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sleepyxcoffee · 3 years

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@thewitchersecretsanta gift for @youkaineko !

Ultimately, this was all Master Varin’s fault.

It hadn’t, Vesemir explained, been mandatory for young witchers to hold a degree until 1990, when Master Varin had returned after spending six years obtaining a Bachelor’s in Chemistry whilst still doing all his… witchering. He had proclaimed the experience “eye opening” and “a good way to get to know humans” and some other bullshit Geralt didn’t fully understand.

Geralt had succeeded in evading the Trial of Uni, as he and Eskel had taken to calling it, for a grand total of two months after his Grasses, until Vesemir had all but scruffed him and dragged him to a computer with UCAS opened up. His only solace in the whole situation was that he and Eskel were applying to all the same universities.

Except then Eskel got a full scholarship to the University of St Andrews, which the trainers weren’t letting him pass up on, and Geralt… didn’t get a place at St Andrews.

Which was how Geralt had ended up at Edinburgh instead. It was still Scotland, at least, so it wasn’t that far from Kaer Morhen over on the Shetland Isles, or Eskel in St Andrews. It was a city, which was… less than desirable, but Geralt could work with that.

He could.

What he wasn’t so sure he could work with was the fucking disaster of a man he had ended up flatmates with. The others seemed alright - Shani and Priscilla gave Geralt his space, and didn’t bother him too much. They didn’t seem to mind that he was a witcher either.

Jaskier, on the other hand…

The best part was, Geralt hadn’t even met Jaskier in the flat. For the first half of his first semester, Room 4 in Flat 12 of College Wynd had remained blissfully unoccupied. Shani and Priscilla did their own thing - Shani was rarely in the flat anyway, being a medicine student with a ridiculously full schedule - and Priscilla spent most of her time doing her theatre society things. The girls were at least kind enough to not throw any parties in the flat, after the time Geralt had nearly murdered Priscilla with a glare for doing so.

No, Geralt met Jaskier outside the dean’s office, of all the possible places.

It was November, and Geralt had heard of some strange, possibly vampiric, activity occurring on the outskirts of Edinburgh, thanks to a contract for a witcher put up by the Metropolitan Police. Unfortunately, he was also the only fully trained Wolf witcher situated anywhere near Edinburgh, and he’d be damned if he let a passing Cat or Griffin or anyone hop in and take the kill. Remus had passed through last week, but he was all the way down in Yorkshire by the time the reports came in. The UK was large, and the Wolf School was only a hundred or so members strong. They didn’t have enough witchers to permanently station anyone in cities, their witchers instead roaming up and down the country.

Also unfortunately, Geralt had about five different assignments due the next week, but the police were getting antsy, nobody could find the stupid vampire, and nobody could even identify it. Geralt had wanted to just get up and leave to take the contract, but Vesemir insisted he had to go ask the dean for permission to miss his classes first, and also for an extension on his assignments, because Melitele knew Geralt might take a while.

So, much to his annoyance, Geralt had ended up sitting outside the dean’s office during one of his free periods, fidgeting and playing with his medallion and his hood pulled over his distinctly white hair, shadowing his cat-slitted eyes. Just because everyone knew he was a witcher didn’t mean he wanted to put himself on show.

Then a tall, slim man wearing a frankly ridiculous red raincoat over an even more ridiculous yellow crop top and absolutely horrifying high waisted jeans and incredibly impractical Ugg boots (it was Scotland, how were his boots not soaked through?) sat down next to Geralt.

“Hi,” he said cheerfully, in an obnoxiously posh accent. “I’m Jaskier.”

“Hmm.” Who named themselves Buttercup in another language?

Jaskier laughed. “Hmm. What an excellent name. I love how you just sit there and… brood.”

Geralt turned pointedly away from him.

“Come on, you can’t keep a man with…” Jaskier waved his hands wildly, “...a screwdriver in his pants waiting.”

That caught Geralt’s attention. “What?”

Jaskier rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Uh, yeah. Say, what are you here for?”

“Absence request,” Geralt said shortly.

“Right, those, yeah,” Jaskier laughed again and sank down in his seat. “I’m uh - well, I may or may not have stabbed my flatmate with a screwdriver while I was putting together this thing from IKEA?”

Geralt stared at him.

Jaskier’s arms flailed again, and he made an odd sound. “He’s okay - unfortunately - he just ended up bleeding a little and started screaming and our RA walked in, and, yeah, I’m here now.”

There was a moment of silence. Geralt… didn’t know what to say to that. He settled for sinking further into his chair.

“...so, uh. What do you need leave permission for?”

“Job.”

Jaskier made an interested sound. “Ooh, cool! I should get myself one of those. What’s your job?”

“Killing monsters.”

“Huh?”

Geralt was saved from having to answer further when the dean opened his door. “Geralt Rivia!” he called. Geralt stood and pulled back his hood.

“Here,” he said gruffly.

Jaskier gasped and leapt to his feet. “Oh my god, I know you! White hair, yellow eyes - you’re that witcher! Jerald Rivia!” Geralt speed walked into the dean’s office. He gave Geralt a confused look, but stepped aside to let Geralt in anyway. “Jerald - hey, wait, that’s how you say your name, right - wait, don’t leave! Hang on! I’m sure you have a treasure trove of stories -”

The dean shut the door, and Geralt sighed in relief. “What was that all about?” the dean asked. Geralt shrugged. “Right. Well then, Geralt, what did you need to see me for?”

Once the dean had granted Geralt his leave with minimal fussing (scary witcher eyes worked wonders), Geralt brushed straight past Jaskier to return to his dorm room, despite Jaskier’s attempts to reach out to him. He had a vampire to track.

***

The vampire, as Geralt now knew two days later, was a katakan. And not just any katakan - an old, experienced katakan who had left Geralt sore, out of Black Blood, and highly toxic. The smarting in his leg told him Swallow or even White Raffard’s was probably called for, but the white hot throbbing of his veins told him White Honey was a much better idea.

Geralt groaned as he stumbled into the flat. Shani and Priscilla were, predictably, asleep - it was four in the morning, after all, but there was a third heartbeat coming from the kitchen. Instantly on high alert, Geralt kept one hand on his steel sword as he opened the kitchen door.

Dancing in front of the countertop was… Jaskier? What was the strange man from the dean’s office doing here? He was dressed in shorts and a loose T-shirt, and, humming, put a metal bowl in the microwave.

“Stop!” Geralt exclaimed. Jaskier yelped and dropped a fork - which had, God help him, been going into the bowl. “What are you doing?”

“Geralt! Is that any way to greet your new flatmate - sorry for getting your name wrong, by the way - hey, what are you doing -” Geralt shoved past Jaskier to yank the bowl out of the microwave and slam it onto the counter. It contained… what might have been mac and cheese. “What are you doing - you’re getting monster guts everywhere!”

“You can’t microwave metal,” Geralt snarled. “It’ll blow up.”

Jaskier blinked once. Twice. “Well. Ah. Thank you for letting me know - you’ve just saved our flat. A true hero. Say, what are you covered in?”

“Katakan.” Geralt stepped away from Jaskier and shrugged off his swords. Jaskier’s eyes trailed them curiously.

“Katakan. So, that’s, what, a type of necrophage?”

“Vampire. Their true form looks like a giant mutated bat but they can disguise themselves as humans, and their healing is slowest when the sun is highest. Violent. Nasty.”

“You don’t say,” Jaskier mumbled, eyeing Geralt thoughtfully. “And what about you? Why are your eyes all… black? Is that your witcher true form or something?”

Geralt… had nearly forgotten about that. He pulled out a White Honey from his belt pouch and chugged it. Immediately, the warmth spread through his veins, and he felt the toxins clear. “Witcher potions. Too much is toxic for even us.”

“Oh wow, your eyes are going back to gold.” Jaskier peered at him curiously, then made a face and leaned away. “You reek. You need a long hot shower. I refuse to live with that stench.”

Geralt’s thoughts came to a grinding halt. “You live here? Since when?”

Jaskier scratched his head awkwardly. “Since, well, yesterday. Because I stabbed Valdo Marx, who completely deserved it by the way. Unfortunately, he’s fine.”

...Geralt suddenly felt unreasonably worried for his safety.

He was pleased to learn, however, that the screwdriver stabbing asides, Jaskier proved to be a surprisingly good flatmate. Sure, he seemed to be completely nocturnal, but he was quiet enough at night and didn’t make a mess. He talked a lot, but after the first five times he tried to engage Geralt in conversation, he left Geralt pretty much alone. Having lived at Kaer Morhen, that was all Geralt could ask for. Jaskier even tried to arrange flat bonding sessions, which turned out surprisingly well and meant Geralt actually spoke to Priscilla and Shani, even though one session had resulted in Geralt needing to Aard the oven.

The story had Lambert and Eskel cackling when Geralt told it to them over the winter break. It was supper time, and the three were sitting together sawing at hard meat which was probably at least a year out of date with their dinner knives. Things never did go well when it was Gweld’s turn to cook. At least this time there were no magic mushrooms.

“How do you fuck up cookies that badly?” Lambert wheezed.

“You made bread explode once,” Eskel reminded him.

Lambert waved his hand dismissively. “Yeah, but that was on purpose.”

Just thinking of the incident made Geralt groan. That had been interesting to explain to Vesemir, and Rennes had been distinctly displeased. Poor Lambert had spent the rest of the week waking up an hour before dawn to run laps in the frigid Shetland air.

“Compared to you, my university’s been fine,” Eskel said. “I haven’t had to take any contracts. Monsters don’t seem to like St Andrews.”

“The Trial of Uni is really fucking stupid,” Lambert grumbled. “The world already knows we’re freaks. Why rub it in our faces?”

“I don’t think that’s the point,” Eskel replied evenly. “Geralt?”

“Hmm.”

Eskel sighed. “Talkative as always. But really, Lambert, it’s not as bad as some people -” at this, Eskel threw a pointed look halfway across the Great Hall at Clovis, who even more pointedly ignored him - “make it seem.”

“It’s no worse than Kaer Morhen,” Geralt agreed. “Up for a round of Gwent?”

Naturally, Geralt won his round against Lambert, and then his round against Eskel, and Clovis, and Gweld, and Aubry, and Remus. He then promptly lost fifty pounds to Vesemir, but he at least had a few new cards, which was enough to please him. Unfortunately, Gwent had fallen out of fashion with humans sometime in the last century (the joys of having ancient instructors), so Geralt would have to wait until he met another witcher to play another round.

He returned to Edinburgh in high spirits. Aubry had offered to drive him and Eskel back to university, seeing as he planned on working his way down to Wales anyway. The car ride was long, but Geralt entertained himself with even more Gwent and bugging Eskel. Eskel returned what he got, and more than once Aubry had to remind them to not start sparring in the backseat of his car.

“I’ve had her for twenty years,” Aubry complained. “I refuse to lose her to a pair of rowdy green witchers.”

Unsurprisingly, Geralt was the first to return to his flat. The term didn’t start for another week, but witchers could hardly afford to lounge around all winter, what with the amount of monsters in Great Britain. Geralt didn’t have his own car, and so he was dependent on older witchers driving him back to university, seeing as he didn’t want to walk nearly four hundred miles.

The benefit of returning to university early, however, was that he had time to take on a contract. Someone had called Kaer Morhen just before he arrived to report “strange supernatural activity” in an abandoned flat. Geralt allowed himself a night’s rest, then set out to the apartment with his two swords.

It turned out to be a noonwraith, and that on its own would have been simple enough; noonwraiths were annoying little buggers, but they were manageable. No, the problem was when Geralt belatedly realised there was an alp in the basement.

The ensuing fight was hard and bloody. In the end, Geralt came out on top, but not without a wide range of injuries which left him on the ground wheezing. Eventually, he mustered the strength to take some potions and stagger back home, but not before texting Vesemir to let him know the contract was done. The contract giver would transfer money to Kaer Morhen, and Vesemir would send him his share. All in all, it was a clean system.

Geralt managed to stagger back to his flat. It was nighttime, and not many students had returned, meaning the streets were still relatively quiet. Those who did see him gave him a wide berth, murmuring and pointing, but Geralt ignored it. He just wanted to get home. A hot bath sounded excellent - then he could treat his wounds.

Unfortunately, Geralt discovered upon his return that someone else had arrived. He cursed his luck as he closed the door behind him. There was a suitcase in the front hall, and the kitchen door was propped open by a chair. Geralt could hear a man humming. Jaskier. Great.

Perhaps he could sneak past without Jaskier noticing -

“Hello? Who’s there?” Jaskier called, and Geralt winced.

“Just me,” he called back.

“Ah! Geralt! How was your - Melitele’s tits, what the fuck happened to you?” Jaskier exclaimed. He dropped the piece of toast he had been holding and rushed to Geralt, hovering next to him. “Do you need the hospital? Should I call 999? I’m calling 999 -”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said forcefully. “I’m a witcher. I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Jaskier said fretfully. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call 999?” His hand hovered over the phone in his pocket.

“I’m sure. They don’t know shit about witchers.” Geralt started limping to the bath.

“Wait. Let me help stitch you back up, at least. I’ve got a first aid certificate.”

“Dunno what good that is,” Geralt grumbled, but he grabbed the first aid kit off the wall and threw it at Jaskier anyway. He stepped into the bathroom and stripped off his clothes and armour - he could deal with that later. Geralt stood under the spray of hot water, wincing as it ran over his wounds.

He decided to forego the soap and shampoo, instead gently scrubbing himself down to get rid of the blood and dirt. The noonwraith had been in that house for a long time, and with folks too afraid to go inside, it had become unbearably dusty. When Geralt came out of the bathroom, dry and dressed, he found Jaskier had set up the first aid materials on the dining table with a chair pulled up next to it.

“Sit down, Geralt,” Jaskier said, and Geralt did just that.

***

Jaskier was a quick study, and Geralt soon became grateful for his help, even though he refused to admit it. Sometimes, Shani, who was a med student, had to help with treating Geralt’s wounds, although she often complained he was better off going to A&E. Geralt reiterated that there wasn’t much A&E could do for him - his potions were enough.

Every week or so, Geralt would sit in the kitchen reading through his course work while Jaskier helped stitch him back up. He was chatty as ever, but at least he got things done.

“Come with me to open mic night, Geralt, Essi and I are performing,” Jaskier would say (and Geralt did attend open mic night, lurking in the corner), or “have you seen Professor Rejk’s new tie? It’s hideous!” (and no, Geralt had not, but he made a special point of paying attention to Professor Rejk the next time he saw him).

It was an easy relationship, one akin to the bond Geralt shared with Eskel, and yet completely different. Jaskier chattered nonstop, but he didn’t make Geralt talk, and he knew when to leave a question alone. It was companionable and comfortable, and for Geralt that was enough.

***

In March, a bug started spreading across campus. Geralt’s classes shrank in size as students and professors alike ended up bedridden with a horrible cold. He thought nothing of it - he was a witcher, after all, and witchers were functionally immune to human diseases.

Poor Jaskier, unfortunately, was only human, and he did manage to get sick. It all started when Priscilla caught the bug from Essi (who had caught the bug from Valdo, who had caught the bug from a music professor). Jaskier spent his free time caring for his friend, and by the time the week was up, Priscilla was good as new, and Jaskier was sneezing nonstop.

“You look terrible,” Geralt told him one morning when he walked into the kitchen for breakfast. Jaskier lifted his head to sneeze at Geralt, then set it down back against his arms. Geralt wrinkled his nose. “Disgusting,” he said as he pulled the egg carton out of the fridge. “Want breakfast?”

