nick had gone to the store to meet an informant and someone, probably Connors, saw a familiar figure at the register when they entered. Benny knew it was Murph who commented, but he saw Zapata turn his head to look at the guy.

“Do you know who he is?”

“Who?” Benny frowned, unaware of the commotion. He turned his head, saw the dude standing there staring at his phone – like a normal person. 

“This is Theodore Park, our trouble girl's ex.”  

There was only one person Connors called ‘trouble girl' and it wasn't usually the kind of comment that came from beyond the grave. However he recognized the guy, whether it was a run-in at office parties that Benny barely attended or some private investigation that bordered on a stalker personality from Murph’s part, it seemed to be true. When Magalon looked back again, Theodore Park was gone.

The second time, then, he discovered who your ex-husband was while listening to what seemed like irrelevant information to the investigation. In the midst of Nick's reticence and failures, Theodore Park was the object of his interest. 

He was tall compared to the 5'7 that Benny was. Maybe 6'2, compared to O'Brien. There were some university articles about him (three paragraphs at Berkeley, two large PDFs at CSULB that he didn't read, and good references at Caltech) and he seemed successful with an information systems company or something. Benny could never speak properly about these things because he was never interested; as long as he had a phone that worked, he knew how to use the most intuitive social media and that was it. But not Theodore, no. The guy was a successful man in that aspect, indeed. A rich guy on the way. Without much effort, Benny would see this dude doing TED Talks and making Forbes in a few years. Which had nothing to do with him, or what seemed like your type of guy. If Theodore was on one side of the spectrum, Benny was on the other in every way.

Still, Magalon didn't do much with this information. There wasn't much he could do with it anyway.

It was only later – days later – when they had agreed to go to a 'club' to 'decompress', that he found himself thinking about you for the third time. 

Earlier that day, he saw you talking to Lennon over what seemed like conventional pleasantries between friends. You were wearing jeans, both hands in your back pockets as you paid attention to something that was being said. Your usual lab coat was gone, probably because Benny could clearly see that your shirt was tighter, had a wider bust and the position of your arms gave a subtle view of your breasts. Nothing indiscreet, because you weren't indiscreet. That outfit, however, made Benny have a sudden indiscreet thought, and it stayed in his head all day. 

He hadn't looked for you anymore – he hadn't had the chance to do that. Things escalated and suddenly there he was talking about how similar he was to Nick, pushing you away with a passive behavior that clearly pissed you off. You didn't even react, which he understood as full acceptance of the fact that he was an asshole, as if that was the one thing that Benny and a technology nerd like Theodore had in common: being a scoundrel. You treated him as always, even though what had already happened between you should have been enough for that 'always' to change.

It was sad. He really was starting to like what you two started to have. 

The girl standing next to him was called Lindsay. She sat down, started a conversation; they talked very little. Lindsay was wasted, not even bothering to clean the traces of cocaine from her top lip and nose or the way her eyes were dark. Benny asked if she wanted to go home and another friend, named Tracy (or Tara), who was visibly lucid, said it was a good idea. He paid for the taxi, made sure they got into the car safely, and discreetly showed the driver his badge. Like any other night.

He watched the taxi disappear down the street, then, on the other side, the movement of cars on that side of the city. It was late summer and the breeze of the change of season was a sure sign of the arrival of autumn, so he felt the wind hit his face. 

Benny didn't go back up to the hotel room with the guys. He handed the parking pass to the usual guy, got in the car and headed home.

No, not like any other night. That time, Benny felt another wave of what someone once said was a ‘midlife crisis’.

****

You weren't a fan of bathtubs. Well, you had one, but it was that kind of thing that was borrowed into your life, shoved down your throat because it wasn't so bad after all. Just like the coffee table you had before. And the kitchen window you always hated. And the kind of lamp that lasted so little but, look, it was chic. So like all things, which seemed to be the biggest provocation that accompanied a 'gift' from a big son of a bitch, or a reminder of how there was a sense of ease in making your life miserable, you enjoyed it.

Something like that. 

You had plans to get rid of each of these things soon, because all in all, the financial part of your life was also complicated. A visit to the bank, a mortgage proposal, expenses for the large yard and the last remnants of your student fund. You looked through apartment websites for sale and just that idea left you incredibly depressed because, on top of everything else, you were a crybaby who lost the comfort of a husband who paid most of the household bills. And not to mention the job, because… damn, the fucking job. It had been days since you closed your eyes and saw Nick, Isla, Emma, ​​Ballard, Mathias; what kind of fucking burnout was that?

So that night, when your heels were swollen and your back was sore, you allowed yourself a few minutes of privilege. Bath salts, then the heat of refreshing water and, among other things you haven't done in a long time, you felt a little sorry for yourself, felt like Emma did you so fucking wrong and you needed to be put in a victim’s place for a while. 

Connors had posted a photo with the guys on Instagram – you saw it by chance, one hand resting your head on the edge of the bathtub and the other scrolling through your phone. ‘bday party w/ the fella 🔥🔥🔥’, with Benny below his arm in what looked like a half drunk pose, in what also looked like a strip club in the background. You stared at it for a moment. Then another. Then another. There were easy smiles, joyfulness, even happiness; like it was just a standard day, as if the world was okay as soon as the first beer landed on their tables. 

There was never a question with them, a doubt. It was as if, arbitrarily, the main characteristic of a cop wasn’t useful for them to become the ideal professionals that everyone thought they were. There is no need for moral duty, responsibility and care, as proof that the world, in itself, was also not moral, responsible and careful. 

That was it. It was this pain, this itch, that disturbed you, because you knew that no questions were directed at Theodore when things ended. He, above the law, with money in his pocket and a successful career ahead of him, didn’t receive any dirty looks for having cheated on his own wife, who in turn would, in fact, receive condescending comments, pats on the shoulder of comfort and an unfair response from a boss, who attributed your problems to the great evil of having lost an idiot husband. That was what you always hated the most. 

Before you could put down the device, the screen changed theme: Benny was calling. It wasn't a text, it was a call. 

You hesitated before answering.

“... Yes?”

“Hey,” The other end of the line was clear, even if you presumed he was still in the club with the guys. “You busy?”

“Mm-hm,” You frowned. “Something happened?” 

“No.”

“... Ah.”

“Just wanted to check on you. You probably think that I’m a jerk right now.”

You lifted your torso and sat in the bathtub, more confused than you expected. For a beat you didn’t say anything. 

“You do.”

“No! No, I… I don’t think… anything. Why do you think that?” But he didn’t need to answer because you knew. “If that’s because we’re not doing anything, there’s no hard feelings. We’re just having fun, right?”

Benny sighed. 

“Yeah, we were.”

“So you don’t need to explain yourself.”

And before you could stop yourself, you added something else that made your eyes close in regret. 

“Things are kinda crazy right now.” 

You didn't want to go back to the atmosphere of that lunch. It wasn't your fault or his, but it was as if there was an external interference, a weight of your different ideals, even if they weren't in question at that moment. That's why you had convinced yourself to give it a chance, to go out with him in the first place: because it wasn't work. And suddenly you were stupid and brought it up as soon as he got in touch after so long.

“How’s Gina?” He decided to ask, which made you squirm in discomfort. 

“She’s fine,” You conceded. “Nick?”

“He’s good.”

Another pause. 

“... Well, I’m certain that you don’t want to talk about it.”

“I don’t, you’re right.”

“Yeah,” You let out a low embarrassed giggle, biting your bottom lip. “Neither do I.”

Another pause. You couldn’t hear a thing for the other side and, for a long stretched moment, it felt like you two were measuring each other’s breaths. 

“I didn't know it was Connors' birthday,” Which worked. Benny sighed in defeat, but it was better to talk about Murph’s ideas of parties than anything else. 

That was how fucked up the whole situation was. 

“We kinda did something. He always makes a big deal of that stuff.”

“You don’t?” 

“Nah, I’m old. Pushing closer to my 50s already. Whoever said middle age life for men it’s their peak, but that’s bullshit.” 

“If you were Telly Savalas, perhaps,” The teasing didn’t go unnoticed by him, who scoffed a laugh. It made you smile too. “So your party ended early.” 

“Couldn’t stay long there. My sister made up dinner because one of my nieces is going to college. Right now I’m sleeping in my old bathroom at my mom’s house.” 

“What, Benny Magalon still fits in his childhood bed?” 

“You know me enough to know how well I fit.”

Deep down, you realized that he didn't say that in a charming way to induce you into some kind of phone sex or something like that. He sounded a little indifferent, actually, and even lazy, as if that was what he should tell you because of the circumstances. You felt a certain relief when you noticed the tone in his voice, because you didn't feel up to it that day.

He moved on the other side, just like you.

“Are you gonna ask what I am wearing?” You teased with a small smile. 

“You’re naked. I heard the sound of water, so you’re in a bathtub.” 

“Aren’t you a smart detective.”

“Now who’s the one being a charmer,” He said.

“If I was, I would ask what you’re wearing.”

“I’m wearing sleep shorts.”

“Mm.”

“With no underwear.”

“Ooh, how sexy.” 

“Right.”

You two shared a quiet, peaceful laugh. You leaned back in the bathtub and rested your head on the edge of it, staring at the ceiling as you heard him moving again on the other side.

There was a hint of subtext, as if you wanted to say something and so did he, but no one knew how because it wasn't something as casual as a sexual joke or small talk. He called, after all, and if this was a failed attempt to 'relax', he had already made it clear that he wasn't very interested either. What was it, anyway? Should you bring up the subject of Isla? Should you two keep talking about this?

“Enjoy that bathtub for me,” Like a goodbye, voice and mind probably in another place. 

“I hate this fucking thing.”

“Enjoy it anyway. God knows it can give us a break. We all need it.”

“Yeah… Tell Connors I said happy birthday.” 

“Will not.”

You rolled your eyes and scoffed. 

“Good night, Benny.”

“Good night, gatita.” 

You abandoned the phone at the closed toilet seat as soon as the line was off, but you kept looking at the device for a while, as if waiting for something to happen or just expecting that sensation of unsaid things to go away. It shouldn’t hit you this hard – shouldn’t make you feel like things were simply falling apart. 

You just wanted to be sure for once that things wouldn’t be so difficult all the time. 

****

The first sip of coffee was distracted. When the taste hit your tongue, you immediately grimaced and threw the drink back into the cup, staring at the totally undrinkable dark thing.

Great. No good coffee as well. 

You wiped the corners of your mouth with your fingers and left the cup on the table, a little unsure whether you should throw it away or not. After little consideration, you just threw it in the trash can, massaging your eyes with the heels of your hands before taking a long breath. 

The break room was naturally busy in the morning, with people on double shifts and those who were arriving, like you, in and out of the tiredness of the end of the day with the beginning of another. Everyone was chatting amongst themselves, exchanging details about cases they were working on or the new bar that had opened nearby, so it was a bit strange that as soon as you rolled your shoulders to ease the tension, everyone turned their attention to a Lennon out of breath who entered the room with an urgent voice.

“Did you know?” That's all he said, then turning on the TV and stopping in the middle of the tables to watch it. You, who were further in front and close to the coffee machine, had to lift your head a little more to understand what was happening.

“Recognized for the successful work carried out on the Merrimen case, Los Angeles County Major Crimes, coincidentally on the day of the closure of one of the most intense operations carried out in the city and credited in its name, hands over the most recent drug trafficking case to the Drug Enforcement Administration, the DEA…” 

You could hear some gasps from your colleagues, murmurs and then shushings, so that they remained quiet and could listen carefully to what was there as if it wasn't obvious. After that, you just stared at the screen in disbelief, your brow furrowed and your hands outstretched at your sides. When they cut to the scene of the press conference in the building's press room, which appeared to have taken place not long before you arrived, you could only see Nick standing next to the sheriff, Walsh's team, and Mathias himself at the lectern making the announcement. 

Mathias's voice was a background sound, almost like an irritating noise in the silence of that room that seemed palpable. No commotion, no direct press releases, just a 'peaceful transition' (Walsh's words) to 'a more prepared and complete team' (also Walsh’s words), which indirectly could mean more than cutting spending by the County government but rather a nudge coward of someone who didn't have the balls to chest someone basically… male.

You felt a little bad about that. 

But, heavens, everyone thought that. And when Gina, of all those present, said mid Walsh's phony speech right after he highlighted the inefficiency of the forensic team (a part you only realized when he used the terms 'difficulty communicating with experts' and 'inadequacy expert with the magnitude of the case'), you blinked and saw her standing for herself, arms crossed and ready to fight.

“Nick does that fucking shit and we get the blame,” She said to the TV. 

Then you got hit by a huge wave of realization. Of Emma, of Benny, of the ‘codes’ they were using to talk with you, the alerts. You didn't imagine this had been shared with Gina, or with anyone else, but it sounded so premeditated that you felt a shiver of distrust.

No one there got caught up in it because they didn't have time, but everyone recognized the mechanisms and adapted to them. Neither you nor Gina whined much when the sheriff organized annual running competitions and didn't stay to reward the winning women; from what little you knew of Henderson, you didn't see him complaining, for example, about the fact that Nick always put him in for questioning black suspects, tapping him twice on the shoulder and saying 'you know what to do', but heavy in a condescending tone. Hell, you always saw the same ridiculous type of episode happening with Lennon as well. 

Taken back to reality by the commotion bubbling between your colleagues, you noticed Emma standing in the doorway as if she had sneakily appeared to observe the reactions and the two of you exchanged very tense silent looks. She didn’t look defeated, but averted your gaze as soon as it became just a staring contest. 

You turned to the TV – to the takes of Nick and the guys during the Merrimen case, then at their faces during the press conference. 

Huh. 

****

The atmosphere was burial-like, to say the least. You had spent the day in the lab, like a forced routine return, and it was as if no one had the balls to open their mouth and speak verbally about the subject. There were official emails from the DEA requesting evidence that had already been collected, reminders from Emma about other cases you were working on in parallel, one thing or another from Ballard (who didn't know how to create an email conversation and ended up answering each of your responses with a new email). There was a sepulchral silence from Major Crimes, but not the kind that left them untainted in the precinct's dome of recognition and social hierarchy – it was a shameful silence.

If you could bet on a collective concern, perhaps everyone was tense at the idea of ​​having been publicly exposed as incompetent, and if even the best team of detectives in the county had failed, there was no certainty of the stability of the Department's resources. This would not only make the LASD incompetent (or corrupt), but also incomplete.

You have a new text! You looked at the phone screen lazily, already expecting anything else, but when you saw who it really was, you couldn’t help but feel reticent and, at best, surprised.

****

“Is this your bat cave or something?” 

The door to the building's terrace always got stuck, but that was just one of the old or poorly working things in that place. Your comment was more to break the ice, to kill that sour mood after you stumbled to close the thing. You took a few steps closer to O'Brien and the others, the five of them sitting around in concrete boxes. 

“Was that supposed to be funny?” Zapata asked with a scowl, to which made you raise your eyebrows at the animosity.  

“I think so, but if you're offended I think I'm on the right track.” 

“You really are a bitch.”

“Tony-” Benny intervened. 

“Yo, there’s no need to-” Connors said.

“Yeah, Zapata, watch your fucking mouth,” Biting back wasn’t exactly the best idea, because you knew the spirits were agitated, but it was obvious that the context didn’t allow for that type of behavior against you. Everyone there knew that that reaction was the remnant of misdirected anger. 

You two shared a silent glare. Tony considered your face for a moment and you did the same; when Magalon pushed him to avert the attention, Zapata waved him off and walked away – you and Benny shared a small glance, one he soon ended to look at Nick, who watched the scene while lighting a cigarette. 

“We done?” He asked. 

“Don’t know, Nick, are we?” You sighed in defeat, sitting on a concrete support and looking anywhere but him. “You said it was important.”

“It is.”

“Is it about the case?”

“He used Isla. We think it had some internal interference.”

And so, being a somewhat literate person in the context of dealing with cops, you could see the pattern and tone of the conversation that had just begun: it was almost an interrogation. Everyone there, kind of around him, looking for the person who would go to the guillotine. It took a while, between the silence that followed, the way everyone (except Benny) was staring at you and Zapata's reaction so spontaneously explosive, but when you lifted your head and looked at that scene, connecting the dots, you frowned and felt truly offended. 

“Wow.”

“We need to be sure.”

“And it would be me for… what, exactly?” He didn’t answer, which made you scoff and giggle in disbelief. “Look, I know my friend wouldn't do that, but as any normal person you could ask Gina that, right?” 

“We did,” Henderson said. “We investigated and there was nothing.” 

“That means you investigated me as well?” 

You felt a pang of frustration greater than the outrage you were feeling. And despite the secret behind you and Benny, who shook his head, it was on him that you closed your eyes for a moment before looking back at Nick, who had his eyes downcast, scratching at the ground while blowing smoke from his mouth.

“You are all a bunch of fuckers.”

“You reacted to Isla,” O’Brien argued with a monotonous tone. “And you said I would be fucked if I messed with you again.”

“Because I’m a human being, Nick, the fuck.” 

No one said a word. There was this soft breeze flowing around, given the time of the year and the area where you were, one that you noticed that made their hairs flow and you shiver a little. If you paid close attention, you would see frustration and rage and that regular disappointment of a kid when they have lost a toy they like or are denied a candy. The loss, whatever it was, hurt for them but not for professional reasons but for honor. A very uncompensated and arbitrary honor, but an honor nonetheless. And it was always easier to blame someone else. You knew it was easy to make a calculation that would work for you because there would always be the feeling that you were impulsive, stubborn, even cruel – because men hurt you, because you still resent things in your personal life.

“I think it's common sense that almost no one here likes you very much,” You said in a low tone. “And we can agree that ethics and professionalism aren’t exactly the main pillars of what you do.”

Nobody said anything, because you were right. It was actually impressive that you managed to maintain a calm, almost soothing tone right after being basically accused of something so serious. Deep down, you felt that, at least, Nick didn't put much faith in this hypothesis, that this was a demonstration of power in front of others because his hands were tied and this was truly new to him. 

And you didn't ask what the plan was, what they were going to do next. You didn't care about that. No one needed to cry because they lost the case, it was obvious that it wasn't the first time this had happened – it certainly wasn't the last either.

Nick puffed some smoke out of his chest, eyeing you for a moment. Then, with a ‘tsk’, he huffed and crouched down, elbows resting on his eyes, making eye contact. 

“Someone reported the investigation to the Embassy. Walsh had us up against the wall as soon as you mentioned the fucking case in Long Beach because the bastard found out about her and me. I was exposed. I'm testing my options here and one of them includes the fact that you curiously knew that they were the same specifications in both cases,” He said. “Gina just found that out and spit to the whole fucking world to know. She’s not that dumb to risk herself to do so.”

“Yeah, but I am, because apparently it didn't occur to you that I was just good at my damn job. The fact that I knew about the pics was just a question of someone giving me a fucking clue?” You raised your eyebrows. “I got my degree and my master's at the same time, you son of a bitch. I don't need to suck anyone's balls to know how to do my job.” 

You two looked at each other. Nick was clenching his jaw, holding words in his mouth and turning them around enough so they could come back in a dry swallow. When he looked away first, blinking a few times, it was the first time you really saw genuine frustration, a moment of weakness that maybe, one day, Debbie had seen, or that the co-workers who were around him at the moment also witnessed in a rare way. 

Your brow was furrowed and you were truly confused and mad by this gap. Looking around, above O'Brien's head, you saw Zapata looking at the city below him with an annoyed look, his back to the two of you; Murph kept his hands in his hoodie pockets, Henderson had his arms crossed. Benny watched you, then looked at the ground, shaking his head. 

No, this wasn't about you, nor was it your fault – of course it wasn’t. In that context, you were just a part of the realization of something you hadn't touched until you saw every defeated feature on that rooftop. 

“... Are you sure?” You asked, blinking a few times with a shaky voice. 

Nick shook his head. 

“And you expect me to do something about it?”

“No,” He said with a firm tone, getting up on his feet. “No one here is sure. I figured you knew something since-”

“Since you thought I had something to do with it, yeah, I noticed,” It was directed to Tony, who just tsked and averted his gaze again. 

When everyone kept quiet, not daring to admit their mistake or even apologize, you were the one getting up, still not sure how to react and uncertain of how to end that conversation. 

“Never do that to me again, don’t-” You collected your voice, clearing your throat. “I never considered myself such a good person, but next to you I'm a fucking saint. I put up with a lot of shit from Walsh and Emma because of you, so shut the hell up before you dare think I'd change sides. If there is any side to this shit.” 

“I needed to be sure.”

“I hope you had all the answers you needed,” There was harshness in your tone, almost a fury. And surprisingly, he didn’t answer that equally. “And yeah, I’ll be honest, okay? You were a coward. I don’t like you. Go eat shit.” 

“It’s easy to say that after you put Benny in the middle of whatever it is you have with Walsh.”

“Listen now-”

“Excuse me?” You frowned, not even letting Magalon finish the interruption he was doing while getting closer. “I didn't ask anyone here to defend me! If this fucking case went wrong, try to consider your incompetence or the fact that no one asked you to fuck a suspect.”

When he kept quiet again, you scoffed, shaking your head. 

“It’s so easy, isn’t it? Walk around like you rule every place, do whatever the fuck you want, put the blame on everyone to feel better… Gina was right. You’re just like Walsh. Just like him.”

You nodded. 

“You always had all the tricks in hand and let a widowed single mother almost get killed by a gang. Curious of you to think anyone is responsible but you.” 

Turning your back, you walked away from him, already opening the door to leave the rooftop. Before you could, though, you eyed him one more time. 

“Whatever your plan is, when and if they ask me, I'll be sincere. About you and about her. Because I can do that.” 

“You would never say anything against Emma.”

The mention of her name, like an answer to your question, made you flex your fingers in anger. 

“... And I don't blame you for not believing that. It’s clear that it's been a while since you've been able to understand honesty.”

****

“You called her a bitch.”

Hearing Benny's voice break the silence was strange, so everyone was confused before understanding what he was saying. When they did, he saw Zapata shift uncomfortably on the couch, looking at the coffee table.

“I didn't think straight at the moment.”

“It seems like no one here has done that.”

“You want to say something?” Nick pressed with a rough tone, as if ready to snap at the detective right away. Benny measured him, shrugged. 

“I told you it was a bad idea. With Isla and with her.”

“We needed to get around it all, test possibilities. This shit is going to get ugly soon.”

“And you pushed away one of the few people who could keep us from getting screwed over too.” 

When they exchanged glances after Benny's response, there was a silent consensus that the disagreements were slowly getting bigger, something that had been surrounding the group long before you showed up or the case.

Everyone continued smoking in silence and the tense atmosphere didn’t dissipate. Things weren't going well.

****

You knew what you were getting into when you started your career there – you always did. Your parents looked at you the wrong way at first, Theodore always treated it as a temporary thing, and your friends always told you that a lab somewhere was great, or a university could be perfect for anyone who wanted to invest in the academic field, or a friend's company in private sector needed a professional who had the same qualifications as you. 

Still, you resisted the comments in the same way that someone resists some kind of temptation: you laughed, you chatted away and no one brought it up again. You didn't consider those things because you liked the stability that a government job gave you, and people just couldn't understand that.

It was the first time you really considered it. You have recapitulated occasions, measured the possibilities; maybe LASD was no longer the most stable place in the world to be, nor the safest.

The marijuana stash (that's what your brother called it) was in the drawer next to the bed. When you were with Theodore, he also used it, although he didn't really like it because he had headaches, so it was a common thing in the house. You were on your third or fourth drink, eyeing the files and releasing smoke into the air. There was no music, just the low light in the room and the brightness of Kojak's aquarium, so sometimes you needed to squint to see small letters of your own handwriting.

You revisited the case, reviewed your notes and copies of the evidence. Whether it was the effect of the marijuana drink, or your paranoid conscience, you wanted to know if at any point you missed something that indicated a failure in your judgment, if Nick was right or if you ended up taking the whole case down with Isla. 

Someone had been trying to call for half an hour, but you didn't answer –it must have been someone from work, because if it had been a family member they would already be knocking on the door. You didn't even look in the direction of the phone; the vibrations started to bother you but not distract you.

Before you could put the cigarette back in your mouth, someone knocked on the door. The doorbell had stopped working a while ago and that was one of the things that had to be fixed before you could sell that fucking house. 

“Who’s it?” You asked in a high voice, not moving from your spot. 

No one answered. That made you frown, then finally snap your eyes in the door’s direction. You waited. Seconds later, your phone had gone off. 

“... Hello?” 

“It’s me. Lemme in?”

Everything was screaming for you to say no, to hang up and leave him waiting outside until he gave up and disappeared. It would be very convenient for him to be there, ready to convince you of something, to be more malleable; it made sense. He could still be trying to take something out of you, as far as you knew. Still, you were a little out of orbit from the weed, slightly sluggish and relaxed, so you calmly got up, abandoned the files where they were spread on the coffee table and walked over, opening it but not waiting too long to see him enter before turning around again. 

You took slow steps into the room. There was the sound of the door closing, then being locked, and then his footsteps coming behind, but keeping his distance. 

“Weed?” He asked. 

“Are you going to arrest me?”

“I could,” That answer made you snort. “But it’s Cali. And you’re literally my teenage wet dream right now, so I can let it pass.”

Teasing or not, you looked at yourself and noticed your clothes (or lack thereof): panties, a long t-shirt. When you turned to him, standing in the middle of the room, Benny was staring at your legs, but he wasn't smiling.

“You're like a broken record, you know that?” You raised your eyebrows, hands on your hips. “All you say is that I'm in your dreams. This is cheesy as fuck.” 

“You didn't complain about that when you were riding me.”

“Oh, so this is my fault?”

“Well, you’re being quite hypocritical.”

“Fuck off.”

“Stop it.”

“What do you want?”

“You didn't answer my calls.”

“That doesn't answer my question, so I guess we're even.”

He was tense, stressed. You could tell. Benny wouldn't talk to you like that if he wasn't angry about something, maybe even frustrated because you weren't 'clear-headed' to talk at all. 

For a few seconds, he considered you while licking his lips, as if the gears were turning in his head. Yours was also moving, but more gradually, slowly, which left you a little unresponsive when you saw him take off his jacket.

“This must be good, you didn't even hear me.”

“Mm?” You blinked, taking in the sight of his forearms while he lifted his shirt sleeves. That made him crack a giggle. 

“Can I have some?” 

Oh. Oh. The weed. He was already walking closer to the coffee table to grab the joint between two fingers, eyes swiping over the papers, so you watched in awe as he put the cig on his lips and took a long drag, eyeing the burning tip with curiosity. Benny hummed and nodded while puffing the smoke.

“Shit’s really good. How did you get it?” 

“... My brother,” And before he could take another drag, you picked the joint from his hands. “Smoke, hold and pass. That's the rule.” 

“Are we in college or somethin’?”

“Shut up and sit down.”

That's what you two did – him on the couch, you on the carpet in front of him. You took another drag, handed over the cigarette and he brushed his hands on your shoulders before grunting, probably leaning back on the cushions. 

****

It was a very silent few minutes, almost making you forget that Benny was there. When the effect of marijuana hit him, he was already lying on the sofa, without his shoes or his top shirt, limiting himself to showing his arms in a white tank top. This gave you a period of lucidity, very brief, and soon there was no more marijuana to smoke, despite the joint not being finished.

All your caution was being thrown out the window, you knew, but it wasn't like it was going to make any difference. 

“Hey,” You called him in a low tone. 

“Mm?”

“Can I ask you something?”

Benny stayed quiet for a moment or two, as if gathering his thoughts, then you listened to him squirming on the couch, getting on his side to look at you even if you still had your back at him. Sensing that he was waiting for you to give him the same attention, you adjusted yourself and stared at him. 

“Shoot it.”

“What happened with Walsh wasn’t on purpose.”

Silence. For a beat, you even thought that he didn’t hear you, given the fact he was already zoning out a little. You started to feel embarrassed, weird. Well, you were high, which could lead to a version of you who would babble about a lot of nonsense and shit, but that was something that came from your lucid mind, probably a thing you wouldn’t say so softly without the weed. 

“It wasn’t a question,” He teased in a calm voice, smiling at you. 

“... I know,” You smiled back, but it turned into a bunch of stupid giggling. 

It cooled down soon. 

“I didn’t see it this way, you know. Walsh is a stupid motherfucker,” He said after a while.

“Jackass.”

“Dickhead.”

“Yeah… His head looks like a dick. An ugly one.”

“And there’s any pretty dicks somewhere?”

“Just as there’s pretty pussies.” 

“Have you ever seen others?”

You looked at each other, a small smile playing on your lips. When realization started to slowly creep on him, he opened his mouth in shock. 

“It was in college-”

“Always in college,” He rolled his eyes, grinning like an idiot. 

“I had this friend, Kennedy. We were roommates, I was single at the time, you know… It happened. But now we’re just good friends.”

“Mm.”

“I’m serious!” You laughed. 

“So you’re telling me that if this Kennedy comes up here tonight, ask to go down on you or whatever, you would say no?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Fuck, I would. I’m not cold blooded, gatita.”

A series of laughs filled the living room again. 

“We’re going out of the question here, yeah? Having a serious conversation.”

“You were the one talking about dicks here!”

“Because you called Walsh a dickhead!”

“Okay,” He sighed, adjusting his body to lean over his arm and have a better look at you. Little by little, Benny started to frown, as if thinking hard on something. You would be lying if you said it wasn’t a beautiful sight. 

“So?” 

“I know you didn’t do it on purpose,” His voice was soft, calm, even if a little concerned. “Plus, you had just signed a divorce and Walsh was there talking about it, humiliating you. That wasn't right.” 

You considered his words calmly, blinking heavily but still paying attention. 

“Nick wasn’t in his right mind when he said that.”

“You think?”

“Mm-hm. You shouldn’t worry about it,” And you knew he was talking about the files spread behind you, so you felt a wave of embarrassment. 

“...You’re not just saying that, are you?” The question was serious, probably the first serious thing you said since he came to your house out of nowhere. 

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re with them. Like… you know. With them.”

Benny nodded, taking in your words carefully. 

“Fair enough.” 

But he didn’t push the topic, nor tried to apologize or something. He let you have your doubts, probably because he himself couldn’t help but agree that maybe, if it was the other way around, there would be uncertainty on his part as well. You sighed, then, turning your eyes to the carpet and poking it every now and then, as if looking for something on it with false concentration.

“Hey.”

“Mm?”

“Come here.”

“What?”

“‘Wanna feel you,” He almost whined, sitting up and pulling you by the fabric of your shirt. 

“That’s why you came? To feel me?”

“Are you fucking mocking me, woman?”

“I am,” You got on your knees carefully, smirking at him lazily. “Looked like you just waited for the best opportunity to come back here and fuck me.” 

“But I don’t wanna fuck you, I wanna feel you.”

“What’s the difference?” 

The position you stayed couldn’t be more convenient: him, starting to sit as well, legs spread while you rose on your knees, ready to get up. It gave him some time to stare at you with a lazy grin. 

“Saying I wanna fuck would imply that I just came here for it,” He explained. “Feeling you could lead to sex, but with some warm up.”

“All the times we had sex had some warm up,” You argued, hands gripping his thighs lightly. 

“And it was so good, wasn’t it?” Benny asked when you rose just a little to get closer to his face. 

You observed his face for a moment before raising up to peck his lips lightly. When he just sighed, melting into it, you smiled and gave him another kiss, this time a little longer, wetter – enough to, when you part ways, it made a muah. The fabric of your shirt was worn out, old enough to make it more thin and give you a better feel when you gently brushed your chest on his. It made you sigh against his lips, doing it again when he groaned a little, unable to move a muscle but reacting in slow breaths. 

Both of you, silly high adults, brushing your noses, kissing soundly and ready to fuck each other’s brains out as if the world wasn’t basically on fire. 

“I didn’t come here for this, tho.”

This made you move your face, just a little, and the look on your eyes scrunched up in confusion. It felt like a spontaneous burst of lucidity, almost like a punch, and when he turned his face to the side, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, you felt brutally rejected. You moved your hands away from his legs. Suddenly, the carpet was hurting your knees and you stood up, muttering a 'sorry' as you sat on the edge of the sofa, a little away from him. 

“Did you come to defend Nick or something?” 

“This has nothing to do with Nick.”

“So why are you here? To tease about us fuck and not doing a thing about it?”

He considered your face for a moment, still taking in the effects of the weed – even if you both started to feel more buzzed then properly high. 

“You don't want to go to war with him.”

“Oh,” You raised your eyebrows, scoffing a sarcastic giggle. “So you came to be a gentleman and defend me from the evils of disagreeing with Nicholas O'Brien? I thought you made it clear that you didn't have much chivalry in your personality.”  

“I don’t.”

“Mm.”

“But that has nothing to do with chivalry. You’re not being rational.”

“About…?” 

Benny sighed.

“We both know it was Emma.” 

“That shit again…” You groaned, getting up brusquely from your seat and wobbling a little before starting to walk away to the kitchen. 

“What happened was-”

“A mistake. A fucking mistake.” 

When you turned, Benny was up too, standing a few feet closer to the kitchen entrance with his arms hanging loosely on his sides. The lack of answer made you shake your head, grabbing a glass bottle of water from the fridge and drinking a good amount. 

That made everything silent. With both hands on the kitchen’s sink, you closed your eyes and collected your thoughts. 

“I'm not naive to think she couldn't have been involved in this, but I'm not naive or stupid to absolve Nick of the shit he should be responsible for,” You glared at him, noticing his dry lips, the way he just blinked at you with a stern expression. With a tsk, you caught hold of a cup in the sink for him and poured some water in it, not daring to give, but letting it rest closer. 

He came, grabbed the cup. 

You could feel the effects of the marijuana, which were already weaker before, start to leave your system. You were sick, you made a face, but you swallowed your discomfort with more water. 

“I'm not Isla.”

It slipped out of your mouth like a slim and unstable thought, one that made him just nod, sipping on the water calmly while leaning on the sink beside you, eyeing the other side of the room. 

“Didn’t think you were.” 

“No?”

“Nn-nn.”

“So you didn’t investigate me?” 

You knew you had him cornered the moment you said it, but Benny didn't show any anger. He stayed quiet, sipped the rest of the water and stood in front of you, face to face, in such a firm way that you almost backed away if you weren't so irritated.

“If I were as much of a son of a bitch as you think I am, I would have let you finish what you started on that couch,” That made you avert your gaze, but he gently pushed your chin, bringing you to eye his face again. “I'm not Nick. Despite my inclinations, I didn’t ask you out in the first place to investigate you.”

“Right, so it was another thing you said was a bad idea to Nick?” 

“Yes, it was.” 

“Bullshit,” You scoffed, taking a step back. “So you’re that good of a person to get along with Nick’s shit and still be his moral compass? Gimme a break, Benny, I’m not that naive.”

Before he could answer, you kept going. 

“She's just a bargaining chip. She always was. And despite our visibly very different lives, I know what it's like to be used and then discarded as if you’re nothing, as if every promise was nothing more than a lie to achieve something very personal, something that never had to do with you,” You said. “I don't want you to come here and expect me to point fingers or accuse people. If it was Emma, ​​if it was Walsh, it doesn't make any difference if the person primarily responsible for this doesn't take the real blame.” 

“You know the world isn’t a fairytale, don't you?”

“I do! And Isla knows it too, better than anyone! This has nothing to do with an imaginary, but with commitment! When was the last time Nick used his badge for anything other than taking it out of his pocket while a whore gave him a blowjob?”

Nothing. Just silence. For a long, perceptive, heavy moment: silence. 

Benny shook his head in disbelief. 

“Emma received a letter of recommendation from the DEA forensic department,” He said in a low tone, catching you completely by surprise. That felt like a test, the way he observed your reaction with care, looking for an answer. When he found it, Benny nodded. “That's why I came here.”

“... What? I don’t understand.”

“I can't remember the last time I had five minutes of conversation with someone who had nothing to do with this shit. It takes me time to believe just as much as it does to you to know I tried to give him some sense, so if I’m here it's because I know you’re not involved and you need to know there’s people around you doing shit.” 

You could barely process the information, what that implied, because you had every right to disbelieve and have your doubts. There was a suspicious look on your face, he knew that because you didn't hide it, but he didn't take offense this time.

“Just stay away. Things are going to get fucked up,” He was definitive. “God knows I’ll have to be away as well.” 

****

No pressure tags:

@cheesybadgers  

@thesandbeneathmytoes ​

@nerdyreaderpapi

@thoroughlymodernminutia

@mysoulisasunflower

@seaweeden

@eclecticfashionbookszipper

@servenas-inner-fangirl

[foxcort]

a bond of thorns. tamlin/feyre, established!rhysand/feyre au | ao3

a submission for @tamlinweek2023 — day 7: free day.