“Yes please,” Jaskier said, sounding very congested. “I don’t want to go to class.”

“Then don’t,” Geralt said simply. He took the frying pan out of a cupboard and set it on the hob, switching it on.

“You know what, maybe that’s not a bad idea.” Jaskier eyed the eggs wistfully. “Can I have scrambled eggs?”

“Hmm.” Geralt retrieved a bowl from the drying rack and cracked in several eggs, then whisked them. He added milk and salt to the bowl, and oil to the frying pan. Jaskier watched with hungry eyes as he cooked the eggs.

“Best roommate ever,” Jaskier declared as Geralt placed a plate in front of him. Geralt hummed and served up his own eggs.

“Where are Shani and Priscilla?”

“Morning run,” Jaskier said between mouthfuls of egg. The two ate in companionable silence, broken only by Jaskier’s coughs and sniffles.

“Go back to bed,” Geralt said when they finished eating. He gathered their plates and filled the sink up.

“Will you bring me tea?” Jaskier asked teasingly.

“Hmm.” Geralt put on the kettle, and Jaskier laughed in delight.

“You will! I knew you were a big softie all along!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Geralt said, hiding his smile. “Go back to bed.”

“I’ll be waiting for my tea,” Jaskier said in a sing-song voice. “Best flatmate in the world, bringing his invalid friend tea.”

“You’ve got a cold, not the plague,” Geralt grumbled, scrubbing their plates clean.

“You never know! Anyway, are you heading to class?”

“Hmm. I’ve got a contract after.” Putting the frying pan in the sink to soak, Geralt dumped a teabag and an unholy amount of sugar into a mug. He poured in hot water and passed the mug to Jaskier, who took it gratefully.

“I’ll be here to stitch you up after,” Jaskier said lightly. “Anyway, off with you, or you’ll be late. I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah. See you later.” And as Geralt walked out the front door, he couldn’t help but feel as though he had found a second home.

#the witcher #my writing

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heli0s-writes · 5 years

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Keen

Summary: The Bartons’ Vow Renewal Ceremony, Bucky’s exasperation (among other things), and some peaches makes for a fantastic afternoon. Pairing: Bucky x chaoticdumbass!Reader Warnings: Swearing, sexual references. A/N: 1.4k words. Written for @cake-writes‘s 1K Followers Celebration! Congrats, love! The prompt is based off this moodboard:

Bag of Tricks One-Shots Masterlist

It’s never the revealing outfits that catches Bucky’s attention.

The shredded tank top exposing a lacy bra— an exciting blend of sexy and sweet, or the skintight white dress from last Saturday’s outing that hugged so snugly he could see the cleft of your ass. He doesn’t bat an eye.

Silk robes and nothing else to mission debriefs. Boy shorts and a frayed crop-top emblazoned with a summer camp logo. Nothing. Once you answered your door in fishnet tights and a tank top, half pulling on shorts, and because Bucky was so used to it, he threw the book you asked to borrow onto your bed and left as if he never saw you.

Your clothing collection leaves very little to the imagination because frankly, you leave very little to the imagination. Bucky knows more about you than he knows about Steve and it would only make him uncomfortable if he didn’t know you for so long.

There is no filter between your brain and your mouth, and you have absolutely zero sense of propriety.

Between burping in the middle of dinner, clipping your nails and scattering them on the floor of Sam’s room when he irritates you, complaining openly about pissing out of your ass after eating an entire box of Triscuits, your prancing around in nothing but socks and a t-shirt doesn’t even register in his mind as inappropriate. All of that sounds like a Tuesday night when you’re applying a mud-mask and wrestling to get him to try it, too.

It’s the dress you wear to Clint and Laura’s 10-year anniversary that kills him.

A lemon-yellow and soft fabric with loose capped sleeves, flowing down to your shins and cinched neatly at your waist with a thin bow. The sheer material gives him a clear view of your legs inside when you dart through the beams of the afternoon sun.

It makes you look otherworldly and gorgeous. Delicate like you never are, and to his utter shock, it stirs him wild.

He finds himself situated between Steve and Sam and staring at the back of your head during the vow exchange. Your hair is still wet because you had overslept and sprinted down the road to get here on time. Luckily, the Barton’s had extra accommodations just a few miles away—Clint’s newfound hobby as a retired Avenger and rural dad. Unluckily, your heel broke off and you ran barefoot, dragging blood over the lush grass.

Water droplets collect on the nape of your neck and roll down into the fabric, soaking the back until it turns orange. He pinches himself because no way. No way is he thinking about dragging you behind the barn in the middle of a vow renewal ceremony and—

“Earth to Bonky!” Your fingers snap in his face. Three of your nails are chipped, and you shove your pointer back into your mouth, teeth nipping against it to tear it free. “Let’s get fucked up on some bubbly.”

He feels lightheaded because the cocktail hour has begun and that he didn’t even notice.

You grab him by the waist and lurch forward, throwing your broken shoes under the chair and pretending like they don’t exist.

Picnic tables are set for the guests, thin off-white linen tablecloths adorned with the exact kind of decorations perfect for a ceremony in the back of the Barton’s farmhouse. Eucalyptus dollars and dusty green lamb’s ears burst from the entwined centerpiece running through the middle of each tabletop. Creamy garden roses are placed sporadically along the length of the vine, split open peaches and blackberries lie waiting to be tasted on polished ceramic plates.

It’s beautiful.

Bucky couldn’t care less.

Your teeth sink into a ripe yellow peach matching that damn dress and its juice spurts from your mouth and down your chest in sticky trails. Bucky chokes on his champagne and spits back into the flute and both of you look like complete idiots who either need bibs or need to be quarantined away from the real adults.

“What is going on with you two?” Sam mutters behind a stiff jaw as his eyes roll from left to right, “Y’all embarrassing me in front of the ladies.” Bucky puts a hand up in apology and steers you away from Laura’s shocked sisters and over to the rolled-up cutlery where he slaps a cloth napkin over your sternum.

“I was saving it for later; I can get a little slurp-slurp if I bend down far enough.”

“Will you shut—please, it’s distracting.”

A furrow of your eyebrows shushes him as you slowly dab at the liquid on your chest. In your other hand, you hold onto the half-eaten peach suspiciously. Bucky tenses when you look him up and down, taking in his stiff posture and the way he is fisting the crystal glass in his hand. “You… okay?”

“Fine. They’re just... gross.” He grunts.

You quirk your head even further and narrow your eyes at the way he stands, weight pressed on one leg, arms crossed suddenly as if he’s protecting himself.

Bucky grumbles incoherently, stares off into the distance and finds interest in hay bales and chickens. He unbuttons the front of his blazer and straightens his spine, anything to stand a little taller and ground himself. His hands begin to fiddle by his sides, and he fixes his tie in a moment of unease.

The grass shuffles beneath your feet as you step in front of him, blocking the perfect view he had of a yard he longed to throw himself across. You hold the peach out in front of his face with an amused grin.

The glint in your eye tells him the kind of trouble he’s in. “This? Oh, Bucky, this isn’t gross… It’s actually delicious---” Your bottom lip is rolled between your teeth as you gasp and moan.

He glares straight through your face and into The Abyss. You are milking it.

“—Mmm.. oh god! Juicy.” A squelch breaks the silence as your mouth sucks the nectar onto your tongue, “Sweet. Tangy. Wet, and so soft...” Your tongue lewdly traces the corner of your mouth and up over the top of your lip. Maddeningly slow. “It’s kind of like eating…”

You place the fruit under your nose and plunge the tip of your tongue inside, flicking a few times at the edge of where the soft yellow flesh meets the thin layer of fuzzy orange-pink skin. “Kind of like eating pus---”

A hand spikes the peach out of your face and clear across the yard. When the two of you are finished following its trajectory as it pathetically rolls to a stop so far away it’s nearly gone, your heads turn back to see Steve hovering with a glower.

“Not. Okay.” He grits out, “Family event!” Steve yanks his thumb back to the tables where no one else seems to think anything of your absence, but granted, not everyone has super hearing. “Don’t make me come back here.”

Steve struts off with a final huff, giving Bucky a disappointed sigh—or perhaps a sympathetic one. Your smirk is barely hidden by the back of your hand as you watch Steve clomp away and then you erupt into laughter so hard you have to hold onto Bucky to keep yourself upright. Your wrist is splayed over his shoulder, forehead pressed to your own arm as you giggle.

Rising from your chest and mouth is the smell of ripe peach flesh, enclosing his senses completely. It is summery like the sun and the yellow of your dress. Ripe and sweet and tangy, just like you had said. Bucky licks his lips and groans when your breath blows over his neck.

“You think he--?” You ask quietly, turning so that the tip of your nose barely brushes against him.

Bucky shrugs. “Not like this is out of the ordinary for you.”

Another gust of air rushes down his back when you exhale, “True. Meet me behind the barn, Barnes?”

And then you’re off, extremely proud of yourself, bare feet sneaking away as quickly as possible so no one will notice your absence from the mingling. Bucky watches you disappear behind a row of trees and around the corner and shudders in excitement.

The two of you have been fooling around sporadically for the past month, but as you promised-- and he delivered-- nothing has changed. He still yells at you for oversharing, and you still clobber him with a box of Triscuits and a jar full of something for his face once a week. The only difference is that now sometimes he shows up half-dressed, too.

Bucky grins to himself as he takes a step after you. Then he pauses and heads the other way.

Five minutes later, he turns the corner and finds the dress that started it all hiked up over your hips and you erupt into laughter again at the sight of two peaches in his hand.

tags: @whothehellisbucky, @serpentbaby, @badassbaker, @alagalaska, @crist1216, @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan

#marvel #mcu #fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #james buchnan barnes #reader insert #cake's 1k followers celebration

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black-wolf066 · 4 years

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AU where Five dies young in the apocalypse part 3

[Part 1] [Part 2]

[A03 link if it’s easier to read]

Our Place to Call Home

Being homeless had never truly bothered Klaus after he had left the academy behind him. Especially not when he had chosen it of his own free will.

At the ripe age of seventeen years, four months, and twelve days old (“Yes Ben, I remember the exact date I left. No one can forget that week of utter fun; no matter how hard one tries.”), Klaus hadn’t had very many choices laid out for him to pick from. It had been either leave everything behind for the streets (where he had a better chance of making it on his own) or stay and deal with a cruel man who had never cared for him—or any of them for that matter—and never hesitated in reminding him of his uselessness in that household.

Sure, leaving would have entailed wandering into the unknown, with food, shelter and his next fix not ever being a solid guarantee, but staying hadn’t exactly been an option for him either (not after Five, and certainly not after Ben—still so very fresh in his grave at that point in time). Staying would have required him to accept the knowledge that Reginald would end up killing him—or his remaining siblings—with the missions the old man continuously forced them on.

In the end, the streets were the lesser of two evils in Klaus’ opinion.

(As he crept out late in the night with nothing more than a knapsack, three hundred some odd dollars pilfered from Luther’s shoe box hidden under the floorboard beneath his bed, and the clothes on his back; Klaus spared one fleeting thought to the rest of his brothers and sisters; hoping they too would be smart enough to leave before it was too late.)

Once out there, he—and by extension, Ben—had finally been free to do whatever he had damn well pleased. To go wherever his feet led him, without a single care in the world. Sure it hadn’t been easy; some days worse than others (a fight here, a drug deal gone south there, the lack of food or a warm place to sleep when the nights would get too cold), but he had finally been handed the reigns of his own destiny and nothing anyone could do or say would have stopped him from enjoying that high (not even a concerned Ben dogging his every step).

It took plenty of trial and error on his part (but Five wasn’t the only one capable of adaptability in the family), and plenty of months honing the skills he had learned for a different purpose then what they were originally intended for. Nevertheless, Klaus had made his new lifestyle work.

And for seven blissfully, foggy years, it did work.

Then Five up and died, came back from the future (“Called it!” “Congratulations, you’re not a complete idiot.” “Hey! I could deal without the sarcasm, Five-y, but I’ll still take the compliment!”) to haunt him, and suddenly Klaus’ blissful little world went up in figurative smoke and flames.

His lifestyle, he knew, was no longer a viable option; not with his resolve to stay relatively clean for Ben and Five’s sake. Not with the streets being a vixen of temptation he would succumb to the longer he was out there, and certainly not with the end of times looming like a distant gale in the background of what his life had apparently become.

God, no one told him being a responsible adult would suck quite this much.

(***)

“Sorry, occupancy is full.”

With a tired sigh, Klaus turned on his heel and left the shelter for the park.

“You could try another one rather than just giving up, you know. It’s not even that late out.” Five griped.

No, it wasn’t late at all, but Five didn’t know the streets like Klaus and Ben did. Five didn’t know each and every shelter within the city limit or that that particular establishment didn’t have a very reputable reputation to begin with. Herman Housing was usually the homeless’ last pick; the staff habitually rude and ill-tempered, the food border-line questionable, and the water from the showers leaving one feeling dirtier then when they first walked in. So, if Herman Housing—of all places—was full at this early hour of the day, then there was no point in wasting his time and energy trying for a bed somewhere else.

He was too tired and grumpy to communicate any of this information to Five.

Ben—bless him and his knack for knowing just what he’s thinking—voiced this for him.

“Well, you still can’t just sleep out here on the bench, Klaus.”

“Watch me.” He flopped back dramatically in his seat for added effect and grinned as Five looked for all the world like a riled cat.

“Klaus,” Ben cut in sharply before the argument could start. “You saw the news at Griddy’s. A blizzard’s coming and it’s going to be bad. Just go to Diego or Vanya, please—you know they won’t turn you away.”

No, they wouldn’t (not with the incoming threat of four feet of snow looming on the horizon), but his wounds were still fresh from their blatant dismissal when he tried to tell them Five had finally showed up to haunt his pathetic ass. It shouldn’t hurt, not when none of them every really believed him to begin with (even before Ben), but it did and still does. Ghosts were his thing after all, it shouldn’t have been that hard to believe. Sure, the drugs fundamentally nulled his powers almost completely, but his siblings should know by now that nothing he put in his system would stop Ben—or Five or any of them—from manifesting if they wanted too. His siblings were just that right side of stubborn pain in the asses that Klaus hoped none of the other spirits ever caught on too or he’d really be in trouble.

As the temperature continued to drop, and his brothers continued to pester and hound him like the mother hens they freaking were; he threw up his hands in defeat with a frustrated “Fine, I’m moving, I’m moving, you happy?”

He went to Diego.

(***)

The next incident, was just two weeks before Vanya would begin writing her book (not that Klaus would know that). It was just a normal night, the chill not as biting despite it being the dead of winter, when Klaus’ past actions finally came to bite him annoyingly in the ass.

He fought as hard as he could—he can honestly say that he did try—against his ruthless ex-drug dealer, but hand to hand combat had never been one of his strong suits growing up, and even if it had been; eight pitted against one simply wasn’t a fair fight (and a little over kill if you asked him). Being nimble and light on his feet also didn’t help when his exits were being blocked at every turn.

He managed to take out one fellow and roughed up two more before he was down for the count; knocked out cold and still being beaten and shaken down for what little money he had left in his pockets.

Ben and Five watched it all happen fearfully and angrily; helpless to do anything but be silent witnesses as their brother was beaten black and blue in the alley he was chased into.