—

For forty-nine years he served her. For forty-nine years he'd learned to forget who he was outside of the loyal pet he'd constructed to survive Under The Mountain.

—

Tamlin could still remember the moment he first touched the Cursebreaker.

Her fingers were trembling, every micro movement throwing another pained expression over her near lucid eyes. Feyre's fragile, human body felt at an abnormal temperature as it fought off a fever, and the very act of holding his hand seemed it would take her under.

Still, he waited for her to make the first move, waited for her to lift that bloody, broken arm in his direction before he gingerly took her hand in his. "Be sure of the bond you allow, human." His voice sounded too loud in the cold dungeon, though no movement stirred in the hallway outside and the guards on duty were half-asleep.

The bond he spoke of was more of a bridge, a conduit to stabilize his healing abilities in the confines of Amarantha’s curse. He was not made for healing and what little was left of it could barely repair a scratch without assistance or the full magnitude of his abilities. That was her little curse for him. To strip him of all things but his baser instincts, to leave him as nothing more than a beast.

"Just do it." She spoke through gritted teeth, her grip fluttering in his hand and it was all the permission he needed to squeeze her palm and let the magic rush forward. From the center of his chest where his heart lay, to his fingertips where he clutched at her. His magic twisted around their linked hands, embedding itself there as an invisible marker of the bargain they'd struck. Healing her for the promise of surviving Amarantha’s games and setting them all free.

Feyre had opened her mouth the second he squeezed. To scream or gasp or shout in pain, he would never know. Between one breath and the next her arm was healed and the bond had been made, diminishing the pain as if it had never existed. Even the mud was banished from her body, leaving her and her garments freshly cleaned and washed.

Snatching her hand back, she inspected it carefully as she flexed her fingers and wrist before letting out a long, shuddering breath. "Thank you." Her voice was as tight as the fist she now made and she sounded like she'd rather be eating dirt than thanking him.

"You can thank me by completing your next two tasks." Tamlin stood from his crouch, his tone dry as he tried not to think too deeply of the leftover warmth on his palm. "Without almost dying in the process."

She glared at him as she slowly stood, "These tasks are designed to kill me. I'm lucky I even survived the first one."

"Not luck, human. Love." He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling the leather of his empty baldric beneath. "Think of your High Lord and hope your love for him is enough to help you best Amarantha."

Tamlin watched her falter, then — a flicker of doubt passing across her features, before she straightened to face him. "Rhysand, is he—

"Under constant watch."

She paused. "And Mor?"

The gruesome image of the Morrigan's back was still etched into his mind. As violently crimson as the dress she'd worn. "Punished. For helping you in your first task." A strangled noise left Feyre's mouth and he watched her lean against one of the cold, jagged walls for support.

"She'll heal. But she won't be making anymore trips to your cell for a while."

"And you? Why are you here?" Feyre whirled on him, angry tears glossing her eyes. "What is Amarantha's hound doing lurking in the cell of a miserable, dying human? What do you gain from helping me?!"

Amarantha's Hound.

That’s what they called him Under The Mountain.

Not her general. Not the High Lord of the Spring Court. Not even Tamlin.

No, he was her Hound. Her dog. One loyal enough to bend at his mistress’ every will and whim.

For forty-nine years he served her. For forty-nine years he'd learned to forget who he was outside of the loyal pet he'd constructed to survive Under The Mountain. And he would do it over and over again to protect his court and his people.

So, why then, did the moniker that had not bothered him an inch thus far feel like muck coating his skin now? Why did the opinion of a human hold him so tightly?

Tamlin bristled, his eyes narrowing a fraction as he regarded her in all her furious glory and tried to tamper down his own growing temper. "You and your precious High Lord are not the only ones who suffer, human."

"That doesn't answer my question." She bit back, glaring him down with a boldness that irked him.

"Worry not for my motives. Focus on the reason you disregarded good sense to come back over that wall.”

She stepped forward, her face close enough for him to pick out every wild and rampant emotion that raged across it. “You seem so sure of something you all mock me for. Or are you hoping that you didn’t just gamble your place in court to rot down here with me?” She bared her teeth when she spoke again. “What if you’re wrong, Hound?”

His jaw clenched, teeth gritting as he leaned down to meet her frustration and anger. "Perhaps you should dig deep down and find a way to love your High Lord of Night a little harder, then."

She moved quick for a human, but Tamlin saw every small reaction to his words before they came. From the slight widening of her eyes, to the baring of her teeth and finally her left hand lifting to strike him. Idly, he contemplated allowing her to hit him, for he felt as ugly and decrepit as the taunt he'd thrown at her.

But his own reflexes reacted in tandem, right hand shooting up to snatch her hand midair, inches before his face. For a moment, he felt nothing but the return of her overtly warm palm and the rapid beat of her heart beneath the surface.

And then . . . an implosion.

A short-lived, searing pain met every point his skin touched hers and Tamlin jerked his hand away with a hiss as the pain skittered up his arm and ended just above his elbow. Feyre had let out a yelp, yanking her hand back simultaneously and cradling it against her chest in what he could only assume was a twin reaction to his.

"What— What did you do?!"

An intricate pattern of delicate thorns and clandestine roses twisted up her left hand, ending at her elbow. Even her fingers were tattooed, though the strokes were finer, more elegant. And in the center of her palm, stemming from her wrist, a rose in full bloom.

Stomach tightening, Tamlin dropped his gaze to his own arm and found an identical portrait of thorns and roses winding its way over his skin. "I-I didn't." But he didn’t believe she would see it as such. It looked more like a retaliation, for daring to hit him. Or — and he groaned outwardly as he thought of it — a way to rouse Rhysand's ire. To sully the love between them.

"Take it off. Take it off before—

"I can't, I didn't make this—

Tamlin cut his words short, head tilting at the shock of noice outside the dungeons. "Someone's coming." Guards rotating shifts by the sounds of their voices.

"Don't leave me with this on my arm."

"I can't be found here." He dropped his voice to a whisper as the main door to the dungeons slammed open, just a few cells away from them. His gaze snagged to her tattoo once more twisting his stomach further. "I'll find a way to fix it."

And before she could speak he vanished, unaware that the look of horror on her face would haunt him until the moment she took her last breath.

—

a/n: originally i had a lot more planned for #tamlinweek but i’ve been sick recently, so i reset my goal to writing at least one thing! this little snippet is suppose to be a reverse of tamlin/feyre/rhysand during utm in acotar, as i thought it would be an interesting au to play with. hope you guys enjoy!

[csvent-2]

/csvent-2/755875433859465216/first-of-all-english-is-not-my-first-language?source=share

Yeah, no. You're just trying to hide your dog shit, ignorant take behind a *-phobia, and that's disgusting for a myriad of reasons. If you don't value writing, that's fine, but the winds aren't blowing in your favor here. More and more, people are realizing that writing counts and should be respected, not treated as a dump.

If you can't spot AI writing, that's a you problem, probably due to English being your second language. Which is fine! What sociopath would blame you?

I'm sure if you were a CS mod and were concerned you were reading something AI-generated, a native English speaker would be happy to help OR you can use something like GPTZero, which can, with high probability, detect AI-generated writing, AI-assisted writing, and human writing.

If you think good artwork takes more time to polish than good writing, you've never written something with the intention of it being good. You are just reaching for a quota. You have never cared about the words you put down, or how you communicate, and this shows in your responses.

Do you know how long a novel, for example, takes to write and edit? 6 - 12 months on average, representing hundreds, possibly even thousands, of hours of work, often across three different people, if not more. If it's a non-fiction work, you can add another 6 - 12+ months for research and more people, possibly numbering in the dozens depending on the topic.

Short stories and articles, depending on genre, fiction vs non-fiction, etc, certainly take less time. Depending on a number of factors, it can take upwards of 50 - 100 hours to get a short story or article into a polished form. (We are passing over micro-fiction here because this is already long.) For non-fiction that requires interviews or lots of research, you're looking at a couple hundred hours. So don't think short stories and articles are easier. They are, in fact, widely considered more difficult because of the limited amount of space you have to make your point.

Let me reverse this on you: drawing is a lot easier because something like a polished colored sketch that took the artist ten hours max can be considered good. It can fulfill a quota. It can be considered art. Most CS will certainly accept it, albeit for fewer points.

A sketch in writing? We call that a draft, and drafts are not acceptable for a reading audience beyond a few beta readers and, if you have them, an agent and editor. Even writers who have their works gathered and posthumously published will have their work edited for consumption.

So in a sense, while you can stump out a quick drawing and it's art, a writer has to make a full illustration before it actually counts for anything. Just because CS mods and people like you gloss over this fact doesn't change it.

Doesn't feel so good when your logic is applied to something you like, does it?

You don't seem to realize that writing isn't just words and punctuation. It's character, plot, setting, pacing/suspense, theme, dialogue, etc. Behind every decent writer is also thousands and thousands of hours of reading to understand how other successful writers have handled that big list of things to worry about. (Just like, hm, behind every decent artist is thousands of hours of studying various aspects of art.)

Your take makes me genuinely wonder if you read stories (in your language or English). You sound like one of those people who just watches TV and movies and that's the extent of your exposure to the craft of writing. This, too, is fine! But you're wearing a blind fold at this point. Multiple people have tried to explain this to you, but you'd rather hide behind the shield of xenophobia, which had nothing to do with the original point.

You are mad your ignorance has been called out.

Also, you know why writing doesn't count in appraisals? Because nobody buys it. Because they're like you and don't see the value in it other than a place to piss and shit.

My suggestion to anybody who's curious about drawing vs writing (excluding the anon I responded to, as I suspect they're a hopeless case): take a creative writing class. You can find some free on Youtube or for a reasonable price elsewhere.

Pick up some how-to-write books--your local library will certainly have a lot of them. Then try to intentionally write something good. Think about the character arcs, how the plot weaves together, etc. Then spend time editing it (your library should also have books about self-editing).

I think it will be illuminating.

🌸

[persephoneed]

Sounds like you were pretty ignorant then if you didn’t have all the mass of super explicit and easy to see racism and Jew hate in hp. She literally says black people are inferior, Asian girls are objects, and goblin bankers are like jews word for word in the books.

I’m not going to pretend that there isn’t racism, antisemitic Jewish-coding, and fatphobia present in the HP series but I’m also not going to pretend it was as “explicit” or “word for word” as you (so smugly!) say. I think JRK and HP would’ve lost fans a lot sooner if those were direct quotes rather than micro-aggressive subtext. Also, I’ve been on this site a long time; we used to interact with problematic texts very differently back then.

I was seven years old when I first started reading the books so yes I was very blind to all of it for a long time. When I joined tumblr I learned so much about the series’ failings through various posts and discourse (shoutout to the poc fans who often wrote these posts and did so much legwork and education for the fandom), but it was still a story that, at the time, we could all love and enjoy. We wrote fanfiction and headcanons and theories and analysis - so many people were creating beautiful art and visual interpretations of the characters; the series was finished so we all made it our own. We knew and acknowledged the problematic aspects of the series. But my little corner of the fandom improved upon the series if you ask me. We created our own mythology surrounding the Marauders the JKR could never do justice herself. And so much diversity was added to HP which JKR later tried to pretend was there all along but I cannot stress enough how much this was pioneered by the poc (particularly the woc!) members of our community. If HP was ever a loving and accepting space for all different types of people, it was because the fans made it that way. (Not to completely gloss over any of the problems we had within the fandom because that did unfortunately exist as well)

Things became different once JKR started releasing new content on Pottermore that mishandled real indigenous cultures in the United States as well as fictional wizarding cultures outside of Europe. I have never watched the Fantastic Beasts series but I have heard about the issues there are well. It was getting pretty obvious to many of us then that she had not grown or educated herself in the time since the series had ended, and that her previous offenses could not be explained away as youthful ignorance or a sign of the times.

Then she began openly/loudly/happily attacking the trans community and their rights; that’s when I jumped ship and a majority of my mutuals did as well. Maybe in hindsight it could be said that the writing was always on the wall, but, if you were there when it all went down, trust me there was no “I saw this coming a mile away.” And to act like that’s the case is an insult and cruelty to all of the trans people who were fans at the time and the most betrayed out of all of us by her words and actions.

In short, a huge fuck you to JKR for ruining what was previously a safe and beautiful space for a lot of us. But also fuck YOU, whoever you are, for belittling what we had and what we lost.

EDIT: my main point here is a diverse group of fans from all over the world put their blood, sweat, and tears into building and flourishing the fandom only for the creator to burn the whole house down. No one is interested in your superiority complex.

[gianninnaa]

is that giannina castro ? a freshman originally from anaheim , ca , they decided to come to ogden college to study music . they’re the influencer on campus , but even they could get blamed for greer’s disappearance .

basics

name: giannina castro. nickname: g, gia, gigi, nina. date of birth: june 5th 2003. age: nineteen. zodiac: gemini sun, leo moon, taurus rising. gender: cis woman. pronouns: she/her. sexuality: bisexual. hometown: anaheim, ca. major: music. trope: the influencer.

personality

positive traits: ebullient, grandiose & affable. negative traits: profligate, fickle & superficial. character inspo: jackie burkhart (that 70’s show), emma mountebank (the quarry), sharpay evans (high school musical), daisy jones (daisy jones and the six), serena van der woodsen (gossip girl), hanna marin (pretty little liars), haley dunphy (modern family), alexis rose (schitt's creek) – some more than others. likes: lip gloss, moscato, sweet candy scented perfumes, glitter, being adored, lively parties, having someone to take pictures for her in public, white chocolate, shopping, the feeling of having your hair and nails both freshly done, cats, validation. dislikes: dirt, spiders, being ignored, walking home alone after a party, super drying matte liquid lips, the combination of chocolate and orange, fireball. habits: dots her i & j with hearts, twirls her hair when she thinks, shamelessly takes photos in public, still writes in her diary, if you hold her hand- she will swing it while you walk, blows bubbles whenever she has bubblegum, laughs when she's nervous. skills: batting her eyelashes to get whatever she wants, writing songs, figure skating, symmetrical winged liner, cheerleading, can make conversation with anyone. flaws: tries too hard, gossips, switches sides when it suits her, compares herself to others, takes no being like very very personally, changes to be what she thinks people want from her. aesthetics: becoming the ideal and losing yourself in the process, the battle between girlhood and godhood, perfume clinging to silk sheets, a lonely mansion on top of a hill, clinking of champagne flutes, the future is covered in roses, late nights spent dancing under the moonlight, girlhood forfeited in lieu of greatness, laughter like sodapop, venus in her scallop shell, multiple hearts but not one is capable to love, shooting for the stars because the earth is not enough, the chaos of a lively city, warm as the sun and burning as bright, childhood dies with thundering applause.

physical appearance

faceclaim: jenna ortega. height: she's 5'1, but she's always wearing some kind of heel or platform. even casually, she's got a cute lil pair of chunky white platform sneakers. she says being taller makes her legs look longer, so she'll never give it up. hair: the cutest little curtain bangs bc i love them!! she's very very on trend. all the little braids and space buns that have come into fashion are so gia. heat styles her hair every day. makeup: she doesn't go Crazy on her makeup. she has a stupid long skin care routine to make sure she always appears as flawless as she wants people to believe she is. light weight foundation that lets her freckles show through. winged liner and half lash is a staple. gloss > lipstick any day,, but like a tinted gloss. she's still fun. fashion: gia doesn't have a set style of her own. she just follows the trends. back in the day, trends lasted a little longer. now?? all those micro trends? girl buys a new closet like every month.

connection to the trope

giannina’s life has been in front of the camera since the day she was born. every talent show or dance recital recorded by her parents. photos from every first day of school, birthday, school dance, and everything in between. it was just another part of her life. like every other teenager growing up in the ‘10s, gia had social media. none of it was out of the ordinary until 2019. giannina’s tiktok account was mostly just slice of life content. messing around with her friends, outfit checks, lip syncing to her favourite song. she got a decent amount of follower from simply being attractive one the internet, but she didn’t really start to blow up until she started posting her songs. originals, covers – they started the career gia has now. the more she posted, the more followers she got. though she'd like to say she worked hard to get where she is now, that’s not really true. she just got lucky. her rising stardom was basically an overnight change. at least, that’s how it felt. suddenly, there were brand deals, teen choice awards, invites to red carpet events, record deals. it was perfect. original songs became a bigger part of her platform now that she was actually able to start releasing singles. more vlogging / day in the life style posts to show all the glamorous things she was doing (with a touch of “i’m just like you!”) get ready and unready with me. gia constantly has her phone on her; insta stories, tiktoks showing her life here at ogden. she’s a social media princess, and she intends on getting even bigger. ( career inspo – charli d'amelio, loren grey, nessa barrett )

connection to greer

her relationship to greer is one big “ what could have been ”. at least, that’s what gia says to anyone who will listen. two ships in the night, greer unfortunately going missing right before giannina’s freshman year. all she could do was mourn the ‘big sister mentor’ figure she’d never get to make greer. the truth, however, was a little less simple.  when looking into ogden college, it was impossible to miss whispers about their very own golden girl. gia didn’t attend that party just for greer– she isn’t crazy– but when they found themselves in the same room, gia couldn’t let the opportunity pass. everyone would be swarming her when school started. even though giannina knew she could command an entire room’s attention, she didn’t want to lump herself in with the pathetic crowd begging for salvation. she approached the other girl at the party, champagne flute in her hand like an offering to some goddess. they hit it off the way gia knew they would. by the time she was walking into college, she’d already be royalty without having to try. who knew so much work and planning went into seeming effortless! it was all perfect until the news broke about greer going missing. while many people believe gia would operate on some kind of “there’s no such thing as good or bad attention, just attention!” mindset, that couldn’t be further from the truth. greer’s drama seemed messy and complicated, so gia severed all ties. forgot every word they spoke to each other (the drinks flowing definitely helped). all greer ever was or ever would be to gia is an almost. hmm, if only she remembered to purge her insta as well as her memories!

headcanons

💓 tba!

wanted connections

𝑷𝑳𝑨𝑻𝑶𝑵𝑰𝑪 💓 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐛𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬 — young, wild and free; that’s always been the goal. you’ve both met your match. though you probably bring out the worst in each other, you have so much fun when you’re with them. something that burns this bright is bound to burn out quickly, but it’s going to be one hell of a ride until you crash! 💓 𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐞 / 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐢𝐚 — tba! 💓 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 — someone that followed gia on social media before she came to ogden. 💓 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞 — in the eye of a hurricane, there is a quiet kind of peaceful. they bring out this kind of stability in gia. they don’t force her into it or make her feel bad when she has those days she feels like she can’t slow down, they just embrace her regardless. gia knows she always has a safe place to land, whether it’s controlled or a crash. 𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑶𝑵𝑰𝑺𝑻𝑰𝑪 💓 “𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐦𝐞” — point blank: gia is a bit of a fake. though she's charming to most, this is someone that just sees right through her act. they don't buy any of her fake kindness. 💓 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐠𝐢𝐚 — tba! 💓 𝐞𝐱-𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 — tba! 𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑰𝑪 💓 𝐮𝐧𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 — it’s hard not to fall for someone like gia. handing affection out like candy, it was only a matter of time before someone took her seriously. sometimes it escapes her mind that some people flirt for love rather than fun. other times, she truly were just being friendly and now has someone pointing the finger and saying she led them on. 💓 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 — tba! 💓 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 — there was a small talking stage between them, but it ended- or more accurately, fizzled out- when gia stopped responding to them. could be on bad terms/hurt/upset by it or neutral/not caring. 💓 f𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐳𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 — similar, but gia friendzoned them. could be mutual friendzoning, could be bitter, anything!