When he eventually, and thankfully, awoke the next morning, he didn’t go to the Emergency room despite their concerned prompting (“You could be bleeding internally, Klaus!” “Don’t care, Ben, still not going.” “You’re a dumb-ass, you know that?” “Why thank you, Five.” “That’s not a compliment asshole, go to the damn hospital!” “Nope.” “You are insufferable!”). Hospitals were as bad as graveyards, and Klaus avoided them both like they would give him the plague.

Instead, in the early hours of the morning, with the streets and sidewalks still quiet with the sun not yet out to wake the living; he shuffled and limped his way slowly and blurrily towards Vanya’s home; her apartment being closer than Diego’s place of current residence or an emergency room either way.

Vanya took him to the hospital anyway.

(***)

Within a span of five months after the incident, bouncing from homeless shelter to endless homeless shelter (occasionally crashing at Diego’s or Vanya’s when the nagging got to be too much) and applying for whatever aid the government would be willing to give him; found Klaus with his very own studio apartment to call home.

The building was washed out and unkempt, the neighborhood he was located in looking as though it had never seen what better days even looked like. The apartment itself made even his old room seem bigger, but it was affordable with the temporary grant given to him (and would continue to be affordable once he found a job to better sustain himself) and that was enough for him.

No matter how small, it was his, and between the three of them, they filled it with everything their father would have hated. With bright colors, tacky furniture (that was cheap, and well used, but still comfortable to sink into) and wacky patterned curtains, pillows and throws, that shouldn’t normally go together but somehow Klaus had made work (despite Ben’s and Five’s obvious doubt before seeing it themselves).

Ben finally had the library of his dreams. It wasn’t nearly as big as the one back at the mansion, but it was an ever growing collection that Klaus continued to enable (sure he had to hold open the books for Ben to read, but if it made the book-worm happy, he was willing to do it; a small price to pay for all the shit he’s put him through over the years). There was even a section for Five’s theory and mathematical volumes and an even smaller section for Klaus’ own collection (nothing noteworthy, just a few comics and fictional works of fantasy and romance).

The rest of Ben’s knick-knacks were just as random and odd as Klaus’, but the Polaroid camera and the photo albums Klaus began to fill up for him; were definitely among Ben’s top favorites.

In the beginning it was hard to figure out what Klaus could bring home for Five to make him feel included. Five’s interests geared more toward having to be tangible to do them (much to his displeasure). That still didn’t stop Klaus from buying the chalkboard easel he later found at a second hand store, and on days when Five would get restless and fidgety, Klaus would humor him for a few hours and write whatever complicated and convoluted equations he wanted written out on that very same easel (“No Five, I’m not writing on the walls.” “I don’t care if there isn’t enough space left on the chalkboard, you aren’t gonna be of any help when I have to paint over it now will you?”). He ends up buying another chalkboard and a white board to appease the irritable gremlin.

The dart board he had found not long after, had also been a nice addition as well; it wasn’t as nice as the one Five had back in his old room, but it still played a melancholy homage it (to the fonder memories Five had of challenging Ben or Diego or Klaus during their down time between training—more so Ben and Klaus, since Diego’s power was essentially cheating).

Ben and Klaus also learned—along with Five himself it would seem—that the forever stuck thirteen-year-old held an interest for anything nautical or tropical in nature; having seen him eye certain pieces every time they’d walk into some of the antique stores Klaus liked to frequent.

The spyglass, the random colorful sea shells, the oceanic themed paintings, and the little anchor shaped paper weight— the metallic object situated on Five’s side of the bookshelf—went without much fanfare, but that was okay, the smile on his brother’s face when he placed them in their home was reward enough.

Their place might not be much worth noting—maybe even a little crazy, and a little over-crowded with nonsensical junk to the outside looking in—and though his brothers really didn’t need the space or any of the knick-knacks Klaus continued to buy for them; it was their home regardless.

It was the home the three of them were making for themselves and it was enough.

(Oh, and they bought a coffee machine that Klaus honestly has no idea he will even use, but said why the hell not anyway ‘cause fuck you dad!)

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flyswhumpcenter · 5 years

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Bad Things Happen Bingo! The event where you send me requests according to this marvelous card! (Red cross is the completed prompt, character headshots are prompts I’ve already filled. I don’t have any request left, so feel free to send in suggestions for this card!).

["Android Girl" in the background intensifies]

I'll most likely sink with this ship, I'm afraid. I therefore makes it my task to bring the ship another sickfic, and even if it's kind of the same as before, it's still different in its own way I think. It's kind of OOC here, this much I'll admit, but I got carried away and couldn't stop. It's been a while since I've allowed myself to go wild and far, so this was a bundle of fun and I hope someone else appreciates it!

yeah boi it's another sylvgrid sickfic what ya gonna do 'bout dat

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Tastes Like Iron

Summary: There is a turning point in Sylvain's life and vision of the world around him. A point that just so happens to take place in the middle of a college corridor.

Fandom: Fire Emblem: Three Houses (Modern AU, pre-timeskip personalities) Ship: Ingrid/Sylvain (pre-relationship)

Wordcount: 2.8K words

Event hosted by @badthingshappenbingo

AO3 version available here.

----

It’s early in the morning when Ingrid comes up to him, emerald eyes staring right into his soul. She looks angry at him (when isn’t she? She always seems to be angry at him for a reason or the other, this won’t change soon), footsteps heavy in the echoing corridors. It’s not a sight he hasn’t seen before, frankly: they’ve been like this since they were children, only their appearance and buildings around them changing over the time.

It’s a dynamic that feels comfortable, though, so Sylvain is starting to wonder if he isn’t feeling better with this company around. This is a real paradox in itself: who likes to get scolded?

He’s on his way to class when she bumps into him directly, as she always does to convey her words to him. She takes his scarf in her hand, gets his face nearer to hers (it’s kind of awkward, but he likes it), fury raging in her stare.

“Hello, Sylvain.”

Yet, her frowned eyebrows aren’t of anger, or at least, not as much as one would have thought would they not know Ingrid personally. However, Sylvain knows better than that, knows her better than he’d let on; and guesses this isn’t just going to be about skirt-chasing tendencies he’s trying to keep in check anyway.

Blame it on the butterflies.

“Oh, hi, Ing,” he tells her as he musters the best grin he can give her right now. “What’s up?”

He keeps a coughing fit in as not to prove the point she’ll inevitably present him with.

“Well, I’d like to know what’s up with you, that’s for sure.”

“I don’t see what you’re talking about,” that fit escapes from his throat anyway. A few passers-by stare at them, but Ingrid seem not to give a single damn about that, so he focuses back on her.

“This. You absolutely know what I’m referring to, Sylvain. Quit granting me for dumb.”

Well, what can he reply to that? She’s already had him figured out, as she’s always done. This is getting tough, but he’s always liked having a challenge, hasn’t he?

“What’s ‘this’, huh? I’m afraid I don’t understand!” But he coughs again and his head feels stuffed, heavy on his shoulders, and he can only hope he’s doing a decent job at hiding how it really is on the inside.

“Stop taking me for a fool.”

He may have known her since they were children, but that doesn’t prevent Ingrid from surprising him and play him like a fiddle. It’s something she has that people who have tried dating him for his heritage doesn’t have: honesty, frankness, an insight into who he is aside from his surname. There’s no point wallowing in that misery, because he knows where he’s going to end up anyway, and spending time with his childhood friend is worth more than what his family wants him to be.

And it’s because Ingrid has known him since she was a little girl that she does the thing nobody would have in the middle of a corridor like that: put the back of her hand on his forehead, keeping his weight in balance as her frown deepens. He’s spotted for sure.

“Have you still not seen a doctor, Sylvain?! Take your health more seriously than that, you’re going to infect everybody in the school!”

The way she says his name with heavy insistence, a manner unique to her shall he add, as if she was putting a seal on it to enforce her speech, hurts in a strange, agreeable way.

“I thought you’d be the kind to scold me for not attending class.”

“Urgh, don’t try and smooth-talk me out of this! Go back home before you get someone else sick!”

He shrugs.

“If you insist then…!”

Without a forewarning, his focus having shifted from retaining the cough in to sounding convincing in his, a fit breaks out in his throat, making its way outside, as he finally stumbles out of her grasp. His body falls forward, hands almost failing to catch him before he can entirely meet the floor. It hurts deeply and seemingly doesn’t stop, until he feels something in there wanting to exit.

Kneeling in the middle of a corridor, Ingrid’s hands wrapped around his chest, he puts a hand against his mouth as the trembles racking his chest push against his palm. The thing who wants out eventually does so, spilling between his fingers, and it doesn’t feel like harmless phlegm having formed because of the infection.

When the fit lets off, Sylvain glances at the contents of his hand, only to realize how deep he’s gone.

Red slips off from his fingers, some dripping onto the floor, and he suddenly feels much sicker than before. No injury has ever made him react this way.

He glances at Ingrid, panting, to notice her expression has changed from concern to horror. Her mouth is in a sort of awe as she gulps, her hands moving on their own to put his back against the wall while her stare doesn’t let go, eyes trying to search for an answer.

“This is it,” she says with a trembling voice trying to sound steady. “Sylvain, you’re seeing someone, even if you don’t want to.”

Yeah, he wasn’t going to go against that anyway.

Sounds and images alike grow distant, even Ingrid’s voice as she speaks into her phone with vigour and a sense of urgency, even the irritating noise of his own cough. He’s drenched in sweat, his hair sticking to his skin in front of his eyes, the shift in temperatures never letting go and biting harder every time. Pulling his knees against his chest, wrapping his arms around his lap, he’s waiting for the moment where the tempest will calm down and allow him to make a run for his life.

The tempest never soothes and, instead, Ingrid’s eyes try digging into his with a sense of desperation, the phone now gone and maybe not even calling anymore.

“Sylvain, can you hear me?!” She asks with her hands on his shoulders, slightly shaking him in the commotion.

He nods while in the midst of a coughing fit, that phlegm escaping again.

“Thank goodness…” She whispers to herself, before she changes gears entirely. “How the hell were you still standing…?!” She muses as she puts her hand on his forehead again. “It’s risen too… You’re the biggest of fools, Sylvain, do you know that?!”

“Was… aware of that by now…” He tries laughing, but it only comes out as forced. “Keep telling me that…”

“Then apply them, once and for all! Where do you think that brings you?! What the hell is going on in your head?!”

Ingrid looks aside before her glare comes back, eyes shimmering, and the world disappears behind her. Her voice echoes in the distance, yet so near him, anguish painted all over the picture he can make out of her with his tired eyes.

“Why do you always scare me so much, you jerk!”

His breath is stolen away, lungs locking for a solid moment before he can exhale again. The hands on his shoulders weaken.

“I’m tired of cleaning after your mess, skirt-chasing or not! Even if I tell you crystal-clear, even if I insist on having you finally behave properly, you never take anything seriously and I always have to be behind you so I don’t end up losing you in the long run”

Her finger brushes against his face, right under his mouth, and she shows him a red stain left on her skin.

“This, Sylvain. Do you see it? Do you even know how much hassle you’d avoid for yourself if, for once, you’d take things seriously? If you just listened, we wouldn’t be there!”

“W-well… It’s only my business, right…? I don’t know why you get so worked up for me… Is it because we’re friends…? Are you in love…?”

“Shut up! I don’t want to hear that dying voice of yours!”

“Oh c’mon, that’s kinda mean…”

“Healthy people don’t cough up blood, you fool! Stop talking about it as if that was just the cold it was two weeks ago!”

“Still… My business, not yours, Ing;” His flirtatious tone is nowhere to be seen.

“It’s my business too because I don’t want to lose you!”

Her voice breaks, a part of his heart follows.

“… I don’t want to lose someone again,” she mutters as her gaze lowers. “Especially not like that.”

The rest of his heart crumbles under the weight of the feelings it stores endlessly.

He musters what strength he somehow has left, brain almost entirely numbed by a fever blurring his sight and rendering his touch inaccurate, and pulls her against his chest, asking for no cue. There is a puddle of blood in the back of his throat, but he tries smiling if not just for her, and realizes in his daze just how much he’s fucked up.

“It’s not usual for you to lose your composure so much… Ing…” He whispers, the ring of classes beginning drowning in his swimming vision.

She doesn’t reply, her heart almost against his, their beats never matching.

“I’m sorry for worrying you so much, Ing…”

His consciousness is dimming as he sees dots appearing in front of his vision, but not having to retain spitting blood on her.

“Didn’t realize until now… that it mattered to someone…”

Everything disappears before him before he knows it.

When he eventually comes to, Sylvain is surprised he’s still actually part of the living world. It’s no better than being a corpse right now, considering his entire body stopped responding efficiently. There’s no distraction when his vision is mostly a black blur, so he has the time and peace of mind to think about how, yeah, this has been a fiasco and he can only blame himself for it. Not like he’s ever blamed anything but fate, the order of things, the world’s strange whims and himself. His business, not his, after all.

It should have only affected him, but then Ingrid burst into his secrecy, and the entire order of things got taken apart.

His eyelids are heavier than shields and barely open at first, but they eventually allow the light to enter his sight. It hurts at first, worsening the pounding headache settling under his skull’s surface, until he gets over it and observes the change in scenery: this isn’t the corridor where he last spoke to Ingrid. In fact, aside from similar neon lights, it feels different: the smell isn’t the same, the air isn’t the same and, if he glances with how little his neck can move, he can conclude that the furniture isn’t the corridor’s.

Not that it wasn’t a dead giveaway all along, considering he’s lying in an actual bed and not against a wall, and that there are familiar emerald eyes looking in his direction.

“I… Ing…?” His voice sounds worse than before, it’s like he’s still half-asleep.

“Sylvain,” she replies with a calm voice, her usual stern tone, and he can’t help but smile. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah…” He continues glancing around. “What’s this place…? I don’t recognize it…” He still has the urge to cough, even though it’s less violent than before. That’s a nice change of pace.

“The hospital. Don’t worry, you won’t be here for more than a day or two.”

“…makes sense.”

The silence following this is only short-lived, as Ingrid picks the ball back up merely moments after, just enough to allow him to cough a little more.

“You’re lucky your life wasn’t directly threatened by what’s festering inside your chest. I was surprised myself how fortunate you’ve been with this.”

“I wouldn’t exactly describe being sick… as lucky, Ing…”

“At least you’re recognizing you are, now. It’s progress, I suppose.”

“How can I deny it when I’m like this?”

“You can’t, and that’s a good thing.”

She doesn’t look as angry as she did before, but he can still tell she’s got a problem with something. Most likely him.

“Wait, you’re not in class…?”

“I’d like to officially inform you that you made the professor sick with your germs. Fortunately, he was prevented from making class by the collective efforts of Mercedes and the other professors. Which brings me to the point I wanted to discuss with you…”

Here it comes.

“Can this please serve you as a wake-up call, once and for all?”

Huh, that’s less painful than he expected it to be.

“Oh…”

He’s too tired to play pretend and too conscious of her feelings to pretend like he doesn’t know what she’s referring to. It’s been years since he’s started taking less and less things seriously, to the point his own future is something he’s not worried about for a long time, and he’s just realized how harmful this has always been. He’s something more than his heritage, this he now knows for sure, but this wasn’t the way to go.

This has never been the way to go around with this, and Ingrid has always been right; but he’s been too deaf to hear her until now.

“I finally see why you’ve been so insistent; or so I think…” He’s not sure of much anymore.

“To say that I had to see you cough up blood to hear you say that…” She sighs. “At least, I can hope this means I won’t always be to be behind you, right?”

“Yeah… Sorry for worrying you all the time, Ing…”

“You better be sorry!”