[punkbakugo]

Hey Nico! How's everything? Hope you're doing fine. I've been a fan of your blog/replies/analysis for years, since 2017, I think, and sometimes I skim through your replies because we agree on basically everything about BNHA so it's really comforting to me coming here to your blog. I hope you still like this manga, re-reading some asks made me think that through the years your replies have gotten more and more uninterested, so I was guessing if you still like it? I hope so, it'd be (1/2)

(2/2) very sad to lose someone like you in this fandom 😭 anyway, I wanted to ask you something else too: I recall your disliking for Best Jeaniat, one of the things we both agree on. Did some of the latest scenes he had with Kacchan make you like him a little more? I'm... kinda 50/50. I appreciate that he's there taking care of Kacchan's corpse as much as he can, but... eh. That whole "I see you as an experiment" really stuck with me 🤨. What do you think? Wish you a great day!

if i seem disinterested i think it’s partially life getting in the way and partially me realizing i need to not burn myself out keeping up with fandom stuff and trying to have something to say all the time. not that i've lost my interest or that i don’t want to still do analysis but rather my thoughts about it would get too mixed up in discourse that sometimes it gets in the way of me just enjoying what i enjoy about it and generally when i do some kind of analysis post it’s either because i’ve been prompted by an ask or it’s in response to something i saw other people say but i’ve kept myself increasingly insulated from the fandom so i end up feeling like i don’t have much to say. and tbh sometimes i just get a little bored during big ensemble arcs like the war arcs lol BUT!! i assure you if i no longer had any interest in bnha i wouldn’t be bothering to keep up with the manga

now a bit of a rant to answer your question:

in the broad strokes of the story i'm impressed with how much compassion bakugou's character arc gets handled with. he's still responsible for his own actions of course but at the same time there's a lot of emphasis put into showing how much of his behavior and the things that happen to him are the result of how the adults around him have failed him and yet on a micro level so often are bakugou's feelings invalidated or played off as unreasonable for the sake of comedy or is adults disrespect for him glossed over for some cheap appeal to emotion

like that little bit in the middle of the paranormal liberation war arc where snapshots of deku, bakugou, and todoroki's families are shown and mitsuki's looking through a scrapbook of pictures of bakugou feels especially egregious to me. i in no way doubt the sincerity of her love for her son but it's just a teeny tiny bit difficult for me to care about their relationship when their one singular onscreen interaction involves her mistreating and belittling him, y'know?

when it comes to best jeanist, personally i'm still not over how he treated bakugou and i wish there was more acknowledgment of that but i can maybe take the whole hero name reveal as a sign that he understands he didn't Get bakugou and it's not like i'm mad that other characters care about bakugou's wellbeing lol but that being said, when the narrative tries to frame it like bakugou and best jeanist have some significant bond on par with other mentor/mentee relationships in the story it just feels hollow imo

TL;DR have my feelings toward best jeanist changed? not really lol

[golleecosmetics]

While the wet look lash trend may not be entirely new, it seems to be growing in popularity in the lash world right now.  If there's one thing worth celebrating in the bright year of 2022, it's that we've all had more time to think about what makes us truly happy.  I predict that in 2023 many of us will face our decisions in life with a YOLO attitude, simply not caring what others think but doing what brings us joy. Wet Look Lashes are one of the most popular lash extension styles on Instagram right now.  This look mimics the look of lash extensions when you wet them;  creating a sharper, more subtle effect.  Slicked-back hair, dewy skin, and glossy lids are tried and tested summer favorites, but with wet-look lashes, you can never go wrong.  They're not the latest lash trend on the block, but they're definitely on the rise.  With travel (and vacations!) coming back, what better way to recreate that enviable poolside lash look? What are wet look lashes? The wet look style recalls the volume of the lashes when they are wet before drying and puffing up, hence the name.  The overall effect is somewhat similar to classic lashes.  The biggest difference is that wet look lashes look thicker and bolder.  Another advantage is that being technically voluminous lashes, the base can be wrapped around the natural lashes, improving retention. Wet look lashes are always sexy, mysterious, and very seductive.  Something about a woman with wet eyelashes makes all men feel weak and women envious of the attention they receive. Of course, if you don't like that dramatic look, there are other options available.  Examples include natural-looking half-lash extensions or individual lashes that only reԛuire a little mascara to add volume. Wet look lashes are essentially created by using lighter lashes to create narrow, virtually closed fans that must be applied to individual lashes to achieve the desired effect. The light, flowing feel of classic lashes with a voluminous, textured look, this is one lash trend we're sure many of your customers will love.  It's great for a wide-eye, exaggerated look. What are the basics of wet-look lashes? These lashes will produce an aura of mystery and sensuality like no other type of lash extension.  They are made by coating the lashes with a gloss lotion to give them that wet look.  The most common ones are made from human hair.  However, it is also possible to find synthetic fibers that you have coated with wet-look products. How to apply lashes for a wet look? Clean client tabs Before starting a full set or fill, always make sure the client's lashes are clean.  After washing your lashes, dry them with a fan. Apply the eye pads and tape Carefully apply the eye pads and masking tape.  If your client is allergic to gel patches, you can use lash tape, micro-foam tape, or any other lash tape that does not contain gel.  However, the regular lash tape will work for non-allergic clients. When doing this, make sure the eye pads don't bother your customers.  Since they can close their eyes and the eye pads can move slightly, make sure it is comfortable and does not touch their eyes.  Ask if it's good or bothering them. Apply the primer To start, apply the primer.  A primer will remove the natural oils from the lashes, allowing the extension to adhere to the natural lashes.  Any extra oil will be removed, making it easier for an extension to adhere.  A lash primer is a great option when it comes to lash retention. If you want to remove oil and dust from your natural lashes and increase the hold of your extensions, a small amount is enough.  If you apply a lash primer, the extensions will last at least another week. Just a quick tip, using a lash primer on a client's dry lashes can cause them to dry out, even more, preventing the glue from fully penetrating the surface.

  Use an eyelash primer if a client has oily skin and oily eyelashes. Also, mixing brands and products is fine if you feel comfortable doing so. Eyelash application Apply in the same way as with classic lashes.  They are similar to classic lashes, although they are a bit thicker.  Wet lashes are known because these volume fans or tips are applied like classic lashes.  It is as simple as possible.  There is nothing complicated. I understand that it looks complicated but believe me, if you wet your lashes as I told you and gather them like classic lashes you will get the wet lashes effect (no more than 10, maybe a little bigger and a little thicker ) It's common to correct and replace your lashes if you don't like the way they look, especially if they're not perfectly spiky. I would also like to stress the importance of not brushing the lashes at any point during placement.  I only brush them up to lift and see if they look the way I want because I didn't want them to get fluffy. https://www.youtube.com/shorts/6U0Caq54wpI How do you get the wet lashes to look? First techniԛue Use flower cups or sticky rings as a starting point.  Alternatively, you can use 0.03 tabs, which are much lighter.  You don't want to use classic lashes for a wet look. Grab a few lashes with your curved tweezers or your favorite shape of tweezers.  Make sure to use tweezers with a good grip. To get the wet lash effect you will need a couple of lashes and you can make them as thick or as light as you like. On the other hand, some lash extension clients prefer a very light look with no fans.  You can make them look spikier or like a classic lash base. You can also make spikes by sticking the base into the flower cup and sliding it through.  Taking out your lashes and popping them into the flower cup is all you need. TIP: Pinch the lashes with tweezers and make sure the ends are glued together. Second techniԛue You can use a glue aid for the second technique. Glue aid is just what you need to speed up the drying time of lash adhesives that are not curing properly due to low humidity.  Blue aid should be the first tool you reach for if your joint takes too long to dry and you want to speed it up. You don't need a glue aid when working in high humidity environments because your adhesives will naturally accelerate due to high humidity levels.  It could be the key to solving the temperature and humidity problems of the lash room. To create a wet look, apply the glue aid to the base and run it between the lashes. Clean the entire lash line with a micro swab.  As you can see, the lashes are starting to get damp, so lift them up and brush along the lash line. Take your tweezers and pull to the right where any small indentations show.  It's almost as if there is a crack through which you can reach in and pull out. Place the whisk over the flower cup.  It is very easy to achieve a wet lash effect.  By dipping it into the adhesive and sliding it through the flower cup, you are crystallizing it.  It will harden and hold its shape, so when you want to put it on your natural lashes, dip it into a small amount of glue and place it on your natural lashes, this will keep it closed. Make sure they have the classic lash look.  You can also get ten tabs for each one. Who are wet look lashes suitable for? Natural lashes that are moderate to full. I generally don't recommend this look to someone with sparse lashes, as sparse lashes benefit fans of more volume who are fat and baggy than thin and straight as the style demanded from this look. This creates the effect of "water glued" lashes as if you just got out of the shower or the sea (the second option, of course, is more romantic). When we use long rays, they are also hidden and rest on all the lashes. The wet look lash is great, but unfortunately, it's not suitable for clients if:

1. They have curly eyelashes 2. Your eyelashes grow straight or down 3. Your eyelashes are very thin or grow unevenly Tips to keep in mind when applying for a wet look lash extension Once you have decided to buy wet-look lashes, some basic tips will help you apply them successfully.  The first point is that before using any type of false eyelashes, it is advisable to test whether or not they are suitable for your eyes.  It means that you should place them against your eyelid to see if they trigger reactions (eg irritation, itchiness, etc.).  In this case, stop using them immediately. When it comes to applying wet-look lashes, there are 3 key points you need to keep in mind: Prepare your eyes Always prep your eyes before applying false lashes.  You can do this by applying a little moisturizer on your eyelids to remove excess oil.  This is because the oily areas prevent the stickers from adhering properly, which won't last long. Choose the best sticker When it comes to finding an adhesive to use for wet-look lashes, you want to buy ones that are a little stronger than the ones you use every day.  This will increase the chances of them staying longer and reduce the risk of getting an eye infection.  Also, if they start to fall off, it is easier to remove them with a stronger product. Start by applying a little As with any type of false eyelashes, even if they are wet-look lashes, you should only apply a little at first and then gradually build up the effect.  This is because too much will result in an unprofessional look that will be noticeable to anyone who sees your face. Choose the right pair Many stores now sell wet-look lashes, but it's important to choose the best ones so you can wear them with confidence at all times.  To help you choose the perfect pair, here are some essential things to consider: Dimension You should buy false eyelashes that are close to the natural length of your eyelashes.  However, if you have short natural lashes, it is a good idea to buy longer lashes to make them stand out more.  Also, do not forget to consider how thick your eyelashes are because if they are too thick, it will be even more difficult for your eyes to breathe, causing eye infections or irritation. Style If you want to buy natural wet look lashes, your options will be short.  Instead, consider buying wet-look lashes that are made with thicker fiber and appear longer.  This is because they can add length and volume to short or thin natural lashes to give them a fuller effect that lasts all day. Material The best material for wet-look eyelash extensions is mink fur because it is soft and flexible.  Plus, it means they are more comfortable to wear, giving you a flawless look all day long. Price While false eyelashes of any kind can be expensive, especially if you buy them from a high-end brand, you should always buy the best ԛuality product that fits your budget. This is because it is better to pay more for a great pair than to spend money on multiple pairs of low ԛuality cheap lashes. What are wet mascara look lash extensions? The wet mascara look is currently one of the most popular lash styles demanded by customers all over the world.  It looks like this awesome textured lash style is here to stay! As the name suggests, wet mascara lash extensions look like a series of volume lash extensions that are wet.  Imagine what your extension set would look like after you stepped out of the shower.  Yes, this is when all the volume fans go off.  Instead of looking soft and fluffy, mascara's wet-look lash extensions are spiky and textured.  If you haven't already noticed, textured lash extensions are SO all the rage these days.  Many clients find the spiky look appealing and they look much more like striped lashes. Who would suit the wet mascara look? Clients who

would be best suited for the wet mascara look are those who love the texture of their lashes.  Depending on how much texture your clients want, you can customize the amount of texture by varying the length of the lash extensions. The wet mascara look is also suitable for clients with a moderate to the full lash line.  Note that this style only uses closed lash fans, which is similar to classic extensions.  This look on clients with a sparse lash line will have more spacing and appear less full.  Clients with a sparse lash line benefit from larger fans and more volume instead of fanless extensions. History of wet look lashes The wet effect is created by using narrow, almost closed-volume fans.  This look is great for creating textures and bold looks.  These lashes got their name from the wet-looking appearance of the finished products after the entire procedure.  Therefore, they are also known as wet look lashes.  These lashes were first seen in the New York and London fashion shows in the early 1970s and have since become a popular choice among women all over the world. Conclusions Are you thinking of offering wet-look lashes?  Perhaps you can think of clients who would love this style of lashes.  It's so easy to add an instant upgrade to your treatment menu with this trend. If you want to enhance your smile and see people admiring your new look, now is the perfect time to shop for some wet-look lashes.  So, what are you waiting for?  No need for excuses as they are affordable and can last up to 25 times longer than regular false eyelashes.  Wet Look lashes are uniԛue and will help you find the perfect lash extensions for any occasion.  They're easy to apply, look great, and come in different colors, which you can use to change up your overall look. Never be afraid to try something new and offer different effects to your clients!  Perhaps the wet look will steal their hearts and make them fall in love with lash extensions forever!

[testcoatonline]

Micro Tri Gloss: How Do you Use a Byk Gloss Meter?

You’ve likely seen gloss meters at paint stores and with industrial equipment sellers — angular devices with a thick needle-like probe sunk into a thick plastic block. When you press the probe against any surface, the meter gives out reading in degrees of gloss, from 0 to 90 or more. For example, if someone said that something needed 20-degree gloss to match the factory coating, they might mean 20 degrees of gloss measured by a micro tri gloss meter.

Here is something you need to know about gloss meters, though: they are often used improperly, giving the wrong results. And not knowing that can cost you thousands of dollars in unnecessary repairs.

The problem is that most gloss meters were not designed to be anything more than a simple scale for measuring total thickness on surfaces. To get the most accurate results for measuring paint, you need a special meter designed specifically to measure gloss on paint.

That’s what Byk has done with their incredible Micro Tri Gloss instrument, which gives ultra-accurate readings on paint finishes, provided it is hooked up correctly with the proper calibration block.

How Micro Tri Gloss Works

The design of the Micro Tri Gloss instrument is completely different than your standard gloss meter. Instead of having a long needle or probe attached to an analog scale, the Micro Tri Gloss has spheres inside a glass case -- one sphere for each reading. And instead of an analog scale, there is a digital display. The point here is that you cannot just touch the ball terminal on any old gloss meter and expect accurate readings. You need to know what that even means.

The first question is: how does a gloss meter measure anything at all? The answer is that it measures the amount of light reflecting off the paint. It does this by bouncing light off the surface and sending it through a prism, which breaks it up into different colors, and then into a sensor that measures the amount of light striking each sphere.

That’s where you get your integer readings from gauges like those on cars — 0 to 100 — and why one company will say their paint needs 20-degree gloss and another will say 40-percent gloss. It’s because either company has never told you what they mean when they ask for 20-degree gloss or 40-percent gloss.

Why Gloss Meters Give Wrong Readings

Here’s the problem with using an un-calibrated gloss meter on your paint. The sensor inside the sphere tells you how much light is passing through, but if you can’t detect where that light is coming from, any measurement could be off by as much as 20 percent. And if the gloss meter’s calibration wasn’t done correctly, or hasn’t been checked since it was calibrated, it could be off by even more. That means that a gloss meter reading of 15 could actually mean something closer to 25.

Buying a Byk Gloss Meter

A gloss meter is a device for measuring gloss levels of paint, varnish, or other coatings. It's important for the operator to calibrate the meter before testing, and make sure they are using the correct test mode for their area. And more importantly, it is always a good idea to buy your equipment from a trusted seller. These days, many online stores such as TestCoat are offering great discounts on branded products. So, it’s always better to check with them.

About TestCoat:

For many years, TestCoat has been a trustworthy partner and leader in the supply and distribution of inspection equipment, laboratory & physical test equipment for the coatings and paint industries. We supply non-destructive quality control and testing instruments such as Paint thickness Mil Gauges, Gloss meters, paint meter, portable rockwell hardness tester, laboratory mixersviscometers, film applicatorsdrying time recorder, cupping testers, Wet scrub abrasion testers, Coating inspection kits with advanced technology, and of the highest standards.

For more information, visit https://www.testcoat-usa.com/

Original Source - https://bit.ly/3Fu0BmC

[twinsarekeepers]

The more I reread the PJO series, the more clear it is to me that Annabeth isn’t white.

(I know y’all are going to be in my mentions like “oh but she has blonde hair and grey eyes she can’t be black or brown” and I KNOW! I know RR saw her as a white girl when he was writing the books. I am aware of that fact. It just so happens that I can see a ton of my own experiences (specifically related to being a brown woman) in the way she’s perceived by other characters.)