The small laugh she tries to contain is the cutest thing he’s heard in ages.

“Still… Thanks for always having my back. I don’t thank you nearly enough…”

He’s still weak, this much he can tell by how low and gravely his voice sounds, but he’s grateful and doesn’t want to close his eyes if it’s for her to vanish by the time he awakens.

This, in itself, reminds him of how much Glenn’s death had an impact on Ingrid back then; and he cannot help but hate a part of himself for failing to notice that before.

After all, if he wants to win her heart over, he has to take in account her feelings, right? It’s only normal, he has to work more on that.

“I have to say,” she continues leading their conversation, “you’ve made an effort, recently. I see you flirting with anything that moves less than usual.”

He blinks. He’s surprised, but she’s right: he’s been less preoccupied with girls, recently, but he didn’t think it was actually noticeable. Blame it on the butterflies again. Right now, they’re rampaging throughout his abdomen.

“I just wish you’d be more careful to your actions and yourself, that’s it. I won’t be there to keep you in check, one day, you know.”

“I know… That’s why I didn’t want you to worry, but I guess I couldn’t prevent that…”

He coughs again, the iron aftertaste never letting go, but never coming back either.

“How bold of you to assume you could stop a friend from worrying about you.”

He wishes they were more than friends, but he’s a coward and she’s too good for him. The irony: she’s the one girl he knows doesn’t hold an interest in him only for his bloodline, and yet she’ll never be more than his childhood friend because she knows him too much to accept dating him, even as a joke.

The red he sees creeping on her cheeks has to be a feverish delirium.

“Anyway, I hope this bronchitis will make for a good lesson,” she scolds him again.

“Yeah, same,” he replies as he looks back to the ceiling. He hopes the blushing he senses on his own face is hidden by the splotches of fever he could see in the mirror this morning.

His eyelids flutter without his consent, and he sees her less and less per second, having run out of strength to keep himself awake.

“I should let you rest at last,” she eventually says as she begins getting up, which is when he notices her hand leaving his. His skin feels cold again, hair on his arm rising underneath clothes he wasn’t wearing earlier today.

“But… Will you be there, when I’ll wake up…?”

His question, his façade slipping up and shattering to the ground in its fall, makes her stop in her stead and, instead of facing the door, she turns her head in his direction.

“I’ll try my best. I can’t always be behind you, right?”

“I get it… Have a nice day, Ing…”

“Goodnight, Sylvain,” she tells him as the door opens and closes.

It feels soothing to go back to sleep.

#bad things happen bingo #fire emblem three houses #fire emblem #ingrid brandl galatea #sylvain jose gautier #sylvgrid #sickfic #blood cw #bronchitis #light angst #pre-relationship #au: modern #au: college #bthb 2 #otp: never would and never have

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aion-rsa · 5 years

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The Riddler: DC Redefines Famous Batman Villain

https://ift.tt/2NTTThd

Does Year of the Villain mean a big change for Batman’s puzzling nemesis?

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Event comics usually come with a passel of one-off tie ins. Sometimes they’re very good. Sometimes they’re a way of giving someone a try out. Sometimes they’re a way of getting somebody work. These are all good things! But very rarely are they ever impactful on a character or the direction of a line. That may change this week, as Mark Russell and Scott Godlewski bring the Riddler into Year of the Villain with one of the most introspective superhero comics in a while, one that potentially foreshadows a big status quo change for one of Batman’s oldest villains.

The premise of the entire Year of the Villain arc has Apex Lex, a powered-up Lex Luthor, gone full evil again after years spent straddling the line of “dick” and “dick but helping the good guys”, running around the DC Universe offering power ups to the bad guys from every rogue’s gallery. In the pages of Justice League, he cranked up folks like Sinestro, while he’s been popping into other books for help like closing Gotham to the outside world and giving free rein to Bane (Batman), or a substantially boosted cold suit for Captain Cold (The Flash). In The Riddler: Year of the Villain, he gives Edward Nygma something completely different: perspective.

The story is framed by the Riddler’s friendship with King Tut. They start the issue kvetching about their persistent failures to top Batman in any meaningful way. They move to complaining that they haven’t been approached by Luthor yet, then head their separate ways. When Riddler gets home, he finds Luthor in his living room, and Luthor is pretty merciless in his criticism. The next morning, Tut calls Riddler to loop him in on his own profound realization: that they persistently fail because they never work with each other, and the true solution to both their problems is to do a half-baked death trap together.

The Luthor conversation is the crux of the issue. Luthor hands the Riddler nothing - no hyper-powered question staff, no bowler hat that will increase his cleverness tenfold, no giant question mark-shaped bomb planted under Wayne Manor. He just talks to him about Nygma’s own rigidity. The inflexibility of his mind, being lashed to his schtick, is what Luthor hints has been holding the Riddler back. And that inflexibility is preventing the Riddler from growing as a person. It’s kept him from accepting any changes since he was a child fixated on revenge against the bullies tormenting him. He ends the story by telling Nygma “Life is the process of saying goodbye to ourselves.” And the Riddler ends the issue by walking out on King Tut’s death trap.

read more: Justice League, Crisis, and the Future of the DC Universe

This is...not what I think anyone expected from a Year of the Villain book. The best you can usually hope for is a thoughtful one-off. Something akin to what Russell already gave us in Year of the Villain: Sinestro - a clever character piece that leaves the character exactly where he started when the issue picked up. Here, we get smart character work, but we also get more character development than the Riddler has had since...what, Paul Dini on Detective Comics back around Infinite Crisis? The Riddler is iconic, but the character owes almost everything to Frank Gorshin’s portrayal of him on the old television show. He hasn’t had more than a handful of deep dives or status quo shifts in an age.

A literal age - I can count four stories since the Bronze Age ended that really matter, that made a big impact on the Riddler as a character, and that’s a stretch a little bit - one of them came out on the cusp between the Bronze Age and the modern age of comics and could be argued into either category. But for almost every one of them, the impact on other characters was greater.

“Dark Night, Dark City” was Peter Milligan and Kieron Dwyer’s 1990 tale in Batman that had a suddenly very bloodthirsty Riddler pulling jobs around Gotham. It’s a really good Riddler story, but overshadowed by the fact that it’s also where Barbatos, the dark Bat-god who dominated Grant Morrison’s Batman mythology and later spawned Scott Snyder and Greg Capullo’s dark multiverse, first appeared. Snyder and Capullo also featured the Riddler as the main villain of "Zero Year," their big, 13 issue story about Batman’s first run in with Nygma. It is also the first time we really got to look at the way Batman managed his own mental health, and ends with him almost getting shock therapy. And the War of Jokes and Riddles was a long story that wrapped up Tom King’s first year on Batman by giving Kite Man a heartbreaking origin story and having the Joker (of all people) stop Bruce from killing the Riddler.

read more - Batman: Damned is a Trip Through the Darkest Corners of the DC Universe

The unifying force in all of these stories is that they’re not about Edward Nygma. They’re about someone else reacting to Nygma. And, in the case of “Zero Year” and the “War of Jokes and Riddles,” they both happen in the distant-by-comic-book-time past of Batman.

Really, the only story in the last 30 years worth of comics that really changed what we know about the Riddler was Paul Dini turning him into Sherlock Holmes in Detective Comics. In the wake of the wretched “Hush” and the not-great Infinite Crisis, Dini has Nygma go straight and begin selling his services as a consulting detective to Gotham’s wealthy. It takes the Riddler, keeps his main schtick (proving that he’s smarter and more clever than Batman), but points it in a different direction so we can see it work from another angle and take a little bit more out of it. Edward Nygma, Consulting Detective is the one time before this Year of the Villain issue that anybody really tried to twist the Riddler’s core concept around and peer at it from a different angle in modern comics. For perspective, in those same 30 years that it took to get four meaningful Riddler stories, Gotham City has been destroyed or quarantined from the rest of the country in four stories.

read more: The Secrets of DC's New Superman/Batman Team

Gorshin’s portrayal and the Riddler’s iconic look have been enough to keep him top tier in the popular consciousness, though. That a character can largely survive Jim Carrey and the Question Mark Guy who wanted to give us all free government money sullying his rep and look, respectively, is a testament to his fundamental appeal. The beauty of this issue is that even if it were a fluffy one-off with no potential wider impact, it would still be terrific. How many times do you get to open a comic and yell “OH MY GOD IS THAT KING TUT?” It’s not like he’s the Fluoronic Man or something. A King Tut sighting is a rare blessing, friends! Also, Tom King Batman aside, there’s been a subtle creep of a lighter Batman into comics lately that continues here. We’ve got a Batman happy to toss riddles back at Nygma along with his boots. Batman gets noticeably exasperated by King Tut’s incompetence and even almost jokes with the Gotham PD about how long it’ll take him to beat Tut. “Lair” Magazine is something I hope DC one day manages to publish, even if it’s just a joke. Profound character development aside, this issue was just really fun.

The brilliance of this issue is how it directly interacts with one of the fundamental tenets of modern superhero comics: the illusion of change. Stan Lee said the secret to Marvel storytelling (a theory that has come to apply to the superhero industry as a whole) is “the illusion of change.” The idea that comic book superheroes change over time is actually far truer than it seems on first glance, it’s just the under the radar ones, the characters keeping one arm out of limbo, who are capable of doing the most changing.

It’s possible that this issue is setting the Riddler up for a big change. It shows a willingness to strip Edward Nygma back to his bare, raw, core concept, and it’s one that makes him stand out as a Batman rogue. For years now, we’ve been watching Batman matched against the inexplicable chaos of the Joker, or match power and forethought with Bane, or have really bad anxiety attacks and bone Catwoman. What we’ve seen far less often is Batman be the best detective in comics. We get plenty of Batman pounding the shit out of a parade of bad guys. We don’t see him sussing out motive or means as much. All of the good writers have found a way to make that happen here and there over the last few years, but it always takes a backseat to saving hypertime by throwing three pearls at Rip Hunter. The Riddler gives them an excuse to lead with the detective work.

read more: The Batman Who Laughs and the Culmination of 10 Years of DC Stories

Maybe the Riddler has fallen far enough for this to stick. We know from tweets hoping for an ongoing that Russell thinks so. The Riddler: Year of the Villain works because it forces Nygma to think his way out of his rut and choose to do something different. Hopefully we get to see more of that change play out on the page.

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Feature Jim Dandy

Sep 11, 2019

DC Entertainment

Mark Russell

Batman

from Books https://ift.tt/2Lp4Kyc

#aion-rsa #Books

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thebeautyofdisorder · 5 years

Text

Did You Miss Me? Adlock One-Shot, Rated M

Just in case the whole ‘links in posts make your shit invisible’ issue is still present, I’ll post directly to tumblr as well. Because why not? Here there be s-mut-tastic Adlock. Written over four years ago, and post Series 3 but Pre-Abominable Bride.

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Pairing: Adlock (Sherlock Holmes/Irene Adler)

Rating: At least Mature, probably Explicit

Summary: Shameless and mostly plot-less smut. One-Shot. After the events of His Last Vow, Irene is already waiting for Sherlock at 221B. This was written before The Abominable Bride was released so it's only canon compliant so far as the end of series 3. Any other details, minimal as they are, were based purely on speculation at the time.

Read below or if you’d prefer an AO3 link, I’ve posted it in a previous post on my blog. Also have ff.net if you’re feeling nostalgic. Ask and ye shall receive. The tags on AO3 do warn of obvious sexual content and minor but present knife play.

Irene Adler was perched on his chair, hair loose, down, and slightly curled, his red dressing gown wrapped around her figure this time, the threat of whether or not she was naked underneath it unable to be ascertained from the naked eye at the position she was currently in. She tapped her uncharacteristically plain nails on the arm of the chair, lost in thought, only to be rescued from it by the turn of the key in the door and the stepping in of 'The Man.'

She licked her blood-red lips (the one indulgence she had been unable to forsake and thus, permitted herself, from her 'old life') before a small smirk tugged at her lips as his eyes fell into hers, and she murmured coyly, "Thought I'd save you the phone call, dear. I do feel for your 'phone anxiety.'" She teased him lightly, coming to a stand finally and taking a step or two towards him.

Sherlock drank her in with a combination of more or less equal parts delight and dread, neither of which showed through fully on his face. Mostly what came through, perhaps to his chagrin, was just a bounty of relief.

"No complications in arriving, I hope?" He murmured with a quirk of his brow, slowly gliding towards her as well, by instinct more than thought. He didn't ask how she knew to come - not relevant nor surprising. "Weren't followed or harassed, or even vehemently stared at?" His lips barely twitched.

She bit her bottom lip coquettishly, staring at him up through her thick, made-up eyelashes as she took another step towards him and glided a hand up his chest, carefully avoiding the area of his bullet wound before coming up to drag it along his left cheekbone.

"Not until now...." She husked gently. "I'm very good at staying incognito when I need to be... Especially if it means getting to my lover faster..." She winked, knowing his distaste for the term, though lovers in the Elizabethan sense, they most certainly were, if not more.

He pulled a face and made a bit of a rumble of discontent from his throat, over-dramatising his distaste accordingly.

"Don't make me more ill, I just spent all afternoon with my brother," he teased, though his hand was almost absentmindedly playing over the curve of her hip in his dressing gown, stroking the edges of his fingernails over the lightly striped fabric, but only just. "Granted it was coming to agreement on how I don't have to go get myself killed in Eastern Europe, so I suppose it was productive..."

She nodded slowly, leaning up on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck as she pressed her lips to his 'chastely'- titillatingly before pulling back quickly to take a step back and slap him hard across his cheek.

"Don't you ever allow yourself to get shot and almost die on me, ever again, do you hear me, Sherlock Holmes? If a woman ever does hold a pistol to you again, it will be me --though the context may be questionable ...." She softened on the last word, the same hand that gave the blow now coming up to soothe the sting.

"Sorry, darling... Delayed reaction from my little hospital visit…”

His eyes were sharp as he stared down at her, but not in a particularly vicious way, his jaw tensing in a brief tick of annoyance. He didn't protest. Instead, his arm shot out and ensnared her waist, yanking her body against his and nearly off of her bare feet, in retort for her assault.

"Fair enough, Miss Adler, I'll vye for immortality if you'll join me," he challenged dryly, angling his head down at her.

She cracked a smile, a dark but gentle chuckle following after it as she weaved her arms around his neck and knocked per pelvis against his.

"Mmm, gladly, Mr Holmes. Think of all the 'dinners' we could have....." She purred, her fingers tangling in his hair slowly, nails scraping along his scalp.

He barely managed to bite back a groan. Damn woman knew his weaknesses. Luckily, it was mutual. He stroked a hand up and across her torso, across her chest leisurely, and up lightly to her throat. He spun on his heel and walked her backward, til her back pressed against the wall.

"I believe infinity might actually bore us," he observed darkly, his other hand stroking down her hip, bunching the fabric of his dressing gown in his hand as he went.

She gasped in appreciation as he pressed her against the wall slowly, her eyes darkening and her grip on his locks tightening as he sparked her arousal further.

"Mm, perhaps... Though I don't think I could ever tire of... you ." She flirted sentimentally, though one hand had come down to grip his loins over his trousers as she uttered the last word, making it clear the ‘true’ direction of the compliment.

A sharp intake of breath notwithstanding, his eyes merely narrowed at her as he pulled the dressing gown to the side, his hand gripping the bare flesh of her thigh with a sort of carnal relief. His hand stroked the creamy expanse of skin for a moment before hiking it up to his hip, fitting himself against her far more snugly in the process.

"You are probably the only human being I could fathom not boring me after a century...you'd be too in danger of boring yourself," he murmured, now a breath away from her lips.

She arched her neck back softly, a small moan escaping her throat as he 'manhandled' her and his own arousal met hers, though sadly obstructed by his clothing.

"Mm, likewise, I'm sure." She replied tartly, tugging the dressing gown all the way down and off her torso to expose her breasts to him finally, waiting a moment to drink in his reaction.

"Tell me, Sherlock dear, how long has been since we last 'ate?' " She asked him in instigation.

His eyes zeroed in on her chest, dark and searing, and his free hand came up to stroke over the curve of her left breast, indulgently. He narrowed his eyes in playful consideration before glancing back up.

"One year, five months, two weeks, and three days," he rumbled as he ducked his head to take the bud of her nipple into his mouth, running his tongue over it as he applied suction.

"Mmmahh!" Irene gave him a breathy moan, an echo of his text alert from days past, as his mouth accosts her breast, much to her appreciation and delight. "Mm, I do adore your addiction to precision and retaining facts...." She husked, as her hands, both now, tangled in his hair further, allowing them both to enjoy his actions for a few moments before she pulled his head back roughly, eyeing him darkly as she placed her foot against his hip suddenly and kicked him back.

"However, I also adore your 'selective patience,' emphasis on 'selective.'" She chided him, untying the dressing gown and letting it pool completely at her feet before she turned on her heel and padded her way to the kitchen. She ran a finger along the middle table, only pausing as her eyes spotted his microscope and smiled to herself before glancing back at him, coy and conspiring. She then turned back and leaned down to gaze into it, her bent over, bare arse, purposefully holding a place of prominence in his eyesight.

He rolled his eyes and quietly groaned to himself at her playing the coquette. Again. He was well acquainted with her tendency to play with her meals, so to speak, and he would've been more shocked had she been impatient enough to make this simple. Wrong woman , he mused in resignation as he followed her fleeing steps towards the kitchen, only to halt, at her stance.

"See anything that interests you?" He rasped wryly once he'd recovered from his mouth going dry, walking up behind her cautiously. There wasn't much of technical intrigue in there, only some samples from his last case, but she was looking quite... Intently .

Irene grinned like the Cheshire Cat as she felt his figure come up behind her, though, apparently, refusing to make any direct contact yet . She adjusted the focus of the microscope shifting her weight from her right hip to her left as she leaned back slightly, arse pressing against his arousal which left them in a very suggestive position as she feigned to act like she needed the leverage to 'see' the slide more properly.

"AB+.... One of the rarest blood types there is... Hmm, was this the victim's or the perpetrator's, Mr Holmes?" She asked, 'matter-of-factly' as she continued to examine the blood slide, her buttocks flanking his erection and starting to grind on him ever so faintly.

His jaw slacked as the sensation of her friction against his groin joined the highly intriguing fact she was identifying blood types in his microscope coincided into one large wave of arousal that sent a shudder down his spine. His hands made contact with her hips, fingers flexing with her subtle movement.

"The uh...victim's," he rumbled distractedly, his right hand moving to trace up the curve of her spine. "The distinction of the blood was what made the perpetrator obvious...small traces under the fingernails..." He continued, pressing himself forward as he bent to brush his lips up the trek which his hand just made.

Her bare flesh got goose pimples at his touch and then even more so at as she felt his lips echoing his touch along her spine.She took a moment to close her eyes, inhaling and exhaling slowly as she willed the wetness that was eagerly gathering between her thighs, shifting her weight back to her right foot in a subtly effort to provide some sort of 'scratch' to her growing 'itch.'

"T-That makes sense...." She stammered slightly, the only other physical indication that she was utterly and totally affected by him, right now. She righted herself, coming to her full height, as petite as that was, to lean her back against his chest momentarily before she bucked her arse backwards to force him back so that she could cross around the table to pluck a banana from a bundle he had apparently bought out of some impulse or need for potassium for some 'experiment.' She leaned against the counter, crossing her ankles as she eyed him lustfully, peeling the banana slowly, deftly, suggestively before finally asking--now under full 'control' once more.

"So.... Sherlock , 'impress a girl....' How long did it take you to figure out that last case, hmm?" She 'challenged' lightly, knowing the man got hard and off on nothing more than his own--or her own--intellect mixed with sexual content.

His eyes narrowed, dark and growing more desperate by the moment, especially once he'd seen her obvious distraction. She was losing focus, in there somewhere.

"About as quickly as I could gather all the components," he murmured, taking a couple steps towards her. "After I'd seen the blood type, I knew it was a possible red flag, so in theory it was rather immediate. Once the suspects were narrowed down, it became a process of elimination. All I needed was the opportunity to examine them," he explained in a low rhythmic tone, in tune with his steps as he crossed the room. "In short, the case was closed, more or less, in three days."

She watched him carefully, tossing the peel aside and before she brought the head of the fruit to her mouth, tongue darting out to circle the tip of it before she bobbed her head down and around the fruit before she bit the head off and started to chew it as she gazed at him darkly.

"Mmm, now that's my kind of man..." She purred playfully, echoing lost words before swallowing finally.

He watched her little 'show' with wide exasperated eyes, his chest rising and falling in time with his faintly labored breathing. His steps continued towards her, forcing himself to keep a steady pace and not rush up to her. Unnecessary and a clear sign of desperation. When he came toe to toe with her he didn't stop, pressing forward with an arm on either side of her form, essentially trapping her between his chest and the counter.

He didn't speak, merely angled his head and forcefully captured her lips with his, knowing she'd have a smart retort for anything he'd have to say. He didn't give her the chance.

She responded by returning the pressure of his lips with her own and tossing the banana aside as her hands came up his chest to cup his face tightly, thrusting her tongue into his mouth forcefully. He may have the dominant position physically, but she wasn't about to let him have it orally, as well. She growled as her teeth clashed with his, her actions becoming more primitive with each passing second.

His hands rushed from the counter to her hips, needing some purchase on her anatomy as she had so clearly taken her own. It gave him the ability to press her back into the counter, taking his height to his advantage to try to regain some control. He straightened his back and angled his head down, attempting to match her force at the least, as he now could press down and into her mouth with his tongue. Once he felt he'd thoroughly attempted to make his point, his grip on her hips tightened as he lifted her weight onto the counter, concurrently pulling back only far enough to breathe.

"Been awhile, Miss Adler?" He rumbled in a breathless taunt, unable to resist drawing attention to her rather telling aggression despite the hypocrisy, as he pressed himself between her dangling legs.

She allowed him to lift her and assert his 'leadership' in their little foreplay scene, cracking a sly smile at his remark and it's sanctimoniousness, the distinguishable 'tenting' of his trousers condemning him outright.

"Apparently so, Mr Holmes. At least ' someone' in this room isn't ashamed to say he missed me..." She teased him darkly, as she removed her right hand from his cheek to reach behind her subtly to a kitchen knife left out on the counter slowly, gripping it's handle carefully as she held his gaze with a steady, coy one of her own.

His eyes widened only briefly on instinct, before they narrowed purposefully, eyebrow lifting faintly. He had little to no worry for his life in her presence, truly. His extremities were only a minimal percentage higher.

"I missed you," he confirmed only a tad wryly, hoping the uncharacteristic, however true, response might just throw her off her game a tad. Which game she was playing, though, remained to be seen.

She cocked her head slowly, his frank and strangely honest response so easily given automatically making her a bit suspicious, though the sincerity of his look softened her gaze and she 'rewarded' him with small smile before whispering, "And I missed you, too."

She then dragged her index finger down his cheek and lips and down his neck before gripping his shirt tightly and tugging it towards her, thus pulling it away from his body, before she brought the knife from behind her back and quickly, and deftly cut each button from it's thread to reveal his bare chest behind the fabric.

"You're even more charming out of your clothes, dear, care to say that last sentence again...?" She bit her bottom lip and grinned wickedly as she drew the tip of the knife down the centre of his chest, pausing where his trousers began and the beginnings of the auburn hairs of his 'happy trail' began.

He scowled at her for a moment before his face contorted into a different sort of expression all together, feeling the beginnings of adrenaline threatening his bloodstream as she drug the blade southward. She did have a penchant for knowing his intrigues . Though instead of snatching the knife from her, as was his first instinct, or even listening to her request, he just glanced down with purposeful annoyance at his ruined shirt and sucked his bottom lip in between his teeth thoughtfully.

"I suppose I deserve that from Paris," he snarked lowly, recalling an incident with him rather deliberately ripping what was apparently a rather expensive dress.

She chuckled once before narrowing her eyes at his as she applied a dash of pressure with the knife as she retorted in mock annoyance, " Quite . That dress was a bloody McQueen..." She reminded him before bringing the knife down to the bulge in his trousers, dragging the tip along his obvious length titillatingly as she licked her lips.

"Mmm.... To think, there was once a time when I'd rather have castrated you completely than merely arouse you with my own 'sword....'" She winked in self-amusement before continuing, "Thankfully, however, that attitude towards you really only lasted that one night..." She murmured, referencing the night he threw her to the dogs, in the shape of his elder brother, a bit of 'ammunition' she like to employ every once in a while, if only just to then prove his more than evident feelings towards her by always then following it up with the reminder of how he very quickly remedied that little blunder.

He swallowed, he hoped subtly, and attempted to even his breathing, meeting her eyes in challenge. Oh, he knew exactly what she was insinuating, she did like to rub that in. But he chose the more blunt road for a response.

"I think we're both rather thankful for that, this instant," he drawled, still feeling the tip of a knife exactly where a man least wants to feel one. Assuming, of course, he was decidedly 'normal' and wasn't just a tad amused at the obviously empty threat.

She smirked and glanced down at the knife, circling the outline of his member's head lightly before removing it from the area completely, murmuring a hit of agreement as she did so. She brought it up and wielded it in front of him as she momentarily debated how to proceed with it, if at all before a slightly twisted but, nevertheless, arousing idea sparked in her mind.

Without any explanation or warning, she grabbed his right hand from her hip and held it open before pricking the tip of his pointer finger until a small thread of blood began to ooze out. She then did the same to her right index finger, glancing at him briefly before setting the knife down to bring the accosted hand with her other up to her mouth. She locked eyes with him heavily as she ran her tongue up his digit, lapping up his most human, and 'sacred' bodily fluid into her mouth to 'digest' and mix with her own before sucking on it rather suggestively, her tongue circling the cut before applying pressure to clot the flow of the blood.

As she did this she brought her own lightly bleeding digit up to his mouth, waiting for him to accept and perform, this 'self-ordained lover's ritual,' from his own free will, raising a single brow as her only attempt to 'challenge' him into it.

He watched her with a strange sort of nearly-perplexed fascination, before his eyes lulled, turning heavy-lidded with arousal as her tongue stroked over the length of his finger, insinuation more than obvious. Then without rhyme or reason, the unspoken and fairly unspecified significance was returned as he dipped his mouth over her seeping digit. His tongue swirled over the wound itself with deliberate dexterity to counter her own, relishing the coppery taste no matter the oddness of the circumstance. It was an unbridled extension of her which made it no more off limits to him than any of her other bodily fluids.

He sucked the tip of her finger into his mouth fully, before biting down lightly just below where she'd split the skin, as he pulled it from his mouth.

She let out a moan of utter eroticism as he bit down and sucked the blood from her finger before abandoning it. Her eyes, too, were heavy and full with lust and desire at their little exchange and she stared into his eyes as she echoed his action, dislodging his finger from her mouth, only to glance down at the bit of blood still on it before painting her lips with it and rubbing them together as one would with lipstick.

"I think I much prefer this shade to the one in my purse... Might have to take a bottle back with me...." She husked lowly, swallowing the contents of his digit finally as she continued to gaze at him daringly, her implication both clear and slightly ambiguous.

His eyes locked to her mouth, lips twitching at her action and the implication that came with it. He drew his finger back from her grasp, the dull sting nearly impossible to distinguish through the rest of the blood gushing through his veins. He perhaps waited a few seconds before his hand gripped the back of her neck harshly and pulled her forward, sucking the taste of his own lifeblood from her lips with a hunger that he wouldn't have fathomed rational. His other hand had shifted itself from her hip to gripping her inner thigh, pressing it further away from its companion so he could press as flush against her as the counter would allow.

Her hands flew to his chest, running her nails up his bare skin before exploring his pectoral muscles and nipples as she hungrily returned his kiss with just as much force and expression. She moaned into his mouth,- a moan of sheer want and need for him, and only him, to fill her up once more; to satisfy her once more; to 'make love'--as sentimental a phrase it was--once more, before she wrapped her legs around his waist to hug his groin against hers, needing some sort of friction against her throbbing nub, lest she go mad from desire.

He groaned at the contact, low and rumbling in the back of his throat, bucking his hips against her centre thoughtlessly, at both their detriment. He recovered quickly, letting go of her entirely to pull the tattered remains of his shirt off of his arms, yanking it from his trousers and letting it fall to the floor, all without hardly breaking from her mouth. He ripped open his belt in a frenzy, and unzipped his trousers for the sake of relief from how tight they'd become, but otherwise left them in place, instead turning his attention back to her.

His left hand wrapped around her waist, urging her to the very edge of the counter while his right was urging up her inner thigh. He didn't waste much of his or her time, immediately pressing a thumb to her clit just to hear her sharp intake of breath at the sudden contact after leaving it wanting.

"Ahhhhh..." She exhaled upon inhaling pointedly, nipping his bottom lip in automatic response to his assault. She pulled back and stared up at him, her right hand ghost in down his chest before gripping his length over his pants and squeezing faintly, as she purred, "You know, Sherlock, we've never 'christened' your flat... Let alone your bed... Well, I have...but your cock is much preferable to my hand...." She winked at her 'confession,' before biting her bottom lip seductively.

The moment her statement clicked was most assuredly visible on his face, much less the faint growl that she could probably feel reverberating through his chest. He tilted his hips into her grip, even as his two fingers began to tease her rather soaked entrance, pressing on either side but not moving towards it.

"You're a very bad woman," he remarked almost casually, as though it were a fact he were recalling as opposed to a direct accusation. His thumb began to shift back and forth. "But you are quite correct..."

She gyrated her hips in a desperate attempt to manipulate his touch. She whimpered softly, an action she was slowly, and secretly, growing more accustomed to enjoying as her hand around him tugged his cock in silent retribution.

"And you are a very bad man." She hissed. "Besides, dear, we both know that image, and fact, is making you even harder as we speak... Why else do you think I insisted on showering before we 'chatted' about the mobile...?" She pressed.

He didn't give her the satisfaction of a direct response, confirming the obvious, though the pained desire was probably clear on his face. Instead he merely plunged both of his teasing fingers inside of her suddenly, successfully dropping the focus from his arousal and nailing it clearly on her own. He crooked them knowingly, raising his brows.

"An excuse to steal my clothing?" He teased in a strained murmur, his other hand making its way north, brushing over her breast and across her collarbone to grip the side of her neck.

She groaned in appreciation her kegel muscles flexing around his fingers as added testimony to her 'thanks.'

"That, too." She rebutted finally, her hand dipping under the waistband of his pants to grip his cock directly, thumb padding over his tip before she reached further south and massaged his testicals, something she had discovered to be very effective with him. Apparently, his hair follicles weren't the only unusually, overly-sensitive nerves in his body, even as far as the male reproductive system went.

"If I wanted fingers, Mr Holmes, I'd just do it myself, again ." She half-teased/half-jested clippedly.