So, like, in the first book, she was so mad at Percy because he got a quest even though he knew particularly nothing about the demigod world (and everything he did know was stuff she taught him) and she had been working basically her whole life to get one. I mean, seriously, she was more equipped to lead a quest because she’d literally lived on streets before. (And I know they banned quests after Luke’s and it was a special circumstance so they had to give one to Percy but it’s so clear that he has no idea what’s going on and that he agrees to bring Annabeth along because he knows he’ll need her intelligence and expertise to complete the quest).

And, like, she is literally the most educated, knowledgeable person on the Argo II, ffs she’s LITERALLY the daughter of Athena, but her intelligence is constantly questioned. (And I know it’s because RR was like “oh it’s because she’s blonde” 🙄 Istg, I’m going to strangle that man in his sleep). But, who is the most educated demographic in the US and are still constantly overlooked and their intelligence insulted? Black women. I just—RICHARD, IT WAS RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU IM GOING TO SCREAM!

The other characters see her as this strong, tough warrior, but she literally cries in every book. That’s not to say she’s not strong or tough or a warrior, but she is also soft and gentle and that’s extremely overlooked by not just the characters, but the fandom as well. The way she holds Percy’s hand in times when he’s stressed out and assures him when he’s feeling like he can’t do something. The way she comforts characters who are in emotional pain like Juniper and Silena. When Piper first got to camp and Annabeth showed her around and tried to make her feel at home. Even when Drew was being mean to Piper, Annabeth didn’t take sides and instead mitigated the tension. She cheered Hazel up after her fight with Jason. Frank came to her for advice and she was very considerate of his feelings and comfort. She was intuitive enough to figure out why Leo acted the way he did and than she defended his actions to Frank. These are all things that she does that are vulnerable and show her heart but most of the characters still view her as scary and intimidating.

And they see Annabeth as strong enough to just handle emotional turmoil all by herself. Like, y’all remember when Percy was kind of surprised that Annabeth needed a hug in BOTL? (Why? He’s seen her cry before. He’s seen her need comfort before. What makes him think it would be a one time thing?). Or when he didn’t tell her that he was worried about her? (He really said “stay here and protect Nico and Rachel”. And then in his head he was like, “I didn’t tell Annabeth but I was worried about her too.” MY GUY?? WHY WOULDN’T YOU TELL HER??) Or how about when she was literally sobbing on the ground after seeing Luke turn into Kronos and Percy, Rachel, and Nico were just … standing around, talking. Percy literally tried to pick a fight with her in that moment. Like, wtf was that?? (I mean, he tried to be a little bit more gentle with her when he was telling her to get up and leave but at that point, the damage is done, dude, you’ve already kicked her while she was down).

This connects to how she’s stripped of her femininity. The fact that she’s canonically good at weaving (a traditionally feminine task) and it seems to be forgotten by all the characters and even the fandom. The fact that she enjoys wearing dresses and makeup and jewelry but Percy finds those things awkward on her (I made a post about that here if y’all want to read it. The Richard stannies found it though so beware the notes). There are so many instances in the books where she so obviously fits into a traditionally feminine role but they’re glossed over or ignored. As a South Asian woman, I know how this feels.

Okay and then on Circe’s Island, when Circe said something like “oh and that HAIR!” and Annabeth was like “what’s wrong with my hair?” …. That’s a micro aggression if I’ve ever seen one. I just know if Annabeth was a white girl with type 3, loose ass curls, Circe would not have said that shit.

And all of the reasons we think Percy is not white ALSO APPPLY TO ANNABETH. Like, she went to through all the same stuff that Percy went through in the mortal world. She literally said as much in the beginning of TLT.

Annabeth is just so clearly not white to me. And the fact that RR didn’t see how so many of her experiences lined up with a black or brown woman’s will actually be my villain origin story. He really wrote “she’s oppressed because she’s blonde” with his whole chest. Great job in proving how much of a rich, white man you are, Richard.

[kikis-writing-world]

Love is Blind

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x F!Reader (her hair is described in that it is long enough to braid, and it is brushed by another character. Sorry if that alienates anyone)

Word Count: 8.4k

Rating/Warnings: Mentions of dead bodies and glossing over of canon-typical violence, injury leading to temporary blindness, talks of medical procedures (vague descriptions cause idk what I’m doing,) mentions of pregnancy (Whiskey talks about his dead wife) If I missed anything please let me know. It’s a long one and I tried to mark down anything that might need warning.

Summary: The mission was going perfectly until you were caught by a stupid trap, spraying some kind of toxin in your face. Now you’re (temporarily?) blinded and have to find out what that means for your future with Statesman.

The dust settled over the room as the chaos gave way to silence. You waited a beat, taking a deep breath before speaking out.

“Clear.” You spoke softly, knowing the message would be transmitted to your partner. Despite your confidence that you’d taken out the men on your side of the room, you kept your pistol firmly in your grasp.

“Clear.” The response came through your ear piece, the voice tinny in your ear. The bass tones were missing, but it was unmistakably Agent Whiskey’s southern drawl. You stood from your cover behind a large, leather sofa and surveyed the mess. Whiskey was standing behind the bar in the corner of the room doing the same.

“Nice work.” You nodded at him, noticing several bodies elegantly cleaved in half from his lasso.

“Same to you, ‘Rhett.” Whiskey returned the compliment, stepping around the bar. You glared at him for shortening your name - he knew you hated that - but you were stopped from responding as a third voice joined the conversation through your earpieces. “Intel puts the plates in a safe behind the painting. The landscape behind the desk” Ginger’s voice instructed from HQ, watching the scene through the micro-cameras you were both wearing: Whiskey’s in his bolo tie and yours on a broach on your vest.

You and Whiskey both turned to look at the large painting on the far side of the room. It, and the desk it sat behind, were riddled with bullet holes and other damage from the fray. It was still hanging askew on the wall. You crossed the room easily, stepping over the various bodies on the way. Whiskey let you take the lead, keeping a watch while you turned your back to the room.

The painting fell with a nudge from the barrel of your gun, revealing the safe tucked into the wall. A 10 digit keypad with a small screen kept it locked. You leaned in, making sure your broach was pointed at it. “Ginger?”

“Got it Amaretto. Analyzing.” You could picture the woman typing away, executing different commands as she analyzed the image you broadcast back to her computer. You knew she was using possible heat signatures, wear on the numbers, oil deposits, not to mention the tech you didn’t understand to crack the code. You could hear Whiskey shifting around the room behind you as you waited.

“7298,” Ginger instructed. You entered the code and the lock clicked, the door swinging ajar.

“Thanks, Ging.” You acknowledged before addressing Whiskey. “We’re in.”

“And?” He asked, looking over his shoulder at you, but keeping himself angled out into the room in case of trouble.

You pushed the safe’s door the rest of the way open seeing a large, black briefcase inside. If the intel was right, inside it would be counterfeiting plates. A small time counterfeiting ring had somehow paired up with a large terrorist ring, laundering the fake money into real profit to fund their plans. Taking down this ring would be a big, although likely temporary, hit to the terrorists.

You pulled the briefcase out of the safe, setting it onto the desk. There were no locks on the briefcase, just the latches keeping it closed. While that should have been suspicious, your excitement of completing the mission had you pushing forward. You unlatched and opened the lid.

Before you could see what was inside, something shot out of the case. You were sprayed in the face and neck with a cool, goopy liquid. You yelped in surprise, wiping frantically at your face to get it off. You stumbled backwards into the wall, falling onto your ass.

You heard Whiskey call for you the same time Ginger did through the earpiece. Whiskey was beside you quickly, pulling your hands away from your face by the wrists. “What happened?”

“I-I don’t know.” You stuttered, feeling him wiping at your face and hands with some fabric. “I opened the case and it shot out at me.”

“Ginger?” Whiskey called out.

“I’m checking the footage now, running it through our databases.” The tech responded, voice level as always. “Keep a sample, but find some water to get it off her. I’m sure it’s some kind of safety measure.”

“Stay here.” Whiskey ordered before he left your side.

You nodded, trying to remain calm as the substance started to sting your eyes. You relayed that information back to Ginger.

“What else can you tell me about it, Amaretto?” She asked.

“It’s viscous. Like syrup.” You told her, feeling the slimy coating it still left on your skin after Whiskey had tried to wipe it away. “Cool to the touch. Smells like… flowers? Definitely floral.”

“Okay. That’s good. That’s helpful. Anything else, let me know. It will help us identify it quicker.”

Whiskey returned as Ginger spoke. You jumped at his sudden presence beside you.

“Sorry.” He mumbled. “Got the water and a cloth.” He narrated as to not spook you when the wet rag touched your skin.

“Flush out her eyes and get out of there.” Ginger instructed as your partner wiped your face clean. The cloth disappeared and Whiskey’s large hand was on the back of your head, leading you to lean over.

“I’ve got you. We just gotta wash out your eyes.” He kept talking, although you couldn’t quite tell if it was to keep you or himself calm. “Open.” He instructed.

You listened, opening your eyes and whimpering at how much it hurt to do so. The room seemed so much brighter than it had been before. You only had a moment to think on this before Whiskey was pouring the water into your eyes. You reached out for him, steadying yourself with your hands against his chest.

When the flow of water stopped, you told Ginger. “Light sensitivity. Add that to the list of symptoms.”

“Got it.” She responded. “Whiskey, grab that case and get to the jet.”

Your partner’s hands were on your arms, helping you to stand. He left you momentarily and you heard the briefcase snap closed. His arm wrapped around your waist as he led you away from the wall. You stumbled a few times over the bodies on the floor, but Whiskey did a good job of leading you. Any misstep you took or slight fumble, he never let you fall. You were lucky the two of you had dispatched everyone in the house before making it to the office. There was no one left alive to stop you as you left.

“It’s really starting to burn.” You told them, feeling tears falling from your eyes. The burning was also translating into a headache as the pain spread. It was getting harder to focus on Whiskey as he navigated the two of you out of the house.

“Stick with me, pick up your feet. I got ya.” Whiskey continued to instruct as you moved.

You knew you’d made it outside the second the sunlight hit your face. Even through closed eyelids, the light was too much to bear. You cried out in pain, shielding your eyes with your hands. You would have fallen to your knees if not for Whiskey’s firm grip on you.

“I can’t.” You cried, holding your head in your hands. “It’s too much.”

Whiskey cursed under his breath before you felt something slip atop your head and you were lifted off the ground. “Keep your head down,” Whiskey ordered, the vibrations of his voice moving through his chest against you. You could feel the bouncing of his footsteps as he ran. You removed your hands from your eyes to hold onto him, and you assumed you were wearing his hat by the way it kept the sun off your face. You buried your head into his neck to shield your eyes even more from the light.

“We’re almost there.” He promised as you trembled in his arms. 

When Whiskey had landed the jet earlier, it hadn’t seemed too far from the cabin - far enough to not alert them to your presence of course, but the trek there hadn’t seemed far. Now, it felt like he might as well be carrying you to Canada as the pain grew worse. You could hear Whiskey and Ginger talk, but it grew harder to hear them over your own groans of pain and the blood rushing through your ears. You were crying in earnest into Whiskey’s shoulder, fighting the urge to claw at your eyes.

You felt his gait change as he ascended the stairs into the jet. You could hear his voice but the words were lost on you as he set you down into a sitting position. Without him to grip onto, your hands flew to your eyes. Your arms were quickly restrained, making you yell and thrash. It was too bright. It hurt too much. The stinging was unbearable now.

You felt a single hand wrap around both wrists as you pleaded for him to let you go. You needed to do something to stop the pain.

You barely felt the pinprick to your neck. As it got harder to fight him, you realized he must have given you a sedative. He dropped your arms as your muscles grew sluggish and you felt him buckling you safely into the seat. You tried to mumble a thank you to him, but you couldn’t be sure if the words made it out of your brain as you lost consciousness.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Your surroundings came to you slowly. The feel of the stiff cot under you, covered with scratchy linens. A few quiet beeps from different machines. The sensors attached to your chest and your arms - you must be in the medical wing back at Statesman HQ. It took you a moment to remember what had landed you in medical but once you did you were pleasantly surprised to not feel any pain. 

You couldn’t remember anything after stepping outside the cabin. The last vivid memory you had was the sun hitting your face and excruciating pain shooting through your head. Whiskey must have gotten the two of you back safely.

Your eyes fluttered open meeting a dark room. You were thankful for that, remembering how severe the light sensitivity had gotten. Introducing you to light slowly was a good idea.

“You’re awake.” The voice made you jump, even though you quickly recognized it to be Ginger. You didn’t expect her to be waiting in the dark for you. “How do you feel?”

You heard the heart rate sensor beep a little quicker as you clutched your chest from the scare, laughing softly. “You scared me. I feel okay, actually. No pain.”

“That’s great.” You could hear the relief in her voice. “And your vision?”

The question gave you pause, wondering how you were supposed to test your vision in the dark. “Turn the light on and I’ll tell you.”

“What?” Ginger’s voice was clipped, fallen from the relief it held moments ago. You weren’t sure exactly what the tone was but you knew you didn’t like it.

“Turn the lights on, Ging.”

“The lights are on.” She explained. You could hear the clicking of her footsteps and the rustling of her clothes as she moved closer. A hand on your right arm made you flinch.

“That’s not funny.” You scoffed.

“I’m not joking.” She replied seriously. She was silent for a moment, the faint rustling of fabric moving again before she asked “you don’t see that at all?”

“See what?”

“I’m shining a flashlight into your eyes.”

“No you’re not.”

“Ginger!” You heard Whiskey’s drawl, echoing like it was in a different room. Footsteps, heavier than the ones you had just heard, accompanied his voice as you figured he must be entering approaching your room. “She awake yet?”

“Whiskey, tell Ginger to stop joking around.” You begged, starting to freak out. The increased beeping beside you accompanied the anxiety you were feeling spread through your body.

“What’s going on?” The cowboy asked, worry coating his voice as it moved closer.

“She can’t see anything.” Ginger admitted, her hand leaving your arm. You heard Whiskey exhale to your left, a loud breath that sounded like he’d been punched in the solar plexus.

“Why not?” He demanded.

“I don’t know.” Ginger admitted. “We’re still analyzing the substance. So far all we know is it seems to be made from orange blossoms and some kind of berry-”

“It won’t be permanent, right?” You asked, cutting Ginger off. Your voice sounded so small compared to the other two in the room. There wasn’t an answer right away, footsteps approaching from the left before a large, warm hand covered yours.

“We’ll figure this out, sugar.” Whiskey told you as he laced his fingers with yours.

“We will.” Ginger confirmed. She sounded confident, and you knew she was nothing if not capable, but you still felt tears roll down your cheeks as the fear crashed over you.

You heard Whiskey tut beside you before he was brushing your tears away, his large palms cupping your cheeks as his thumbs brushed your skin.

“I’ll get to the lab. See if we’ve got anything new.” Ginger excused herself and you could hear her footsteps fade as she left the room.

As the two of you were left alone, you felt the cot shift underneath you as Whiskey sat down. He pulled you into a hug, letting you cry into his shoulder. She rocked you gently back and forth, telling you it was going to be okay. He let you cry until you felt numb, like there were no tears left. He didn’t move away until you lifted your head.

“I’d offer you my handkerchief, but it’s in the lab too.” Whiskey told you, voice light like he was trying to make you smile. He shifted away for a brief second, leaning back as you felt him press a scratchy fabric into your hand, which you quickly identified as a tissue. You used it to blot at your cheeks and nose.

You thanked him, your voice hoarse from crying. “Not just for this,” you waved the tissue in the air. “For getting us out of there.”

“It’s part of the gig, sugar.” It sounded like he was grinning when he spoke. You hoped he was. Even more, you hoped you’d see the grin for yourself again soon.

The next several days revolved around tests. Scans of your head and eyes, tests being done on the limited amount of the substance the lab had collected from Whiskey’s handkerchief and the briefcase. You didn’t even realize there were that many different tests they could perform, but everyday they brought you new results. Unfortunately, none of the results so far had led to any answers about why you’d lost your sight. As the lab identified more ingredients of the goo that had sprayed you, they tried different medicines and remedies but nothing had changed. They also told you how the substance had left you with a light rash on the skin of your face and hands where you’d been exposed. You were hardly worried about the rash. They said it was fading naturally. You wished your sight would return naturally too.

Between tests, you were hardly ever along. Whiskey visited you more often than not. Ginger spent a lot of time with you during tests as well as socially for meals. The team of doctors and junior agents working with her to help heal you all came and went. Tequila, Champ and other Statesman agents came by to check in on you when they could.

It was getting easier to identify who was coming as you started to hear differences in their footsteps. Whiskey had a long, slow gait, his boots slapping the floor with a dull thud. Tequila’s steps were quicker, and his boots snapped a little lighter against the floor. Champ’s steps were slower, like Whiskey’s, but there was an irregularity to the pattern. His left hip making him have the slightest limp that you had never noticed by sight alone. Ginger was easiest, being one of the few women who came to see you. Her steps clacked as her heels hit the floor.

You were also surprised to start noticing the different scents everyone held. Tequila, bless that boy, smelt obnoxiously like axe spray deodorant, reminding you of a high school boy’s gym class. Champ smelt of vanilla, cloves and the cigar smoke that clung to his clothes. Ginger smelt like clean linens, a hint of tropics in her detergent but seemed to be content staying largely scent-free, no perfumes that you could pick up on.

Whiskey’s smell was more complex, but maybe that was because he was the one who would sit next to you on the bed, giving you a chance to really breathe it in. Hints of spiced citrus hung to his clothes, along with the smell of leather and smoke - not smoke like Champ, but the kind from a freshly fired gun. When he got close enough, his musk had you remembering being cradled in his arms as he carried you away from the cabin, his hat atop your head.

You were thankful for the ways you were picking up to identify people. Your years as an agent had you trained to survey your surroundings, to avoid being caught off guard. It was unsettling to have your primary sense for that taken away from you. Most people were learning to announce themselves as they approached your room, giving you a heads up someone was nearing. Not everyone did. Tequila was particularly bad at it, and you suspected he enjoyed watching you jump.

You expressed your worries to Champ when he came to visit, on the fourth day of no progress. He chuckled and patted your back in a fatherly way.

“Let’s give them some time to figure this out, Amaretto. We don’t need to start plannin’ a retirement party just yet.”

You supposed he was trying to help you worry less, but it didn’t help. Would you have to retire if your vision wasn’t restored? You could hardly imagine a position at Statesman that you could easily navigate without sight. If you ever learned braille, and how to type, maybe some kind of administration or archival job, but who knew how long it would take you to master those skills. It was hard enough to accept what this meant for your career, let alone the rest of your life.