His lips parted in a low moan at her new focus, arching up on his toes almost without thought to encourage her actions. He refocused on her quickly though, despite his laboured breathing, bringing his fingers out before delving them back in deeper than he knew she was capable of, just for spite, satisfying his own selfish wants more than anything. Slowly pulling them out in earnest, his thumb nail grazing her clit in parting.

He brought those fingers to his lips, sucking her flavour from them, his eyes locking on hers in preemptive warning. Savoring her response for only a moment, as he let the digits slide from his mouth, his hand quickly latched onto the slender wrist that was still on the inside of his pants, yanking it free to give him the freedom to crouch in front of her, hands moving to stroke up her thighs.

A shudder swept down the back of her spine as she watched him taste her juices, pupils dilating even further at the arousing, not to mention flattering , sight.

Her breath caught in her throat, however, as she watched him kneel in front of her, her mind suddenly realising what it was exactly he was planning on doing. He hadn't done that since the time before last--Paris being far more frenzied and rushed.

"Eating out , then are we?" She couldn't help but joke, though her voice was shaky and more than a little unsteady, as she brought her hands to curl in his locks lightly.

His lips were brushing her inner thigh tauntingly as he murmured in response, "You are in my kitchen," biting into the flesh briefly before his arm curled around her hip, angling her pelvis towards the edge of the counter so it was as exposed as could be without her falling, giving her one long swipe of his tongue from her entrance up to her nub. He repeated the action, darting inside of her briefly along the way.

"It would be wrong not to partake," he rumbled against her before his lips latched onto her clit, sucking it into his mouth as his tongue dashed against it.

She let out a series of successive moans and gasps, her back arching as she jutted her hips forward at each lap and suckle of his tongue and mouth. Her fingers tightened in his hair and she exhaled slowly, trying to gather herself before responding jaggedly, "Well, who am I to argue with that logic...." She gasped again and let out a soft whimper.

"Fuck, you are skilled at that.... Almost as good as I am...." She couldn't help but compliment him, despite knowing how even more it would inflate his bloody ego, the successive years of holding his 'V-Card' only making his sudden gift for the act all the more impressive and annoying.

Hearing her make those bloody infuriatingly distracting noises was doing nothing for his ability to ignore his own arousal, and his hands tightened on her thighs in response. He growled as he fucked her with his tongue rather greedily, his amusement that she was actually going out of her way to praise his ability almost drowned in his focus. Almost.

"I'd love to know how you'd be able to compare," he pulled back enough to quirk a brow tauntingly at her lack of logic, his lips twitching up into a brief smirk as he nipped at her once more before he stood to his feet between her legs, eyes just smug enough to be noticeable, which was less than his norm at times, already tugging his trousers from his hips.

She quirked a pointed brow at him as her eyes narrowed, a single hand reaching up to grab his chin violently as she replied with mild acidity, "Don't even think about suggesting having a threesome, Sherlock. I don't share well.... Besides, I'd hate to show you up..." She winked teasingly before pushing his chin back to help him get his damned trousers off.

"Now for fuck's sake, dear , will you PLEASE fuck me?" She half hissed/half begged.

"Would scarce know with who," he drawled rather tellingly, he realized a bit too late, as he stepped out of the pants and trousers now pooled at his feet. He had yet to find another woman who could inspire in him what she could. If it was worth anything, his little faux-relationship with Janine just exemplified that in his mind. He couldn't even fathom taking anyone else but her into his bed, just as before her he couldn't fathom hardly anyone at all. But he dismissed that rather sentimental thought process as soon as his bare flesh met hers. He let out a brief groan as his cock pressed between her legs, no longer impeded by his clothing.

"Though it occurs to me you may just be begging," he roughly mused, despite the fact his left hand had grasped her hip hard enough to bruise, and his right was already grasping his cock in hand, quite ready to do her bidding.

She grunted at his first statement, as she wrapped her hands around his neck in preparation to mount him, nails digging into it's nape in silent response.

She raised her eyes at his latter comment, however, before narrowing them significantly as she dug her heels into the top of his arse to jut him forward, thus successfully forcing their loins to 'greet' each other 'palm to palm.'

"I could argue the same case about your physicality, Mr Holmes. Would you like me to? Or would you rather we concede and admit we both are begging for it and get closer to the part where I sheath that throbbing cock of yours..." She quirked a brow, and making sure the stress the two, more, graphic words to 'influence' his answer.

"Touché," he rumbled unevenly, jaw flexing at the intimate contact. He managed to fight her legs' grasp long enough to pull back and grip his cock once again, his hand on her hip shifting back and under her arse for angle and leverage as his tip finally pressed to her entrance.

"Though you've got to admire the irony," he quipped, intent on getting the last word, just as his hips bucked forward and he began to quickly press into the familiar heat of her, exhaling in a hiss at his perhaps faulty decision to nearly ‘sheath’ himself in one go. Patience was never his virtue.

She was about to roll her eyes and let out a reluctant chuckle when his sudden, and full , thrust into her caught her slightly off guard, causing her eyes to widen and a sharp gasp to issue from the back of her throat.

She winced as he filled her, his girth always a tad painful on the first few thrusts. She grunted and and pulled back to glance down at him in mock disapproval before murmuring, "....Perhaps the only-- ow --good thing about our yearly rendezvous is that-- ahh --every time manages to feel like the... first....." She muttered as she wrapped her legs around his waist and regripped before hoisting her chest up and against his, putting all her weight on his form now.

Sherlock had nearly put himself into shock--nearly--but was regaining the ability to function as quickly as he was able. He took a shuddering breath, getting re-accustomed to the tight heat encompassing him, as she was apt to point out, he nearly always had to do. Pro or con to their unique status, he was never sure.

"Apologies," he murmured as his head ducked and rested into the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin before he began kissing and nipping at the skin by way of distracting her from the apparent discomfort.

She arched her neck to allow him greater access, hands pushing down on his shoulders to hoist herself up a bit so that she could slam down again, knowing that once she was fully slicked up and the ball was rolling, so to say, the slight discomfort quickly gave way to pleasure.

She moaned at his kisses and even found herself smiling privately at his 'apology,' an abundance of subconscious sentiment clearly at the root of it. She lifted his head up to look him in the eye as she replied with amused seriousness, "No need to do so, dear. Your ability to be, irritatingly , above average in all the necessary areas of life is just one of the many reasons why I hate you." She reminded him between heavy breaths.

' Hate ,' of course, standing in for the word she really meant. The word that she knew he knew she meant. They had come to confess their feelings in this twistedly ironic way a few meetings back, as they were parting ways. Each adopting that preferred word to it's sister that the rest of the mundane world seemed so obsessed with employing. Besides, this way, they each, technically, had an out. Could always deny--'on paper,' at least. The look in her eye, however, and the sincerity of her voice, would damn her for all eternity, however.

Funny thing was, though, when it came to ' The Man,' she didn't actually give a damn about that old pride.

He caught onto her obvious intent as quickly as he caught her weight, her quick will to begin in combination to her clear sentiment almost catching him off guard. But as opposed to playing the deer in the headlights, his lips twitched into a dazed if present smirk and he pressed her weight against the counter again for leverage as he urged her up and the thrust back upward to meet her as she dropped.

"And I very much..." He thrust upward once again, quirking a brow. "... Despise you," he replied darkly, keeping a lightness to the statement as best he could manage, lest the sentimentality they were so seeking to avoid, decide to kick in.

Her lips merely twitched at his reply before his thrust overcame her and she let out a rather vocal cry of a moan, her fingernails scraping up his back as she rode a rather sudden wave of mounting pleasure and warmth that was making its way from her core to her outer extremities.

She glared down at him in utter infatuation and (self-) annoyance before barking out a shaky, "B-bedroom. Now. N-need. More ..."

He didn't need any further encouragement, lifting her up with his arms under her arse and angling his weight, he stalked the short distance to the hall and kicked open his door with no hesitation, even at the worrisome creak. He'd fix it later .

He hiked a knee onto the bed before dropping her weight onto it, barely retracting from her before he was on her again, arms on the mattress on either side of her head plunging back into her with an appreciative curse. The angle was much more satisfactory.

Irene spread her legs as widely as she could as soon as her back hit the bed, greeting his first thrusts in this new position and place with as much reception as she could give him. Her hands flew out and tangled in the duvet cover, knuckles whitening as she let out a series of whines and 'oh’s’ without immediate presence of thought.

"How...thin...are...the...walls?" She gasped in ecstasy, as she brought her right leg up to hook around his neck to provide him with even more room for depth, and also silently informing him of her compliance to don the 'submissive' role-- for now .

"Thick," he rumbled breathlessly, using her acquiescence to his advantage as he plunged further with an appreciative groan, ducking his head as he rocked forward, banging the headboard against the wall.

"But...perhaps not thick enough," he husked with a certain amount of amusement in his eyes, arching onto his knees to thrust forward with a curve of his hips, deliberately trying to wring another moan from her for emphasis.

She could tell what he wanted and was trying to get out of her, to which she more than happily gave him, and then some, crying out in an almost uncharacteristically 'sex kitten' fashion, " Ohh, Mr Holmes....!" followed by a few grunts and panting breaths as she wriggled beneath him. Her other leg coming up to throw over his shoulder as her head turned frantically to the side to bit into the pillow, a desperate attempt on her part to stifle her cries and whimpers of pleasures lest he be too pleased with himself.

For, to be sure, despite the rather, 'porn-star-esque' response she was currently giving him--and one she hadn't much used with him, if ever, before--Irene Adler was no faker, at least, when it came to her personal, love life. Her response was utterly--even if embarrassingly so to her--organic. She only hoped the base, male, primitive mindset that he clearly had a little bit of would respond to these novel and 'conventional' reactions--if only because they were novel for her .

She also was bound and determined to seek revenge in a few moments. No man would make her whimper like that and finish on top. Not even Sherlock Holmes , she mused decidedly.

Her response merely spurred him on, for even under duress he could at the least read her for genuineness and she was fighting it now with a will, feeling another shock of pleasure strike him as he watched her reckless abandon. His focus staggered briefly, but he growled his way through a moan and thrust forward more quickly, feeling himself seek out those sounds now that she'd granted them. He leaned more upright, gripping her leg where it draped over his shoulder and nipping and licking up the expanse of it he could reach.

" Mmm... Sherlock....!" She whined at his nips, the toes of her accosted leg curling in his hair as she arched her back up, to meet his thrusts.

She allowed him a few more self-gratifying thrusts to which she returned with girlish moans and whimpers before, suddenly, bringing her right foot from his shoulder and halting his movement by planting her foot squarely in the centre of his chest. She sat up, placing her weight on her elbows as she glared at him evenly before pushing him back with a grunt and and moving to her knees to face him dead on.

A hint of a smiled played on her lips as she raised her right brow slowly, running a hand up his chest before tangling it in his curls to yank his head backwards and up violently. She pressed her form against his and leaned up to hiss into his ear, "My turn, darling..." only to hook her leg around his as she twisted and pushed his figure back and down onto the bed, crawling on top of him to pin him against the bed in an act of dominance and possession.

"Can't let you 'boys' have all the fun," she purred into his ear before sitting back slightly to run her slit along his length and tease his pulsating tip with her inviting warmth wickedly.

He growled out a groan of surprise and aroused fury, even though he knew she was likely to play her card eventually. She had an annoying habit of lulling him into false security before striking. Infuriating woman. But she did stay true to her point and skillset he couldn't help but notice. She knew exactly what he 'liked' -- a challenge.

She was sending sparks through his nervous system with his teasing, causing his hips to buck and his leg muscles to twitch. His hands flew to her hips, digging in hard in an attempt to end her torment, but all he succeeded in was increasing her friction, and he scowled helplessly. He could overpower her, but the fight was seldom worth it, or so he assured himself.

Irene chuckled darkly, leering down at him lasciviously as she shifted her weight to her knees to lift her pelvis up and off of him completely, proving that no contact was even worse than then the ghostings of it.

She then ran her hands up her thighs and hips, ripping his own off to grope herself, alone and unaided, toying with his clearly, 'regular,' male porn preference, as she employed the 'usual actions'--hands gliding up her waist to circle the sides of her breasts and swirl around her taut nipples, teasing herself and him by avoiding them for a bit.

She pouted down at him, biting her bottom lip sensual before husking softly, "Oh, Mr Holmes , did you really think I was going to indulge your base, male fantasy for the entire time?" She circled her areolas before pinching and twisting her nipples suddenly letting out a whiney moan as she looked down at him in erotic amusement.

"Don't get me wrong, Sherlock , I'll be your little slut, porn-star girl any day of the week...any way you want me...any fantasy you wish to play out...I'll even be your slave, if you fancy... But, just keep in mind, dear...." She began to warn gently, leaning down over him slowly as she slipped a hand between them to grip his length tightly, before continuing, "...Every time you make me whimper and moan and whine and beg like a little girl who needs more--which you do quite well, much to my chagrin, grant you--" She grumbled lightly, licking her lips as she winked, before finishing with, "...I'll make you do the same-- twice over ." She hissed against his lobe, slamming herself down and around him as deeply as the angle would allow on her last words.

He threw his head back with something not dissimilar from a roar, his hands clawing at her waist and his teeth clenching as he fought the throbbing ache shooting down his spine at the sudden move. Fighting to catch his breath, he finally gripped her hips again tightly and bucked up, in an attempt to counter her, but it hardly stood up to the challenge.

"Lucky for me...have no need of slavery," he managed in a ragged, breathless rumble, having nothing to fear of that retribution at least. Who would ever want to tame this glorious, albeit evil, creature he couldn't say, but it would strain credulity to attempt.

She grunted in approval of his statement as she leaned down to capture his lips with her own, nipping and biting them with a ferocity of a lioness in heat as she lifted and slammed her pelvic floor down against his, grinding it in place as she squeezed her walls around him with each go before abandoning his mouth to lean her weight back onto her centre--fully upright as he was sheathed at a full, and deep, ninety degree angle.

She let out a subtle moan as she gyrated her hips in a circular motion, hitting each cardinal direction of her walls as she dragged her nails down his chest.

"Mmm.... You remind me of my first horse, Mr Holmes. I was quite the equestrian. Dear me did he have a foul temper and was about as haughty as spoiled prince. But he was magnificent and quite the beast. 16.1 hands...about as tall as you.... However....I think I much prefer this mount..." She teased in self-amusement, as she began bob up and down on him in this new position.

He found his body was following her lead of its own accord, bracing into her movements with a counter-rhythm no matter his inner rebellion. He was fighting to keep his focus as she see seemed more than determined to rip it from him, and his eyes narrowed at her in challenge.

"I suppose that's...a compliment," he ground out with obvious force, his hands starting to roam upward for distraction -- both hers and his own -- and cupped her breasts roughly, squeezing and trapping the bud of her nipples between his fingers.

She exhaled a soft hissing sound as he groped her breasts, leaning into his pinches as she steadied her weight forward again, her hands splayed on his pectoral muscles as she began lifted and dropped herself around him faster and harder, beginning to feel herself lose control as the wave of climax climbed higher and higher, threatening to crash her on his shores any second.

" Fuck ...I'm so close....Come with me, Sherlock..." She whimpered softly, her dominatrix persona forgotten in this sudden, heightened state of ecstasy with him.

He growled in wordless agreement, unsure his tongue was even capable of forming them at the moment. She had a unique talent for driving him speechless that no one else had managed to possess, no more exemplified than at this very moment. He bridged his hips into her last few thrusts for the sake of it, giving her more stimulation for entirely selfish reasons, he was afraid. It drove him to bursting just as he felt her tightening around him.