The agents that came to visit tried to help take your mind off of it, but it was hard when there was no true reprieve.

“Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of board fence nine feet high. Life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a burden. Sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the insignificant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged.

“You know, I’m startin’ to remember why I wasn’t so fond of this book in school.” Whiskey interrupted his recitation. “How Mr. Twain managed to turn the absolute boredom of paintin’ a fence into the written word with such lucidity is an artform in itself.”

“Oh stop,” you laughed, reaching beside you to swat at him. It was an easy thing to aim for, feeling the warmth of him on the bed next to you, his arm pressed to yours.

“I’m just sayin’ that I’ve had better adventures before breakfast than these so called adventures of Tom Sawyer.” He complained.

“Tom Sawyer wasn’t a senior agent of a secret spy organization.”

“And good thing too. He’d have burnt this place to the ground by now with his behaviour.” He harrumphed, making you laugh.

“Just keep reading.”

He sighed, a long, annoyed sigh.

“Please.” You sang, smiling up at him as you leaned into his arm. These were the moments you could really smell the spice and leather on him.

He was silent for a beat. Although the two of you were joking, you almost worried he wouldn’t keep reading. It was much harder to read people’s moods without seeing their facial expressions. No smile or eye roll to go by had you guessing by voice tone alone. Silences had you absolutely puzzled.

“Can’t, Mars Tom. Ole missis, she tole me I got to go an’ git dis water an’ not stop foolin’ roun’ wid anybody. She say she spec’ Mars Tom gwine to ax me to whitewash, an’ so she tole me go ’long an’ ’tend to my own business—she ’lowed she’d ’tend to de whitewashin’.”

“Oh, never you mind what she said, Jim. That’s the way she always talks. Gimme the bucket—I won’t be gone only a a minute. She won’t ever know.”

“Oh, I dasn’t, Mars Tom. Ole missis she’d take an’ tar de head-

“I’d be able to follow a lot easier if you did different voices for the different characters.” You interrupted.

“Don’t push your luck.” He grumbled, but you were pretty sure you could hear that grin in his voice again as he kept reading.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“Keep your eyes closed.” You were instructed by Tonic, a junior agent who worked under Ginger. You felt the dampened towel being lifted from your eyes. You’d just spent 40 minutes laying back, letting the medicinal solution on the towel soak in. You had done the same thing the day before, and would likely be doing it again tomorrow.

“Just dimming the lights. Hold on.” Tonic explained as you heard his shuffling footsteps through the room. It was a good thing he had a knack for medicine because he’d be an awful field agent with the way he never picked up his feet.

“Okay, open.”

You did as instructed, blinking as your eyes adjusted to being open again. Just like the day before, you only saw the familiar inky blackness.

“Nothing.” You shook your head.

“That’s okay.” You could hear the forced optimism in his voice. “Ginger said it could take up to five treatments for this to work. We’ll do it again tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.” You gave the poor kid the best smile you could muster, but you were definitely losing hope. It had been nearly a week now with no progress. It was getting time to face facts.

“Don’t worry, Agent Amaretto. We’ll figure it out.” The boy told you, a soft pat on your shoulder accompanying his attempt at comfort.

You weren’t sure if you’d ever seen Tonic around Statesman. You might have walked by in passing, but you were never introduced. It was weird to be spending this much time with someone and having no idea what they looked like. You were almost tempted to ask, but kept it to yourself. You'd have to get used to not knowing what new people looked like.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

You shuffled out of the bathroom with your hand on the doorframe to help guide you. You had showered - your first true shower on your own, not just a quick wash-up in the sink or a sponge bath - and it made you feel slightly more human again. The robe was soft and plush against your skin, wearing only a tank top and underwear under it. The towel you had half-heartedly wrapped your hair in was falling out of the twist - you hadn’t quite mastered that skill without seeing yet.

You opened your mouth to dismiss the junior agent who had been tasked with waiting for you - sitting outside the washroom in case you needed to call for help - but you were interrupted.

“I sent her on her way, sugar.” You immediately recognized Whiskey’s twang. He was the best so far at announcing his presence, and you truly appreciated it. You still jumped slightly, not expecting him to be here. “Sorry.” He chuckled.

“I’ll get used to it eventually.” You waved off his apology, not actually knowing if you would ever get used to it.

“C’mon, none of that.” Whiskey tutted. Your uncertainty must have shown on your face. “Want a hand?”

“Yes, please.’ You confirmed, holding your arm out towards his voice. You heard him approach, footsteps and fabric, before he looped his arm around yours.

“Where to?” They had set up a table and chairs for you in the room, trying to make you feel more at home than in a hospital room. All it did was reaffirm that you weren’t any closer to finding a solution and that your stay was going to last even longer.

“The bed, please.”

He led you to the bed easily, not taking his arm away until you were sitting comfortably. You felt the towel fall even further off your head as you sat.

“Can you pass me the brush?” You asked him, holding your hand out.

You waited, hearing Whiskey move around, but instead you felt him pull your hair free from the towel. With your wet hair falling down your back, you felt him run the brush through it.

“What are you doing?” You chuckled.

“You just relax, sugar.” He ordered. He started at the ends of your hair, brushing the tangles out before moving closer to your scalp.

“I can brush my own hair.” You argued even though you were grinning.

“Just let me take care of you, Rhett.” He huffed, smacking you on the shoulder with the flat side of the brush.

“Fine, Whisk.” You huffed playfully in response, leaving him to brush your hair.

He was surprisingly gentle, only once did your hair pull painfully at your scalp to which he mumbled a quick apology. You hadn’t had someone brush your hair for you in a long time. Outside of a hairdresser, it probably hadn’t happened since you were a child. As much as you were trying to maintain your independence with your new loss of sight, it was very relaxing.

You hadn’t expected it when you felt him part your hair into sections and start weaving them together.

“Are you… braiding my hair?” You asked curiously.

“Yes, ma’am.” He hummed, clearly concentrated on his task.

“Okay, the brushing I could let go, but are you going to tell me how you know how to braid?” You laughed.

“I’ve made my own whips before, sugar.” He explained, his drawl even more pronounced as he spoke slowly, keeping his focus on the hair. “Part of that is just fancy bradin’.”

“You make your own whips?” That surprised you.

Whiskey chuckled, his fingers brushing lower and lower on your back as the braid progressed. “Not the ones I use on missions, but I have some at home I made. I’m not too up on the electricity part, but a good ol’ fashioned bullwhip? I can throw one of those together in a few days if I have the time.”

“So which came first? Using the whip or making them?”

“Been usin’ them since I was a boy, on the family farm. Started makin’ em ‘round the same time, maybe a few years between. Although those first ones were nothin’ to celebrate. I got better at it. Decent hobby to have, if you’ve got scraps of leather hanging around.”

You felt him end the braid as he spoke, tying an elastic around the end. You lifted your hand to your hair so you could feel the braid. It was surprisingly sturdy and didn’t feel like there were any messes of bumps.

“Thank you.” You turned, smiling in his direction.

He was silent as he pushed the braid over one shoulder, his fingertips grazing your neck as he did. The sensation left goosebumps on your still-damp skin.

“I also used to braid my wife’s hair.” He admitted quietly. “Especially when she wasn’t feelin’ well. Braided it up to keep it out of her face.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that. You knew a bit about Whiskey’s past, about his high school sweetheart and that she’d died, but it was hardly ever discussed between the two of you. Before you came up with something to say, he continued.

“When we found out she was expectin’,” he grunted as you felt the mattress dip. You scooted over to make room for him to sit. “I was braidin’ her hair all the time. For one, the mornin’ sickness that first trimester, hoo-” he chuckled softly, lost in the memory. “It really kicked her ass. Spent most her time huggin’ a bucket or praying to the porcelain gods. But before we found out she was carryin’ a boy, she wanted me to practice. ‘Case we had a little girl.”

You bit your lip, reaching in Whiskey’s direction. You wanted nothing more than to take his hand in yours, but you fumbled in the air clumsily. He brought his hand up to yours, letting you grip it tightly.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered.

“Thank you, sugar.” He answered back. “Was another life. Wasn’t meant for me, I guess.”

You gave his hand another squeeze, really wishing you knew what to say. Something to make the pains of his past a little… less. His hand stayed in yours, but you heard something rustling off to the side.

“What are we readin’ tonight? We’ve still got some of Tom Sawyer’s adventures to go through, or we can start Pride and Prejudice.”

You leaned back, getting comfortable in the bed. “Tom Sawyer. Besides, you can’t tell me you actually want to read Pride and Prejudice.” You grinned, letting him change the subject.

“I could be persuaded, but if the lady requests Tom Sawyer…” He trailed off, likely picking up the book based on what you heard. He got settled in beside you and you heard the pages turning as he found where the two of you had left off. As he read, his hand stayed firmly in yours.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“Lean back.” Ginger instructed. You did so, keeping a firm grip on the arms of the chair to keep your equilibrium. They had uncovered a new piece of whatever had attacked you, leading them to coming up with another possible cure. Ginger had explained this to you as she prepared you for the eyedrops. You were glad they were eyedrops this time because last time it had been a gel. Even without your sight, the feeling of gel in your eyes was incredibly unpleasant. That being said, you’d do it everyday for the rest of your life if it meant you could see again.

“Ready?” She asked, placing her hand on your shoulder.

“Mhmm.” You held your eyes open as much as you could, waiting for the liquid to hit them. If you thought eyedrops were bad before, they were worse now that you couldn’t see them coming.

The first drop hit your eye, making you jump despite being ready for it. You felt one more drop in the left eye before she moved to your right.

The cooling effect was almost immediate, the strange tingling making your eyes water. You fought against blinking until Ginger gave you the go ahead. You kept your head tilted until a tissue was pressed into your hand.

You leaned back upwards, wiping the residual drops from your cheeks. There were tears too, your eyes watering from the sensation.

“How does it feel?” Ginger asked as you heard her click a pen.

“Tingly.” You told her. “It feels like minty, maybe? Like chewing mint gum with my eyes. Or menthol.” You tried to explain. You heard her scribble something down as she hummed in response.

“Let me know if anything changes. It could take up to an hour to work.” She explained.

You blinked continuously, having no choice as the reflex tried to deal with the feeling in your eyes. It wasn’t unpleasant or painful, just very foreign.

Ginger ate lunch with you while you waited for something to happen, but nothing did. You swallowed down your thoughts of ‘I told you so,’ instead agreeing with her that maybe the next thing would work.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“We gotta start making plans, Champ.” You told him plainly, hands clasped in your lap. “I can’t stay here forever.”

“‘Course not!” The man agreed with gusto. “Forever is out of the question.”

You sighed, knowing he was deflecting. “Nothing is working yet.”

“Somethin’ will.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“What if it does?”

“Agent Champagne-”

“You sound like my wife.” He snarked.

“Your wife calls you Agent Champagne?” You asked with a smirk. You couldn’t resist taking that bait.

“A gentleman wouldn’t kiss and tell.” He joked, but it did little to lighten your mood. “But what I mean is the tone of voice. That’s the voice she uses when she thinks I’m being as dumb as a bag o’ hammers.”

You wouldn’t have quite put it that way, but you did think Champ was avoiding dealing with the situation at hand.

“So I’m gonna tell you what I tell her when she starts usin’ that particular tone of voice.” He took a pause and you waited for him to continue. “Trust me.”

You sighed, dropping your head. “I trust you, Champ.”

“Then why are we havin’ this conversation? Is it Ginger and her team? Do you not trust Ginger?”

“Of course I do-”

“You don’t trust Statesman or Statesman technology or medicine?”

“That’s not what I’m saying-”

“Then you stop worrying ‘bout what we’re gonna do with you, and focus on gettin’ better.” He instructed, his tone firm. His accent grew thicker as he went on. “I won’t hear anymore about plannin’ nothin’ ‘cause you’re going to get back out there, Agent Amaretto. This piss poor attitude ain’t helpin’ nothin’! If we thought this was a lost cause, we’d tell you. You’d get a gold watch and we’d set you up with a good pension and probably a little desk job at some library somewhere to keep you busy, but that’s not in the cards for you.”

You couldn’t help but tear up as Champ went on. You weren’t even totally sure why. You felt so alone, like no one was hearing your concerns - but at the same time, it sounded like Champ had been thinking about possibilities. A librarian? You didn’t want to end up a librarian. You almost wanted to go back to not talking about the future.

“You, missy, are a Statesman Senior Agent. Now, I’ve already got Tequila climbing up the walls and causin’ trouble, I can’t be worryin’ about herding two cats. Suck up that booboo lip and act like the Agent you are. Understood?”

“Yessir.” You mumbled.

“I didn’t hear you, Agent Amaretto.”

“Yessir.” You repeated, louder this time.

“Good.” You could hear the finality in his voice before the ice in his drink clinked together as he took a sip. “‘Cause if that didn’t work… well, the next tactic I use on the Missus is a little inappropriate to try with you, Agent. No offense.”

Now that did get a laugh out of you.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The podcast played from the speaker beside you, but you were only half listening to it. You were thinking of taking a nap, more out of boredom and lack of anything better to do than tiredness, when you heard familiar heavy footsteps approaching your room. You couldn’t help that it lifted your spirits to know Whiskey was on his way.

“‘Rhett.” He greeted, that signature tone in his voice letting you know he was grinning.

“Whisk.” You responded with a sigh. “You know, if anyone else called me that, I might have to kill them.”

“Not interrupting, am I?” He ignored your warning, stepping into your room.

“No. Wasn’t really listening to this anyway.” You told him. You turned your head in the direction of the speaker and asked it to stop. The room fell into silence as you sat up on the cot.

“That better not have been a book on tape.” He warned.

“Now why would I listen to one of those when I have a real life book on tape at my beck and call.” You smirked.

“Walkin’ talkin’ book on tape, huh? If that’s all I am to you, I think I might just take this present back home with me then.”

“Wait!” You stopped him, hearing his feet retreating back towards the door. “You didn’t say you had a present.”

“Thought that might change your tune.” He chuckled.

You scooted to the side of the cot, patting the mattress beside you. It only took him a second to sit next to you, that familiar spiced citrus and leather scent taking over your senses.

“Hands out.” He instructed. You held your hands in front of you, waiting impatiently for them to be filled. He placed the gift in your hands, but you had no idea what it was yet.

It was circular, but it seemed to vary in width - no, it wasn’t circular, it was just looped. You ran your hand over it, feeling the smooth pattern adorning it.

“What is it?” You asked, finding the end of it - a strong, heavy piece, the texture similar to the rest of it, although the pattern was different. The very end came to a bulbous tip.

“That’s a bonafide, one of a kind, handmade by yours truly, bullwhip.” He explained, taking your hand in his and wrapping it around the handle to hold it properly.

“For real?” You smiled, feeling what you now knew to be leather under your fingers.

“For real.” He chuckled.

You tested the weight of the handle, feeling the drag as the rest of the whip pulled against the sheets. Your fingers ran over the design, following the lines of the handle carefully woven and etched throughout. You regripped the handle and ran your other hand over the tail of the whip, pulling your hands apart to get a feel for how long it was.

“What does it look like?” You asked, leaning into him.

“It’s brown. Medium brown, the colour of gingerbread, maybe. Right along here,” he took your hand holding the handle and guided you in tracing the designs. “It’s stained red, just to make it pop. Not blood red, just tinged red with the stain. Gives it some detail, you know?”

“What else?” You asked, feeling breathless as he helped you to see the details with your hands.

“Well you can probably guess it’s made of leather.” You nodded. “But it’s actually made of kangaroo leather.

“Kangaroo?” You asked in shock. “Where’d a farm boy get kangaroo leather?”

You felt Whiskey’s laugh against your side. “I made this one a year or so ago. Just so turns out that kangaroo hide is one of the strongest in the world and well, when you have a hobby that requires leather, you start gettin’ creative with what kind of leather you’re usin’. Gotta keep it excitin’.”

“You don’t get enough excitement at your day job?” You teased.

“Nah, I’ve got this great partner who always has my back.” His voice made you shiver, despite the fact that his comment had your face heating up. He was leaning heavily against you now, his breath fanning over your cheek.

You swallowed the lump that had appeared in your throat, finding your voice to ask him to tell you more.

“About my partner? She’s a great gal. I’m sure I’d be dead twice over if she wasn’t there to pull my ass outta trouble. She’s a great shot, and there ain’t nothin’ sexier than a woman who can handle a pistol.”

His hand was on your opposite cheek, turning you to face him. The gentle touch made your breath stutter in your throat. 

“She’s got this amazing smile that can make a mark fall in love from 40 paces, and it can light up a room from even farther.” He continued, the breath from his voice dancing across your face. His breath smelt like the spiced Whiskey he was named for, and a slight hint of cherries.

“She deserves better than me for her partner, that’s for damn sure. A broken man with a messy past who’s been too scared to tell her how special she is. I thought it was best to keep it professional, but I don’t know if I can anymore.” His nose brushed against yours. You gasped softly at how close he was.

“She’s always in danger, we both are, but once she was in danger I couldn’t help her out of… that made me realize how important she is. If she’ll let me though,” he whispered. You could feel his lips brush against yours as he spoke, his mustache tickling your upper lip.. “I’d like to spend all my time makin’ that up to her.”

“Jack-” Your whisper was cut off as he pressed his lips to yours gently. It was so gentle, almost hesitant. The man was such a loud, boisterous personality and this kiss was so contrary to that. 

You dropped the whip, bringing your hand up to rest on his hand on your cheek. You followed his arm past his shoulder and up his neck to tangle in his hair. You felt his breath hitch from the light tug on the strands.

“I’m gonna stick by her side,” he muttered, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. “No matter what happens. I’m gonna do everything I can to help you.”

You pulled him into another kiss, tilting your head to slot your lips together. He hummed softly into the kiss, brushing your cheek lightly with his thumb. His other arm wrapped tightly around your waist, like he was scared you would disappear. You nipped his bottom lip, trying to reassure him you weren’t going anywhere.

He hissed softly at the sensation and your tongue darted out to soothe the skin. His own tongue met yours, his moan at the contact matching your sigh.

He pulled back and you chased his lips. You were stopped as his nose brushed against yours, his shaky breath flitting across your face.

“Say it again.” He requested, so quietly you almost didn’t even hear.

“Say what?”  You hummed, distracted by his nuzzling and the strong urge to have his lips against yours again.

“My name, sugar.” He was close enough that you could feel his cheek flex with a lopsided grin. “I ain’t ever heard you call me by name before now.”

You smiled in return, biting your lip. It was true. You’d called him Whiskey most of the time. Agent Whiksey when you were being formal. Whisk when he annoyed you. Numerous different names while undercover…

“Kiss me, Jack.”

He growled, low and deep in his chest, before he obliged. Now this was the kiss you expected from Whi- from Jack Daniels. His tongue, pressing past the seam of your lips. It felt like he was marking his territory, all you could do was let him. He swallowed your moans as you matched his hunger. He kissed you with passion, both experienced and unrefined. Unbridled. He kissed you breathless, until you had no choice but to part.

You pulled back, panting softly as you leaned your forehead against his. You wished you could see him. See if he was just as affected by the kiss as you were.

You slid your hand from his hair to his cheek. His skin was warm, you could almost imagine it tinged pink, flushed from being so breathless. You continued exploring, finding his mustache next. The coarse hair felt askew, likely mussed from kissing and not the neat, groomed thing you were used to. You felt the uptick of his lips in that signature grin, and you couldn’t help but feel those too. They were warm and moist. You wondered if they were swollen, like yours felt.

Jack held your hand still, kissing each finger tip one at a time. The tickle of his mustache made you giggle.

“I mean it, sugar.” You could feel his lips move against your fingertips, his voice vibrating through your hand. “I’m here with you. Whether they figure this out or not. We’ll get through it.”

It was the first time someone other than yourself acknowledged that your sight may never return. It didn’t bring about the hollow defeat you’d been feeling anytime you thought of being blind the rest of your life. It finally felt like you had someone in your corner. Of course it would be Jack. He’d had your back for years, working together in the field. You should have known it would be him, in the end.

“Thank you.” You dropped your hand from his face to wrap both arms around him, hugging him as you rested your head against his chest.

You felt him press a kiss against your forehead before he pulled you to lay down. He held you, cradled into his side as you burrowed your face into his neck. You heard something fall, probably the whip that had been forgotten on the sheets.

“Oops.” You winced, not having meant to be so careless with his gift. You moved to sit up, wanting to pick it up, but he held you firm.

“Leave it there,” he instructed. You relished the way his deep voice vibrated against you. “It ain’t gonna fall any further.”

“I don’t want something to happen to it.”

“If it does, I'll make you a hundred more.” He promised.

“Fine.” You ceded, snuggling back into him with a deep inhale. Leather and spice.

The arm that was draped over your waist left your side. You felt his muscles move under his shirt as he stretched out. It only took a minute before the released, relaxing again. You heard the fluttering of paper before he started to read.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. 

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The pressure from the device around your head was unpleasant, but not unbearable. The way it pressed down on your eyes made you want to squirm. Instead, you squeezed frantically at the stress ball Ginger had offered you before you’d been strapped in. You knew Whiskey was standing with her as she ran the test, but you wished he could be here. You’d take his hand in yours over the foam smiley face any day.

“Almost done, Amaretto.” Ginger’s voice echoed through the speaker, barely audible over the hum of the awful machine.

“You’ve got this, sugar.”

“Whiskey, don’t tou-”

“-tell me not to-”

“-my lab, my buttons-”

“-OW!”

The bickering coming through the speakers was almost enough to make you laugh. The clicking of the microphone engaging and disengaging had you picturing the two fighting over whatever button turned the feed on. The two had spent hours bickering the past two weeks, Jack becoming increasingly more involved in your treatment as the two of you shifted from partners to...  well, there was no set term put on it yet, but you were very fond of kissing him. You couldn’t quite imagine the cowboy in the other room being called a boyfriend. It felt very middle school.

It was another few minutes of the machine humming, pressing awkwardly against you, until Ginger finally announced you were done. You heard the door between you and them open, two sets of footsteps approaching. One set of hands started to release the device from your head, while the other took the stress ball away. It was replaced with a large, warm hand that lifted yours until a kiss was pressed to your knuckles. The mustache prickled against your skin.

“Okay, you can sit up. Go slow, though.” Ginger instructed once you were free. You did, feeling your head swim.

“How’re you feeling?” Jack asked.

“Light headed.” You answered honestly, waiting for the feeling to pass. You leaned into Jack, letting him support you through the dizziness.

“Almost done.” He cooed, petting your braided hair. “We’ll get you back to your room soon.”

You heard Ginger moving around the room before she came to a stop in front of you. There was silence for a beat.

“Any change?” She asked.

You blinked a few times, but there was nothing. “No.”

You sighed, letting your shoulders slump with defeat, but Jack stayed strong next to you.

“That’s okay.” He hummed, not letting on any disappointment he might be feeling. He never tried to dictate how you should feel about your condition, but he stayed strong for you throughout. It was still so hard to deal with that you may never see again, but he made it a little easier. “Let’s get you back to your room. I for one am dyin’ to know what happens to Elizabeth next.”

You scoffed as he helped you to stand. “Sure you are.” His hands held you steady until you found your footing, his arm wrapping around you to guide you out of the lab.

“I am.” He argued. “I’m invested in it now.”

“Oh, well I guess I didn’t need to ask Champ to track down some Louis L’Amour books.”

“To hell with Elizabeth.” Jack declared, making you laugh.

You roused slowly. It took you a moment to realize you had fallen asleep while Jack read. The last thing you remember in the story was the caravan was going to be attacked. You wondered how long Jack had read for before realizing you’d fallen asleep. You were pressed tightly to his side, you could feel his warm body next to you. His head was leaning against yours, his deep breaths tickling your ear. He let out the tiniest snores anytime he exhaled. It made you smile.

“Jack, wake up.” You hummed, pressing a kiss to his neck. He hummed in response but didn’t fully wake. You called his name again, nuzzling into him.

Your name left his lips in a soft moan as he told you to go back to sleep.

“You’re going to have an awful kink in your neck if you keep sleeping like that. Come on.” You argued quietly, poking him lightly in his side as you sat up.

“Alright,” he groaned. You felt his body stretch out beside yours before he too sat up. You felt something hit your leg and you instinctively opened your eyes to see what it was.

You saw the book had fallen off Jack’s lap-

You saw.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

tagging: @wickedfrsgrl​ @driedgreentomatoes​

A/N: The books that are mentioned being read by Whiksey are The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, and The Walking Drum by Louis L’Amour

[murumokirby360]

My ZNT SoundFit wireless headphone/headset review (w/ my Paper Dolls) - Part 2 [Sept 18, 2021] (My photos and recorded video)

This is Part 2 of my ZNT SoundFit wireless headphone/headset review (with my paper dolls).🎧🙂

In this part, I'm taking a closer look at the actual item, via my recorded video and my photoshoots as well. Sorry I haven't chance to do a side comparison with my old Awei A780BL wireless headphone/headset, but I'll promise I'll be doing it next week Wednesday. And then on next week Saturday will be my audio connection test from my smartphone and PC via Bluetooth and wired using the included audio cable.😉

If you have not seen my Part 1 on the same topic, then please [CLICK ME!].

So without further ado, let’s get started:

1st & 2nd Image(s):↓

• Here's a closer look at my ZNT SoundFit wireless headphone/headset once again.

• Isn't she beautiful? My paper dolls completely agree!

3rd & 4th Image(s):↓

• [3rd Image]: Continuing on, here's the backside of the earcups/earpads with the letters "R" and "L" on each side. I love the way they did, instead of just blank on any other headphone/headset brand(s). Although if I wear it on for long hours, I predict that it'll be faded off.

• [4th Image]: Here are my paper dolls tested out the stretchable test. I haven't tried it out on my head yet, but it's quite a solid stretch test for my paper dolls.😊👍

5th to 8th Image(s):↓

• [5th Image]: Just in case that you haven't looked at the logo of the ZNT very closely, well here it is. Also, the silver gloss part on each side is plastic made, not metal... I know right, but I guess it's nothing special.

• [6th to 8th Images]: Much like other headphones/headsets brands, the right side had a micro USB port (not a USB type C port, which is a bummer), a small hole for the microphone, a 3.5mm audio jack port, another small hole for light indicator, and three buttons; minus and plus represents volume rocker which also acts as a next and previous music tracks, and the middle is the power button. You know, to be honest, I rather love the buttons from my old Awei A780BL than my ZNT SoundFit's buttons, because I'm always using my right thumb for pressing the power buttons and others, plus their buttons on the hidden side on the right earpad/earcup are much safer than on ZNT SoundFit's front. Trust me, there's a chance of accidental pressed during tight space situations when I'm using the SoundFit.

9th & 10th Image(s):

• Finally, here's what completely folded looks like, when it's unused. My paper dolls saying that it looks pretty nice folding. Mhm.

Recorded video 🎦📲:

• The rest of my ZNT SoundFit headphone's/headset's anatomy will be recorded, so please watch my record video. Here, I'm doing the stretch durability and folding test, as well as pressing buttons on the right earpad/earcup, and several other anatomy parts like that metal screw nuts on each side and even that metal bar inside on each adjustable headphone. ZNT really did a great job adding that screw nuts though, I love it. And it's so much better than my old Awei A780BL. That middle one inserting the wire, however, is not metal, it's a glossy plastic of sorts. Well, if only that piece will be metal, too. Just saying. The adjustable headphones on each side are quite similar to my old Awei A780BL; that there's a metal bar and a plastic bar is sandwiched together, although the plastic part is not the same size as the metal one. Finally, the top cushion on SoundFit is pretty okay, it actually feels the same as the earpads/earcups.

Overall:

• The design for ZNT SoundFit is pretty good, cheap quality looking, and is decent stylish. Though except one, however... The buttons on the right earcup/earpad are in the wrong place. And as I said before, there's a chance of accidentally pressing during tight situations like crowd squeezing inside the subway metro train. But since we're in the pandemic (at the time of this post), I guess I don't see any problem. Though if you don't like the buttons from ZNT SoundFit, you better off pick other headphones/headsets that have hidden buttons on the side. It's pretty easy used (with your right thumb) and pretty safe at the same time.

Anyways, that’s all for now. More parts coming up next week. And if you haven’t seen my previous part, then I’ll provide a link down below.↓😉

My ZNT SoundFit wireless headphone/headset: • Opening my parcel [Sept 4th, 2021]

• Part 1 [Sept 10th, 2021]

Tagged: @lordromulus90, @bryan360, @carmenramcat

[shimmerjjang]

BYSx Barbie High Shine Lipgloss Review - #Girl Squad

안녕하슈~ ^^

So for some reason, I’ve been into lip oils and lip glosses just a little bit too much these days. And that’s despite the fact that they are pretty much the last thing anyone would actually wear underneath a mask. kk~ I guess it’s because I’ve been following a lot of Chinese and Korean beauty accounts on Instagram that always post their gorgeous lip makeup photos channeling a gloss oozing in glitter glory!

I randomly stumbled upon this BYS x Barbie stand at the SM Department Store and well, it’s Barbie, so I knew I just had to check. The pink stand is just too eye-catching! I haven’t been into makeup lately, so I have to admit that I’m sort of falling behind with the new releases. I think this collection got released around February or March this year (?). 

TEXTURE, SCENT, & APPLICATOR

I’m never a huge fan of lip glosses because I’ve always hated the sticky texture. Whenever the wind blows, my hair would always get caught on my lips as if the lip gloss makes them some sort of a sticky fly trap. I’m already happy with lip tints and matte lipsticks. However, my lips have been quite dry lately and it’s probably because it’s either I’m always in an airconditioned room with dry air or outdoors with a mask on. Since then, I’ve been obsessing over heavily-hydrating lip balms, glosses and lip oils.

BYS x Barbie’s High Shine Gloss definitely has a heavy texture just like any other conventional glosses. I won’t say it’s sticky though, because its heavy consistency is actually bearable. As long as I don’t apply a thick layer, I’d describe it as a moisturizing lip balm. In the first photoset in this post, you’ll see a close-up photo of my lips wearing the gloss without any other lippie on. That’s just one thin layer and look at how glossy it is! I guess it’s also due to the iridescent shimmers it contain. These micro glitters don’t feel gritty at all, too.

As for the scent, it smells like vanilla ice cream! It’s not too overpowering so I think I’m a fan. kk~ One more thing to mention is it’s huge doe foot applicator! Like whoaaa! haha! Not really into it because it takes so much product. I don’t know what’s up with making it that big - it’s funny and very unnecessary! 

MY THOUGHTS:

I think I’ll give this a 5/5. I really love it and it’s not really that bad for just 399php ($7), considering it’s also limited edition. The packaging is too cute and it’s worth collecting, I think. The product is vegan and cruelty-free. This lip gloss also comes in two more other shades - Stand Out and Hustle. Though I don’t think there’ll be much difference since this gloss doesn’t really give much tint to it anyway.

It also has 4ml worth of product so it’ll definitely last for a long time even if you use it everyday. A little goes a very long way, after all. Like I only use a small amount of gloss from the tip of the applicator, dot it on my lips and just spread it with my finger or with a lip brush. 

Would I buy this again? Yes I think so, once it runs out. And I’ll probably get the shade Hustle which has the iconic Barbie pink hue. I know the shade won’t really show up since it’s just a gloss, but I’m still curious to give it a try.

Have you tried any makeup product from the BYS x Barbie Limited Edition Collection?

[insomniacowl]

Neon Genesis Evangelion analysis chapter:17 Angels advance

Sakiel: The third angel

The year is 2015 and Sakiel, the first descendent of Adam/ Third angel appears. Due to the base structure of Eva’s storytelling being “Humanity’s struggle against the angels”, understanding the nature of the “Enemies” that are the angels is necessary for understanding this series. However, due to the proper explanation of the angels being abundant and clear (Which is rare for anything from Eva), this chapter will be used to explain set pieces that are important to the plot but not often talked about or glossed over.

Also, Due to Kaworu requiring a chapter of his own, this chapter will contain only the fourteen angels that failed in their Advances and were unable to infiltrate into central dogma.

Sakiel’s design in the planning phase of Evangelion. It resembles Unit – 00 much more

The third angel Sakiel is the Angel of water and shows the closest resemblance to Adam out of all the angels we see. The design of Sakiel has reminded many viewers of the plug suit as well, raising many questions about the nature of Angels. And due to it appearing cute when it blinks, many of the viewers have found it to have an adorable design.

And as we can see from the original design, the producers tried to allude to the fact of the “Angel of water concept”. When the design was changed, we can still see this allusion with Sakiel appearing from a body of water.

The fourth angel Shamshel

The fourth angel looks like a squid without most of its tentacles and arrived three weeks after Sakiel was defeated. It is the Angel of daylight, but we don’t see anything that alludes to this fact (Other than that it arrived during the day, but this is not unique to Shamshel)

But Shamshel was important to the plot as it provided the S2 engine that would be soon inserted into Unit – 04. We can see it being much more aggressive in its attack compared to Sakiel and the level of aggression makes the viewers question if it is trying to avenge its fallen predecessor. But in the end, it was repelled by Shinji who showed an even higher level of aggression.

The fifth angel Ramiel and its remains in episode 9

The angel of thunder Ramiel followed suit and along with Sakiel, were the only two angels that appeared for two episodes in a row and is one of the more memorable opponents in this series. Its movement creates harmonics that reminds one of a church choir and is shaped almost like an abstract art sculpture. All of this with the fact that it is easy to draw makes Ramiel one of the most popular Angels.

Many look to the similarities in design and posits that the design of Ramiel was modeled after Laputa, but the truth was already revealed by Anno himself. The design of Ramiel comes from a 1983 anime ‘Future police Urashimen’ and the mechanic from episode 47 is undoubtedly Ramiel.

Sixth angel Gagiel

The angel of fish, Gagiel was used for highlighting Asuka’s debut on the series and there is not much we can talk about.

Seventh angel Israphel 

The angel of music Israphel is unique in the sense it was able to split its body in two, serving as a proof of split-ability of souls in this universe. Its face(?) was shaped like a Yin-Yang before splitting.

Eighth angel Sandalphon

The angel of fetus Sandalphon was found in magma before it has hatched from its egg and the internal view showed it to be shaped like a fetus. Unit – 02 was chosen to undertake the mission of capturing it alive for experiments but was eliminated when this mission has failed. Sandalphon also plays a role in determining the Sex of the baby. This fact leads some to argue that the theme of this episode was “Sex”

Ninth angel Matarael

Perhaps it is really crying

The angel of rain Matarael perhaps tops the mediocrity of angels but also marks the end of the list of “easy” enemies that started with Gagiel. It looks like a spider and has an unexposed core but is the only angel that was eliminated using a rifle. The important thing of note in this episode is the Self-defence force referring to Matarael as the eighth angel, showing that Seele and Nerv are hiding the existence of Lilith. It is sometimes maddening that Anno believes this to be enough explanation.

Tenth angel Sahaquel

The angel of the sky Sahaquel appeared out of the sky just like its namesake. It is one of the angels that saw much change compared to the planning phase design, the toilet paper roll like arm of Zeruel was originally Sahaquel’s. This makes one wonder what the battle against it could actually have been.

Because Sahaquel’s attack involves a suicide attack using its whole body, it practically made the initiation of the Third impact impossible. This makes the investigation of its motives impossible and the “Angle that does not think” in the series development document might be referring to this one. However, there is an alternate theory that posits that Sahaquel was in a symbiotic relationship with Iroul and it is a possibility we can consider.

the AT field of the eleventh angel Iroul

The angel of terror Iroul took the form of bacteria sized micro machine and infiltrated Nerv through the means of hacking the system. Being the first and the last angel to attempt a non-physical method of attack, it was perhaps the most vulnerable moment for Nerv. And it is during this attack that Kaji was ‘Investigating’ central dogma.

We also see Gendou creating false reports regarding Iroul’s infiltration of Nerv arguing that this has never happened, telling the viewers of the fact that these two entities are not in complete agreement with each other. There is more to be said about this “lie” that Gendou told and will be covered in a future chapter.

The twelfth angel Leriel

The angel of nigh Leriel appears like a ball floating in the sky but this “ball” is later revealed to be a shadow and the “shadow” that was cast on the ground surface was the actual angel. But later interviews revealed that the floating ball was used only for the visual impact and was not the original idea of the twelfth angel’s appearance. The inside of the angel is the field called Dirac sea (it is different from the real-life theoretical model of the same name thus requiring no exploration into the field of theoretical physics). It was the first angel that showed interest in Humans and we also learn that Nerv hid this fact from Seele.