His groan was guttural and throat ripping and his lower abdomen clenched nearly to the point of pain as he finally let the wire snap, hands flying back to her hips, digging in and holding her tightly in earnest. He found himself leaning upward beneath her, as though the force of it pulled him from the pillows.

Irene let out a guttural cry of sheer euphoria bliss as she felt him buck and come within her, her walls clenching around violently and successively, as if squeezing every last drop of him from his load was some unconscious goal of her womb.

She threw her head back as another wave suddenly arrested her once more, a sharp whimper of appreciation escaping her throat before it was replaced by her weighty pants. She fell forward against him as she fought to catch her laboured breaths slowly.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, barely able to feel her hands so overcome with pins and needles were they, before resting her forehead against his finally.

She listened to their heaving inhales and exhales, their breathing power somehow syncing along with the beating of their hearts. She was tempted to roll her eyes and make some ‘disgusted comment,’ but decided to endorse the moment, for who knew when they’d be so joined again. With Jim back, the danger was ineffable once more.

His body slowly relaxed, and his eyes fluttered closed, feeling heavy and numb as he sank into the pillows once more, but her weight against him still felt heated and tingling. He found himself running his hands up the curves of her back subconsciously as their panting breaths mingled, her warmth bringing the feeling back into him. There were very few times Sherlock was ever relaxed, outside of the force of severe exhaustion, but she always managed it, even if briefly.

"Do we always follow near-death experiences with nearly killing each other," he managed to quietly joke in a deep, if strained murmur, lips twitching faintly.

She let out a half laugh, pulling back gently to ask out of want of clarification, “Firstly, I’d hardly call sex ‘killing each other,’ dear, quite the opposite, if I do say so myself. However, I will grant you that our means to the end differ significantly from the average pedestrian. But, we are not ‘the commonwealth,’ are we?” She winked before leaning down to nibble his lip playfully.

“But I will grant you, the near-death thing seems to be, an annoying and unfortunate, set-up….” She sighed almost wearily, a soft sadness ending her tone before she added gingerly, “Perhaps, one day, it won’t be the necessary ‘aphrodisiac….’” She murmured wistfully, her index finger circling an obtuse pattern on his chest, not wanting him to remove himself from her just yet.

He hummed slightly in appreciation at her touch, as well as in thought, his hand still tracing up her spine, in odd swirls and angles.

"Seems 'motivation' is more appropriate. We hardly need aphrodisiacs..." He murmured in correction, with a faint hint of a smirk, though it was also a tad melancholy. "It typically takes one of us nearly being shot or decapitated to drive us across whichever continent divides us," he added in consideration. "And there is that pesky 'death' status we keep falling into."

She leaned forward resting her elbows on his chest as she gently, and slowly allowed him to slip out of her before settling back down above his nether regions, resting her chin on his sternum as she replied drolly, “I meant it as metaphor, you cad….Believe you me, I’m more than aware at our ability to make any and every word, look, situation, and context highly….. adult .”

She leaned pressed a kiss to his skin before glancing up at him once more to add, “...Mmm, I suppose one of us being alive on paper again might actually make things easier in the future… The double ghost was getting a bit absurd… Let’s not recall the horrendous blonde, bob cut wig I had to don just to get into the bloody Ritz in Paris…” She shuddered in hyperbolised repugnance.

"Not the most flattering," he winced playfully, making a rumble of disapproval in his throat. "Though that idiotic suit wasn't my finest hour," he added honestly and for fairness, rolling his eyes faintly. His hand settled on the small of her back, in a nearly casual manner.

"Though, yes. At least one of us being legally present is quite helpful..." He stated in agreement, lips turning up at the thought. "At least we're not both scattering about the map."

She laughed softly, “Yes, double breasted suits should be left in the 80s never to be seen or heard from again. And do try to stay alive, this time round, all right? For my ‘appetite's’ sake, if nothing more.” She grinned, leaning up nip his nose playfully before rolling over on her back and stretching as she yawned faintly.

“Mmm, I did miss your bed… Besides the one in my flat in Belgravia, I think yours is the most comfortable and arousing bed I’ve ever had the pleasure of sleeping in, shame you don’t indulge in the act.” She couldn’t help but jibe him coyly, nipping his shoulder just for the sheer thrill of it. She was feeling very frisky and, well, Christ, happy .

He quirked a brow, but didn't question her excitement, quite frankly feeling a similarity. He gave her a teasing bit of a shrug, turning over on his side to loom over her slightly in an oddly quick motion in terms of his relaxed state.

"Clearly you've remedied that, on a few different levels," he husked near her ear rather obtusely.

Irene shivered softly as his breath hit her ear, sending goose pimples down her back. She leaned into him, frontside pressing against his as she toyed with his light chest hairs before murmuring in feigned innocence, "Oh please, I only drugged you the one time, and I'm sure you needed the rest... And it's not my fault the only time you are able to sleep on your own natural, biological accord is upon having mind-blowing orgasms at 'my hand...'" She winked as she glanced up at him quickly, hoping to see some amusement cross his face. She did love being one of the few people that could make him laugh and indulge his, albeit narrow, sense of humour--that wasn't vile or at anyone else's expense--except, perhaps, his own. Which, in itself, was a feet of Everest proportions with his egotistical personality.

He chuckled briefly at her rather true-ish statement, rolling his eyes fondly. "Sleep is an elusive bitch at times, yes. Outside of drugs and injury, I typically need something to tire my mind and that's a rare accomplishment...relaxing it's even rarer." It was meant, however oddly, as a compliment, his fingers tapping out a rather subconsciously complex pattern on the skin of her side.

She chuckled softly, burrowing her face into his chest as she took a deep inhale, indulging in the natural scent of him and those divine pheromones that he gave off.

“Mmm, thank you, dear, I’m flattered, once again..” She murmured into his chest softly.

"Don't be," he murmured in a playful mockery of irritation, half-arsed at that, harkening back to his first response to his so-called flattery. It always sounded like foolish denial, and he played on it now, even as he let out a quiet rumble of appreciation at her moving closer, throwing his arm around her thoughtlessly. He indulged the sensation for a moment before shifting back a tad.

"I'll be right back," he said simply into her ear, brushing his lips against it faintly, figuring his destination would be rather obvious as he reluctantly pulled himself from the sheets to stand to his feet, and pad towards the door.

She hummed in appreciation at his sentimental ‘loo-parting,’ at one point utterly unfeasible that he would ever adopt such ‘sweetheart’ acts of behaviour with her. Like with most other things, however, he always managed to surprise her with his uncanny ability to evolve, even if it was to his minor ‘self-stated’ chagrin.

She rolled over on her stomach as he left, tilting her head to the left to appreciate the view his exit so gratuitously gave her.

Once he was gone, however, she let out a melancholy sigh, glancing at the digital clock which glared at her the early morning time disdainfully. It was odd, the way she suddenly felt unwanted, or that she was out of place, at his, now that their coupling had finished. Although, to be fair, they never had only ‘dined’ one time--it usually at least hit the four or five mark, if not higher. Yet, out of some deep-rooted fear or anxiety she had the distinct feeling that to spend the night with him here , in 221b Baker Street, was somehow indicative of some ‘serious step’ in their ‘relationship’--whatever terms, labels, titles, and regulations that that term held with regards to them. Spending the night in all of their previous rendezvous was more than assumed, as they had always spent the night in some hotel or secretive meeting place. But now that they were back on English soil, and especially, his, personal soil she was not about to risk heartache at assuming, and assuming wrong, tonight.

That being the case she, reluctantly, sat up, stretched and made her way down the hallway to the bag she had left on the couch, grabbing a pair of black jeans, leather ankle boots, and a black cashmere V-neck top, along with her lace undergarments, before padding back to his room to begin to change and figure out her next ‘moves.’

He made his way back to the room fairly quickly, out of instinctive anxiety, and it seemed once again he wasn't wrong. He would've liked to have been, for once. He stood silently for a moment, watching her back as she moved to fasten her bra, and only then did he quietly stalk up behind her. His hand over taking hers and unclasping it beneath her fingers once again, he pressed her shoulder to turn her around to face him, urging her to let him remove the lace from her arms.

"Get back into my bed," he said simply as a vaguely sardonic command, his very typical 'Sherlock Holmes' attitude returning, if briefly, with a challenging tilt of his head. "If for no other purpose, I have every intention of picking your brain in the morning."

She locked eyes with him, a silent exchange flashing between then before a small, relieved smile tugged at her lips and she glanced down, blushing ever so lightly at her silly ‘female’ train of thought. He was a far better man than that, and they had come too far together now to still be playing the game , at least, the high-stakes emotional one--that was all settled now, more or less, apparently. The sexual, mental one--well, that was always in play, to be sure.

“Clever boy. You passed ‘The Test…’” She teased him lightly, more teasing herself , however, in vocally acknowledging her corrected, unnecessary actions.

Once her bra was off and safely on the floor, where it belonged, she wrapped her arms around his neck, a sultry haze beginning to cloud over her eyes, before grinding her pelvis against his as she challenged darkly, “Now then, Mr Holmes, how about breaking our previous record…?”

His lips turned up into a wicked, knowing sort of smile. She was of course calling her own bluff, and he was more than happy to let her, one of his hands easily bracing the back of her skull as he practically lifted her off of her feet into a seething kiss, partially even out of gratitude for her continued presence. One wouldn't think they'd been perfectly satisfied not too many minutes before, but that was, he supposed the nature of suppressing oneself to an annual coupling...or, a few. Especially with them, it seemed.

He had to wonder when exactly they'd managed to be considered oddly monogamous, at least on her end. It had never been an issue in his mind, but when she began bluntly insinuating she'd been bottling for his sake, he had always wondered. He'd never had the nerve to ask, or perhaps he just would rather not have known. But he was obscurely thankful for it regardless. He didn't have to look too far past her unbridled appetite to see the proof, or they'd never have managed to christen the rest of his flat, and manage to sleep in between, over the next 14 hours.

#adlock #the adlock yacht #my writing #sherlock smut #irene adler #lemon

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tarithenurse · 5 years

Text

Space Nurse 11/11

Fandom(s): Men in Black & MCU! Pairing: fem!reader x Brunhilde x ? Contents: Anxiety, language, threats (psychological) A/N: Thank you for reading! As stated above, this will probably be the end of this story which is much sooner than expected (I have a lot of drafts and notes still unused)...but it didn’t get the feedback I needed to feel it was worth it. So yeah. Again: thank to you lovely people who’ve read. If I do pick it up again, then I’ll be mean enough to tag you all ;)

Jury and Judge

Everyone is listening intently to Smith’s explanation. Everyone but you. A few sentences in and your mind’s sort of slipped out of you as if your watching everything from outside. I’m slouching, you notice and immediately see your body comply by straightening up. I should listen. But you don’t because the details don’t matter as long as the fact remains that you were never meant to be here…and honestly it makes sense. You’d sent out a lot of applications because you needed a change in your work-life, but you’d not applied for anything outside of the country (as far as you could remember) which is why you’d been too curious to ignore them when they’d contacted you. And yes, it had been a clerical error (something about the servers resetting and search criteria), but now that you’ve gotten this far…fuck. Jemma, Jay, Taylor, and even Costa look pretty bummed about the conclusion that they’ve undoubtedly reached too.

“I get it, don’t rub it in!” The words plop out of your mouth, startling you as much as Smith whom you’re glaring at angrily. Back in yourself, you realize that you might as well continue now. “Something went wrong and now you’re here to fix the mistake by making sure they…the…this panel will terminate the trial period. I’m supposed to leave and never say anything about this, right?”

The sallow man glares back, eyes seemingly alive for the first time as he sneers. “Your applications has neither been vetted properly nor has it been passed through the appropriate channels! Therefore, you do not qualify for employment by any of the prestigious organisations!”

“Smith.” Fury’s calm, but no one in their right mind would argue with him. “You’ve made your point, you can go.”

You watch him turn on his heel and stalk out the still open door, nearly colliding with the person who’s leaning against the door frame. Fuck me sideways! This person you’d recognize anywhere and not necessarily with joy even though he supposedly has been exonerated. Coerced, my ass! But then an inkling of guilt pops into your heart, because how can anyone, even Loki of Asgard, withstand torture and mind control? Damn, the world used to be simpler. No aliens, no space-bugs that will turn you pink and grow extra limbs before you suffocate, and no feeling that you’ll miss out on something important unless you’re right here where it’s all happening.

I won’t let them kick me out! “All right, I get it.” You turn back to the row of people in charge of your future, ignoring Loki as he walks by you to take the last empty place. “So as things are now, technically I’ve not applied correctly for this job…you did headhunt me, though.” The comment makes Natasha and Fury smirk. “Also…I’ve seen some of what’s going on and I’ve made it through Costa’s torture, no offense –“

“None taken,” Costa smiles sweetly…sweet enough to seem like a silent promise of more painstakingly hard training.

“So really…what I’m trying to say is that it won’t make sense to kick me out. Let me apply correctly and pick up from where I’ve gotten to instead.” You know you’re right!

“It’s certainly an interesting idea,” Coulson’s the first to admit, “but what do you suppose we do with you in the meantime?”

“S-sir?”

The man rubs his receding hairline for a moment before continuing. “Without a binding contract, we’ll have no way to guarantee your safety or a salary for that matter. Also…we would be running a risk of letting you leave with this knowledge intact…we simply can’t have people out there knowing everything that’s going on yet.”

The director for MiB takes over at that moment, holding out his hands in an all-encompassing, apologetic manner. “We have ways of helping people…forget certain incidents. Normally it’d be a matter of minutes or maybe hours that we have to free their memory of, but you’ve been here much, much longer than that. We can’t just supress it without risking…erm…other things. Besides, anything we do wipe, well it can’t be reversed. What you’ve learned will be gone for good, you’d have to start over.”

“You…what?!” Is he kidding? “You don’t have to…to wipe my memories, what the hell? Just…you can keep mere here, that way you know I’m not telling on you. I could still help out as a normal nurse, maybe get some experience or theoretical knowledge.”

“We can’t grant you a clearance level if you don’t have a contract and you can’t get a contract without a proper application and so on.” There’s a strain in Coulson’s voice. Is he annoyed or frustrated? By me? “So you see…there’s no way we can accommodate you here.”

Fury’s head is tilted as he takes in how the defeat washes over you. “It was a good alternative, [Y/L/N], it really was. But no organisation can legally take you in at this moment.”

“So…you’ll risk you mind because of an error on your side?” It’s a low blow, and you know it, but the faint traces of guilt on their faces makes you feel a bit better.

Alpha has the decency to look proper sorry. “It won’t be –“

“The mortal could stay under my guardianship until the…application has been processed.”

It’s the first time you hear Loki speak, and his voice is much softer than you’d ever imagined. Bored, yeah, but still velvety. It’s not just you looking at him in surprise. Every single person in the room is staring at the black-haired man as if they’re trying to find out if he’s real or perhaps just an illusion. Hilde even pinches him, earning an annoyed swat by his hand…and the sharp sound of the slap sounds very real.

“You?” Taylor has already recovered, his normally serene expression replaced by a nearly electrifying focus. “You’d take care of someone else? A human?”