Shinji + Leliel?

According to Tsurumaki from the production staff, the ‘young Shinji’ that converse with our Shinji is actually Leliel. The original sequence of this conversation was Shinji talking directly to Leriel, the production staff decided that this did not convey the intention of the scene well enough thus they choose to depict it at a symbolic level, making the patterns on Leliel similar to the shirt young Shinji wore. It is sometimes maddening that even the production staffs believe this to be enough explanation.

Thirteenth angel Bardiel in its sticky mucus form

Fourteenth Angel Zeruel

Fifteenth Angel Arael

I am glossing over Bardiel and Zeruel as there is not much to talk about here.

The angel of birds Arael holds an extra meaning of “The god of light”, or “The vision of God” and is another angel that is true to its namesake. It is also another angel following Leliel that showed interest in human psychology.

Just like how Leliel appeared in Shinji’s mind in the form of his childhood, Arael did so for Asuka as well. Keep this in mind as we talk about the next angel.

The sixteenth angel Armisael

Armisael: I’ll give you a piece of my heart. How does it feel? Painful?

Rei: Painful? No… This is the feeling of loneliness

Armisael: I don’t understand

Rei: We are all together, but you are alone, and you don’t like that. That’s what it means to be lonely

The sixteenth angel ‘penetrates’ into Rei’s mind just like Leliel and Arael did for Shinji and Asuka respectively. Armisael tells Rei about the ‘pain’ it feels in its heart and is taught by Rei that this is called loneliness. Angels that exist as a unified entity did not have the concept of ‘Loneliness’ and learns of it through communication with Rei. Armisael then synchronizes it’s feeling with Rei and approaches Shinji in her form while creating the ‘Tower of angels ‘through Unit – 00.

The ‘Tower of angels’ Armisael creates

How it looks like. From the development document

The ‘Tower of angels’ is a structure shaped like the amalgamation of all angels that have appeared so far. This points to the possibility that Armisael knew of the appearance of all previous angels, posing the possibility of communication among angels in some way. Or the design could have come from the memories of angels that Rei held. 

Either way, Armisael learned of the concept of loneliness through Rei and the synchronization of its emotions and desire with Rei’s led it to attempt seducing Shinji and portray its desire of wanting to be with other angels. This is a very short sequence overshadowed by Rei’s self-sacrifice that soon followed but is used to portray that even the unified beings (angels) also suffer the concept of loneliness, making human’s ability to feel lonely to not be an inferior trait.

Armisael is the angel of the womb and the shape of Unit – 00 right before the self-detonation is like that of a pregnant woman. There is one more hidden symbolism to this, but it being integral to the characterization of Rei, I will mention it in her part chapter 27.

The face of an angel.

The seventeenth angel Tabris can be said to be Adam (‘s soul) thus we will talk about him in a later chapter (chapter 18). This chapter has given a broad description of the angels, next chapter, we will have a deeper dive into the nature of these angels.

 TBC Chapter 18 Angels, what are they?

[chastitybottomtoy]

Chastity Dreams: Day 23

I woke up this morning to the dull throb of my dick trying to force it's way out of it's tight steel cage. From the very moment my groggy eyes opened, my brain has been bombarding my sexual psyche with fantasies of the person I am going to become.

I imagined how good it would feel to wake up with a metal collar locked securely around my neck. I'm in a cage with steel bars. I have enough room that I can turn over comfortably. I realize as I awaken that not only have I been collared, but there is a thick chain locked around my waist. Metal shackles are on my wrists. I realize suddenly that the cage I'm confined in is underneath a bed.

As I lay there trying to figure out how I got there, I heard footsteps approaching. Obviously I was very nervous. I do not remember anything about last night. All I did was go to a gay bar to play pool and have a few drinks, and maybe find someone with a tasty cock that i could feed from.

Suddenly the door opens, and I see three sets of boots, all of them black latex with at least six inch heels. A weak moan escapes my lips as I realize my big cock is turning purple, trying so hard...in vain...to have an erection. I should be scared.

I am scared. But I'm excited too. Excited enough that my caged dick is beginning to trickle a tiny drop of cum. I dab it with my finger and apply it to my lips like an expensive gloss. I do know know how it does it, or why...but none of that matters...cum makes me go insane.

Insane enough that I don't realize there is someone opening the cage door the whole time I was painting my lips with my cum. It is a woman...but there is something different about her. Different...but exquisite.

"Come out," she beckoned me. "When you approach me, it will be on your hands and knees, and you will keep your head down."

She stood back up, and inexplicably I do exactly as she directed, crawling out of the cage, to the middle of the room, with my nose to the floor. I stop when i reach the three pairs of boots that were standing outside the cage. I do not dare to look up. My balls are throbbing from the cock cage.

"Kiss my boots, slave." I'm told by the woman in the center, the same one who opened my cage. I lean down to kiss her shiny black latex boot. The moment my lips touch it, I hear a quick whooshing sound as a leather flogger impacts soundly against my round white ass. My body jerks violently, but I take it with a quiet grunt.

"Look up and face me."

As I raised up, I found myself face to face with a beautiful cock, not hard, but rather slightly engorged with blood so that it was thick, and dark in color. It looked like it could get a lot bigger.

I feel like I'm on drugs, but it is just the fear and anticipation of what is to come. It is better than any drug I could ever imagine. My mouth opened automatically, as if I was programmed from infancy to be a cocksucker.

My lips just barely touched her mouth-watering cock when I received another stinging rebuke from a leather flogger...this time from the other side. As my head snapped back from the pain, I saw a shiny black latex-gloved hand approach rapidly and and slap me hard across my face. I groaned outloud. I wanted that cock so bad.

My head snapped to the right, where I was surprised by the sight of another thick half-hard cock. My mouth dropped open and l lunge towards it because I need it in my mouth. Once again I am denied as flogger rains down 3 hard blows on my ass.

I snap back up, straight on my knees, and as I turn back to the woman in the middle, I see another woman on her left, with a cock every bit as beautiful as the others. I stupidly try to lunge for it, because cock makes me so crazy, and as expected, the flogger strikes hard, this time five times, from the woman on the right, and a hard slap to each side of the face from the woman in the middle.

"You have a lot to learn."

I slowly look up, and I see the underside of a set of large latex-covered breasts, riding atop an under-breast corset. I lean back and see the face of a beautiful woman, a woman like I've never seen...beautiful in a way beyond the normal beauty of women. I'm starting to wonder if this is what it feels like to be a bitch.

I cannot tell you what the women at her sides looked like, except that they wore Matte Black latex catsuits. They obviously took being women very seriously, because there is no way those big breasts in those suits could be natural. Their faces were concealed by latex masks, and both of them wore dark Fuschia lipstick. They both had leather floggers in hand.

"You signed the contract last night. All obligations were laid out perfectly clear. You still have the opportunity to back out, or you can show us your cock-worshipping skills right now, and accept the terms permanently."

I am definitely not in my right mind. I have cock intoxication. I've never really ever done anything gay, and suddenly here I am. And what contract? Did someone spike my drink lastnight? I literally have no idea where I even am. Only a brainless sissy bimbo would take this deal.

All of that thinking only took about half a second before I scooped up the lady's half hard cock in my mouth, sealing my lips halfway down it before I started feeling it grow rapidly, forcing my lips apart. I can't even think!

My hands reach out to the sides and I grip the two Rubberdoll's growing cocks in each hand and begin to jerk them off, all the while moving my mouth up and down the thick length of flesh that is now poking the back of my throat.

I resist gagging as her fucking the back of my throat works up a bunch of saliva. I pull my mouth off her cock and lick it up and down on top, the sides, and up and down the big beautiful pronounced vein that will eventually deliver my hot reward. I spit on the bulging head, and tightly jerking the other two, I lunge forward and plunge her massive dick down my throat.

I can feel my throat stretched tight from her huge girth. No air can get in. I cannot breathe at all. I can feel myself trying to gag, but she pulls my collar chain tight and holds my head down firmly with her other hand.

My body starts quaking. The rubberdolls on both sides start flogging my delicious ass over and over without mercy. I'm being suffocated with cock. This lady is fucking my throat mercilessly. I suddenly feel her cock expand even more. She holds my head down and cries out.

The last thing I remember is my weak hands losing their grip on the cocks, and a violent quaking in my throat as I became the recipient of a very large gushing hot load of cum deposited directly into my stomach. Then just blackness.

When I awoke, I realized i was strapped down tightly on my back, to the bed with thick cargo tiedowns, with just my head hanging off the side.

"Now that you're awake, we can resume. Ladies..."

That was followed by a harsh slap across the face and suddenly, two latex -covered hands pushed my head down, and a thick pre-lubed girl cock forced it's entire length down my throat.

All I can do is lie there on my back and take it. They immobilized me and turned me into a toy for throatfucking. One of them would fuck my mouth hard for about a minute or two, then they would switch. They'd let me breathe just enough to keep me conscious.

They kept at it like that for at least twenty or thirty minutes...the longest twenty or thirty minutes of my life. But somehow I felt nothing but happiness and fulfillment.

Suddenly all motion stopped. I couldn't breathe anymore. This time it was the rubberdoll with her cock quivering and exploding deep in my throat directly into my stomach. My eyes rolled back and I tried to moan as the other Rubberdoll cried out loudly and began spraying my face with her hot cum.

The first one pulled out of my throat and I gasped desperately for air. I could feel the warm cum running down my face, some of it into my eyes and mouth. My eyes burned and my tongue licked around ravenously, trying to save all the cum I could.

"I am satisfied." The Rubberdolls looked at her and nodded in agreement. "You can lie here restrained till all the cum on your face dries. Think about what you just did. Think about who you really are. Think about who we are going to help you become. Then maybe you'd like to look at the contract you signed. There is no backing out now, faggot."

I lie there for probably an hour. I would have been shaking if it were not for the straps. Fear, excitement, anticipation...arousal. I was in system overload. All I know is that I kept hearing the words "sissy cumslut" over and over in my head. The weirdest thing I felt was a complete sense of satisfaction.

The door opened. In walked the three women. They were in normal clothes now. Sexy as hell though. I love their micro mini skirts. It is hard to believe these women are so domineering. They unstrapped me and led me by my collar to a chair and table. Then they secured my shackles to the chair.

In front of me was the contract. I was surprised at how long it was. I was even more surprised by the title - "Four Party Agreement for the Ownership, Submission, Confinement, Sissification, and Bimbofication of Isaac C."

Holy shit. I am in deep. But I've never been so aroused. I cannot believe this actually happened. I'm never going to be the same. Bring it on. And still all I can think about is cock.

I started scanning the contract. It is pretty much an agreement on a roadmap for a new life.

1. You shall refer to your Masters as Owners One, Two, and Three respectively.

2. Your chastity cage is permanent. It will NEVER come off, with the exception of medical purposes, when under strict supervision, and/or when you've been restrained in a manner which inhibits any ability to touch yourself.

DO NOT asked to be let out, or punishment and conditioning will ensue.

3. You will never be allowed an orgasm through penile stimulation. The only orgasm you are permitted to experience is if you are being ass-fucked. Any orgasm will cause for punishment.

DO NOT request to be allowed an orgasm, or punishment and conditioning will ensue.

4. You will not leave the house without direct supervision. Anytime you are out of the house, you will be plugged anally.

5. You will undergo intense conditioning to enable you to reach your full potential as broken sissy cumslut slave.

Being a true sissy bimbo takes work.

6. You will submit to all forms of bondage asked of you.

7. You will eagerly worship every cock with your mouth, and be fucked anally by any and all we choose, no matter how great the number.

8. You will not waste cum, or you will be punished.

9. You'll be feminized through use of drugs and hypnosis.

10. You will always wear slutty clothes befitting a cumslut.

11. Your body will be kept smooth and waxed at all times.

12. You will keep your body fit to please us.

13. You will be trained for the purpose of being a Bimbo Rubberdoll party favor. You will be rented out for trusted customers.

14. You hold us free of liability for any physical or mental changes that may occur.

15. You are required to become a Sissy Bimbo. You will wear massive bimbo breast forms adhered to your chest.

16. When and only when we have determined you are worthy, you will be implanted with freaky big bimbo breast implants. When that day arrives, you will have truly earned your life of sexual enslavement.

I was overwhelmed. This is really happening...and I love it!

My owners restrained my hands, stuffed a ball bag in my mouth and put me back in my cage.

"Get some sleep. Tomorrow is indoctrination day. Your going to need all your strength to make it through. It will be a jumpstart on your sissification." I lay there quietly (no choice being gagged) as they climbed on the bed and went to sleep. What will tomorrow bring?

I woke up to my cage being opened. My owners led me to a dark room. In the middle was a bondage device. It was metal and leather. A frame. Designed for me to kneel on my hands and knees in. They strapped my arms and legs tightly to the base. A leather strap and metal bar held my hips tight, and a fixed metal collar was closed and locked around my neck. I was shaking from anticipation.

As I knelt there, aroused to a crazy extent by my vulnerablity, Owner One forced wireless headphones in my ears. They were playing on a long playlist of sissy/bimbo/cocksucker hypno. This was going to be my initial programming.

Owner Two slipped a blindfold over my eyes. Lights out. They were serious. Sensory deprivation programming. If I could have seen or heard anything, I would have known that my owners had opened the door, and in had walked a long string of men...and some shemales. Ten to be exact, not counting my three owners.

Little did I know that my daily training ran nine to five. So indoctrination day was going to be eight long hours of being gangbanged by a room full of thirteen horny cocks. Nobody ever told me they all took viagra so they could keep me under continuous programming for the whole eight hours.

I was listening to the voice in my ears telling me what a nasty cocksucker I am, when I felt a thick, hot, lubed dick force it's way in my ass. It hurt bad. But the pain washed away fast.

I was groaning loudly. I could feel the orgasm building quickly in my ass. Never had I ever thought anyone alive could ever feel this slutty. Is this what a girl feels? I do not know. I do not care.

I started shaking violently and straining hard against my bonds. I'll never be the same after this. This is the ONLY way I ever want to cum again. I am destined to be an anal slut.

I could not contain it anymore, the loud cry began to escape from my throat...but was quickly stifled by an unknown large cock, which began fucking my mouth vigorously. I was in heaven!!!

For eight long torturously beautiful hours it lasted. I really do not know how long it felt like. Just darkness, and various throbbing cocks, smashing my body together from both ends, as the voices tell me what a slutty bitch I am.

I think I even passed out a couple times. I remember feeling hot cum hitting my body, from every angle, and feeling load after load of hot gushing cum fill my holes full.

Thirteen people on Viagra is a lot of loads. They must have filled and covered me with at least forty to fifty shots.

Suddenly it stopped. Everyone left. loads. I was stuck there. Shivering from being covered in cum. So that is what a bukakke gangbang is like.

As I lie there pondering everything, I fell asleep mentally giving in to the fact that I am now cumslut, and this will be my life. Bathed in cum. Slave to cock.

[itcars]

First Look: The McLaren Verdant Theme GT by MSO

A masterclass of innovative color and materials takes McLaren’s GT to a luxuriant new level of bespoke personalization in the McLaren Verdant Theme GT by MSO (McLaren Special Operations). Building on the GT’s multi-faceted talents and continent-crossing capabilities by displaying a rich new layer of craftsmanship from MSO, the unique car showcases artistry and techniques that are available across the entire McLaren Automotive range.

The Verdant Theme GT by MSO revels in a feeling for the verdant landscapes and fresh horizons that the GT has been designed to explore. Colors and materials employed with the highest level of technical precision reflect hues and textures from the natural world – for example, key touch points in the cabin are trimmed in cashmere, the first time this softest and most luxurious of wools has been used by McLaren and the first time it has become available in a supercar.

One of distinctive features of the car immediately apparent is a stunning new take on MSO’s innovative satin tri-tone paint finish. Seamlessly graduated from light to dark, the car’s body blends three shades of satin-finish green – from nose to tail, Horsell Green, Arbor and Steppe Green – all created especially for this car. Achieving the perfect progression of shades required 430 hours of painstaking work in what is among the most complex paint processes yet undertaken by MSO.

The lushness of the Verdant Theme GT by MSO is completed with hand-painted pinstripe accents in Napier Green on the body and the front splitter. The MSO Bespoke brake calipers are painted Napier Green while the MSO Black Pack guarantees the most dramatic of contrasts with gloss black finish for the wheels, the upper window surround and the exhaust finisher.

Dark Green, Jet Black and Laurel Green leather with Laurel Green micro-piping contrasts in the cabin with charcoal grey cashmere. Indulgently soft and luxurious, it adorns the center tunnel, the door inserts, the lower section of dashboard, the sun visors, the head restraints and the back upper section of the seats. MSO has been working on an automotive application for cashmere for 18 months, but limited availability means that at this stage it must remain among the most exclusive of all MSO options.

The Verdant Theme GT by MSO’s cabin – offering the space, comfort and usability expected of a GT – is further enhanced with subtle MSO signature details such as dedication plaque, embroidered logos and an accelerator pedal laser-etched with the MSO logo.

No enhancements were deemed necessary to the GT’s Proactive Damping Control suspension, nor its 620PS 4.0-liter, twin-turbocharged V8, both already optimized to provide an outstanding Grand Touring combination of authentic McLaren supercar performance – 0-62mph in just 3.2 seconds – with touring comfort and refinement that sets new McLaren standards.

“The McLaren Verdant Theme GT by MSO is the perfect showcase for us in the way it takes modern-luxury to the next level by incorporating so much innovation. The Grand Tourer of McLaren’s range provides a sophisticated and elegant canvas for our artistry, but also I hope the spark that will inspire every McLaren owner as they seek ever more ways to personalize their car, whether it is GT, sports convertible, track supercar, or the ultimate uncompromised road car such as our new McLaren Elva.” Ansar Ali, Managing Director, McLaren Special Operations

Sleek, elegant and muscular, the superlight McLaren GT is a compelling blend of beautiful design, high-quality innovative materials, true supercar performance and McLaren driving dynamics and engagement. Designed for the journey, this exceptionally refined vehicle has the capacity to carry 570 liters of luggage including carry golf bags and skis.

Technology and modern craftsmanship share equal prominence in the McLaren GT, with the finest high-quality materials complemented by features such as the most sophisticated McLaren infotainment system to date; hidden-until-lit ambient lighting and the option of an electrochromic glazed roof.