“Why not?” A wolfish grin is spreading across Loki’s face. “It is a condition for my pardoning that I interact with and help Midgardians more. What better opportunity than this? Not only can I prove my good intentions, we could perhaps even…learn from each other.” The green eyes sweep over Fury, Coulson, and Natasha before returning to you. “I’m not tied to any Midgardian organisation or group such as these people. If you agree to come with me, I can guarantee that your memories will not be destroyed, you will have the chance to see worlds beyond this one…when you come back you will be more than ready for any menial task, they could have for you here.”

The only sound in the room after Loki’s near-soliloquy is the electrical buzzing from the light above and the faint whirr of the ventilation system. You expect someone to contradict him…but no one does. Instead they all watch you intensely and wait. They wait for an answer. The plastic seat of the chair feels much too warm and sticky even through the seat of your jeans, your heart is actively trying to crawl out you throat together with the bit of breakfast you’d managed to swallow. I need to say something. Managing and intake of breath, you still end open sitting open-mouthed without a clue of what the right course of action is and suddenly it all seems overwhelming. Confusing.

“So…I have three options? That’s what you’re all saying now?” You can hear how meek you sound, and you instantly hate yourself for it.

Fury doesn’t seem to notice. “Yes. One…you forget all of this and go back to your old life, continue living that.” He’s holding up a finger for you to count along. “Two,” now there’s one more finger, “you apply properly for the position as nurse of either the H.I. or the E.T.I., but while the application is pending, you’ll still be rendered unable to recall any of this.” The serious man sends an accusatory side-glace at Alpha who decides to ignore it. “And finally, three, you take Loki up on his offer, accepting that we take no responsibility in the…consequences.”

I can’t miss what I can’t remember.

The safe choice would be to follow either the first or second plan. “When do we leave, Loki?”

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niskrp · 5 years

Photo

:// SEARCHING OPERATIVE …

… searching for AGENT 006 / KING OF SPADES. classified files indicate that they go by KO YURA. born in SEOUL, SK, in 1986/30/01, further investigation makes it clear that they joined the agency FIVE YEARS ago. they are a CLANDESTINE AGENT who specialize in MARKSMANSHIP. higher clearance is needed to access further information…

… ENTER PASSWORD TO ACCESS THE COMPLETE FILE.

:// ACCESSING BACKGROUND FILES …

rumour has it they were happy back in the day.

her father owned a successful business which meant a large home, an array of expensive gifts, not to mention a pristine reputation. they were apparently a family envied by many for being seemingly perfect; hardworking husband, pretty wife, prettier daughter.

but then they crash and burn in spectacular fashion, a glittering empire crumbling in a matter of weeks; a fall said to be inevitable for a multitude of reasons.

from here the details become murky, truth lost among the gossip and rumours. people preferring to offer their own side of the story rather than seeking out the exact details on what went on behind the scenes.

bankruptcy. rival business. gambling addiction. shady connections. plain greed.

their standard of living takes a dive—and so does she, dragged face first into a world absolutely nobody wants to be a part of.

sometimes home is a cramped one bedroom apartment on the outskirts of seoul. sometimes home is the living room floor of an acquaintance. sometimes home is the backseat of the family’s car. never pleasant, never comfortable. never hers. somehow they manage: father, mother, and her. a miserable trio scampering from one dilapidated house to another, desperately clinging onto any hope that they’ll make it through another day. which they do, barely. she doesn’t question it. grows accustomed to finding bills hidden beneath old newspapers and waking to the landlord’s demand for rent at 1 am. believes it’s normal to live on three day old rice and whatever else her mother can prepare from a near empty fridge. doesn’t blink an eye when her father announces they have to move somewhere else for the second time that month.

too young to understand the reasons why they’re subjected to this hellish experience. not young enough to realise that she deserves better, they deserve better.

poor girl. dirty girl. sad girl. it’s the norm to address yura by anything but her name. not that she minds—or more specifically, not that she has any say in the matter when classmates are adamant on frowning upon her very existence anyway. poking fun at her lowly status and tarnished reputation, like it’s her own damn fault that the world has it out for her at every turn. so she feigns ignorance, redirects her attention to her studies and other activities where her questionable family history isn’t the main topic of conversation. no easy feat when everyone is insistent they know more than she does. bad girl. violent girl. bully girl. she can’t be blamed for snapping when a “joke” crosses the line and hits a nerve. word spreads fast of an incident involving her fist and the jaw of a popular upperclassman, and previous judgemental looks quickly turn into that of disgust, of borderline fear.

as much as yura despises the way her name is dragged through the mud, she begrudgingly admits it isn’t too bad. it’s better, maybe, to be feared than pitied by complete strangers. those who don’t even care.

they say she shares a lot of similarities with her father. don’t you see it, they ask. by the way you both smile and laugh, they point out. no way anyone can ignore the fact you’re his daughter, they tell her. but she struggles to see it. only associates him with helplessness and failure, both traits she’s certain they don’t share. perhaps they’d been similar once, at a time when they weren’t burdened by the need to make ends meet. laughter would’ve come freely then, and she might’ve been able to revel in the very details that brought them together as a father and daughter pair. for now they couldn’t be anymore different. him, regularly found in a drunken stupor, mourning his fall from grace with the assistance of cheap soju. her, reading outside a nearby restaurant when the electricity is suddenly cut off at home, trying to avoid following in his footsteps.

her mother tires of their situation and never hesitates to threaten walking out. makes a scene of packing her bags and announcing her imminent departure before quietly returning hours, days later.

normally she refrains from asking why. pretends nothing has changed and goes about her usual routine, except she’s ever curious today. thinks the whole packing and unpacking business is more trouble than it’s worth.

“it’s because i love him.” “that’s sad.” the words roll off her tongue, and a single glance over to her mother is enough for yura to regret opening her mouth in the first place. the answer she receives is only confirmation of that. “yeah.” a long pause. “it really is.”

graduation will be it. better life, better pay. money to buy an actual home that’s free of mould, creaky floors, and disgruntled landlords. maybe there’ll be enough to relocate to a high end suburb she’s read so much about and forge a brand-new identity, a sought after fresh beginning. study hard, this will be hers. knows it can be, sees it to be true by the amount of stories she’s heard of people like her. bottom of the rung folks who’ve worked their way up and now lead a life starkly different to what they started with. an escape can be granted if she tries. uses her brain for more than breaking the landlord’s locks (out of necessity, obviously) and wandering the streets with a ragtag group of friends in tow.

alas, normalcy doesn’t bode well for her.

she dreads the daily grind of day-to-day life. climbing up the corporate ladder isn’t as appealing as others make it out to be, nor is abiding by what society insists is in order for a young woman like her: marriage, motherhood, filial piety until death. even now, with nothing to her name, the prospect of settling for stability is amazingly out of the question. if it means sacrificing her own enjoyment for the sake of fitting in and catering to what’s expected of her, she’s happy to go without it. teachers tut over her eventual choice, as if she’s making a massive mistake over signing her name to join the police. maybe she is, maybe she isn’t. either way, she doesn’t think it’s anyone’s business but her own over what she chooses to do with the rest of her life. then again, why should it?

safe to say, training brings her to her knees. meaning: she really, really likes it here. potential bad habits are all but crushed beneath the heel of superiors eager to see what she’s worth, what she can do; this gangly thing with a smart mouth and chip on her shoulder. if anything, the reason she provides for joining the force (“the uniforms, i’m a fan”) simply gives them the incentive to run her ragged. which they certainly do, in an almost sadistic fashion, except to their surprise, she manages to flourish—and then some. strict discipline is all she needs and it does well to shape her into a deadly weapon. talents are already there: dogged determination and reckless sort of fearlessness. they just need to polish each and every one of it up until she emerges gleaming, shining; much like the framed college degree on her wall.

an uncanny knack to remain cool under pressure becomes the draw card for many. throw her into the most difficult of situations and she’ll pull through. slightly battered, a little bruised. but most importantly: alive. it’s commonly assumed that she simply thrives in chaotic environments such as these. the type who isn’t distracted by irrelevant details and can be solely focused on the task at hand. capable of adhering to instructions while simultaneously preparing a plan b for when things don’t quite click.

kinda stubborn, kinda risky. all round lethal.

she supposes she only has her tumultuous home life to thank for getting this far.

he’s impressed.

“i think you should apply though.”

“is this your way of getting rid of me, sunbaenim? i’m hurt.”

it used to be perceived as an ominous sign whenever the superintendent bursts out laughing, though she’s long come to see it as a reassurance of sorts. that, she hasn’t completely fucked up in his presence and her body won’t be thrown into the han river at dusk for ruining his usual foul mood.

a very, very good sign indeed.

”you know what i mean. you’d do well elsewhere, with them.”

“guess i’ll think about it.”

“is that a yes?”

“it’s honestly a ‘i have to compare salaries first and get back to you’ kinda yes.”

“yura.”

she grins, decides to cut back on the jokes before he dumps her in the river for real. “i’m kidding, i’ll do it. want to see if their coffee is as good as ours, too.”

god knows what the coffee tastes like at nis. they could be drinking the elixir of life and she’d still be reluctant to relocate, uncertain of what they could possibly offer her when she has everything she needs over here. a steady career, wide social circle, glowing reputation.

can’t say the hesitation is enough to deter her from completing an application out of plain curiosity, though.

after much deliberation, the application is sent through without dwelling on what might occur if she’s accepted. doesn’t hold much of a hope she’ll make the cut when there are bound to be others who would be better suited for the role. candidates who are more experienced and fulfil the criteria nis have set out, whereas she may fall short somewhere along the lines.

she prepares for rejection. reality, however, has another thing coming.

training puts her through her paces once again, but she digs deep and holds on in the exact same way she’s been taught to do, learned to do over the years. rides with the punches until she adheres to their lofty expectations, leaving nothing to be desired—besides keeping her smartass comments to herself.

experience is taken into consideration when they ultimately usher her to the role of marksman, and it’d be a lie to say she isn’t somewhat perplexed by their decision. it’s not what she initially had in mind, especially with the position she’s just left behind, but she bites her tongue and accepts the offer anyway.

we need someone like you here though, they explain. someone focused, someone calm, someone with a damn good aim.

can you do this for us?

she can, and she does.

:// ACCESSING PSYCHOLOGICAL EVALUATION …

they deem her bright, diligent, ruthless; a woman in possession of a sharp mind but sharper tongue. such ferocity is hidden beneath a calm and collected demeanour, only resorting to violence in situations where negotiation is no longer on the cards. rumour has it her anger is especially volatile, bloody even, though no one’s been fortunate enough to bear witness to such a scene to be able to confirm.

despite her line of work, yura manages to maintain a happy go lucky approach in regards to delegated tasks and interactions with colleagues. first to crack a joke, first to suggest heading out for a round of drinks, first to distance herself from serious and stressful situations. it’d be far from beneficial to be constantly preoccupied with either past or present missions, and she never fails to emphasise the importance of being able to ‘switch off’ once the job is complete.

many frequently mistaken her laid back nature to be that of pure laziness instead, what with her tendencies to move around at a leisurely pace and taking things in her stride. could be seen as not caring enough, or half heartedly doing whatever necessary before quickly shifting her focus elsewhere—which couldn’t be further from the truth. she’s always watching, always listening, and always willing to defend when the time calls for it.

rest assured that the success of the agency is a main priority, and yura has every intention of ensuring the safety of those involved won’t be jeopardised.

… END OF FILE. CONTACT THE AGENT DIRECTLY FOR MORE.

#006 #t #c

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comic-critic-squad · 6 years

Text

NaCl 001: The Meteor Tribe

Welcome to the first post in what I hope to turn into a semi-regular thing.

These may come in two types—individual examinations of certain things in individual comics. For now, Home is easy as hell to do this with (and there is a lot to say), but I’d love to take a deeper look at comics I like (I have a tiny few criticisms of Scurry, but there’s obviously way more things I think Mac did well; I’m an enormous fan of Ghost of the Gulag), comics I’m so-so on (AFRICA, Frostbite; Off-White), and comics I think are total trash (Home, obviously; Legacy; The Flightless Bird).

Without further ado, welcome to my thoughts on why the Meteor Tribe is poorly written and not all that well thought out, beginning with the dude right at the top: the jarl.

1. There's no reason to respect/follow the jarl—especially Ranach.

Rulers rule through two means: love or fear. Hate doesn't work, and we have evidence none of the members liked Ranach: Fuss says he was mocked in his absence and told Ulfr he would make a worse leader than Ranach (implying they saw Ranach as a terrible ruler), Vigr showed their feelings toward him when Ranach was denied entry and said Ranach had lost his mind during Three Ranach Moon, obviously none of the female dogs cared for him, and so on.

While we're given the impression Brodir and Arenak were genuine tyrants (and the MT had more members then, but since we know nothing about Brodir and barely more than nothing about Arenak, they’re mostly irrelevant), Ranach was pathetic. It’s amazing anyone actually listened to him post-Arenak since he wasn’t really liked...not that he did much anyway.

The most evil thing he did as ruler? Tell someone else to kill his father...a worse character. Outside of that, he ordered Rogio killed for betrayal—which would be in-character had Kique not suddenly sprung that bullshit "THIS HURTS ME MORE THAN IT HURTS YOU I LOVE YOU SO MUCH ROGIO" and then make Ranach completely pathetic afterward.

(Also—Ranach does not have NPD. Even if he did, congratulations for playing right into ableism. Characters are never assholes on their own, but this is also coming from a guy who thinks the only requirement to be a villain is being a rapist.)

He got pissed at Galti, ordered his papa killed, conned Ronja into joining, captured Ferah and Kargo, ordered the death fakeout of Rogio, and...oh. That's it. All he’s done recently is give evil looks.

He didn't even let the spirit take his pups.

Damn, wouldn't that have really shown his supposed NPD and "he really misses the way Rogio made him feel" we've had hammered down our throats? Wouldn't that have actually been a good way to subvert the whole "everyone fucking survives and this story is goddamn predictable and there's no need for three additional characters that are all obviously going to get their own POVs/screentime."

Nope. Instead Ranach doesn't go through with it...you know, a good thing. It's not like he could've been really shown to be heartless if he'd been like "lol take 'em gimme back my Rogiboy."

Anyway, back on topic.

Essentially, Ranach was hated (even though he didn’t really...do much...) by the members, and they had no reason to follow him. Dogs like Fuss (oh, good ol’ Good Guy Fuss) could have led a coup or something. (I mean...Fuss loved the MT’s broodmare so much. I’m sure he would’ve done anything to free his love.)

We’re not given much about the MT’s culture and history, and I’m not going to give any “well maybe years ago...” credit. As far as we know, all these dogs have been 100% fine listening to a jarl who treats them like shit and abuses them. We’re not given any indication of severe brainwashing or cult-like indoctrination, and so while one or two (like Ulfr) may be in it to get their kicks, all of them are okay with that way of life? (Of course, until they weren’t okay with it--like when they suddenly get screentime and need to be a good guy.)

Regardless, even if all those dogs magically follow the same hivemind despite zero indoctrination and are a-okay listening to someone who abuses them, there’s an even bigger issue: the Meteor Tribe is small.

2. The Meteor Tribe isn't large.

We're given the impression early in the comic that the MT has numbers. Well, that's quickly ruined—and no, Kargo the Killer and retcon "actually, x number died before the story" are excuses.

They’re not a threat, and it’s amazing everyone is oh-so terrified of them considering they don’t really do shit. (Let. Me. Repeat: FOH with “it happened before the story.” There has been AMPLE TIME to flesh out the MT, explain their past, or even just imply how it used to be, because right now, the only difference seems to be they were starved in the past.)

Something else that goes with the MT being small? Their ranks spread them too thinly, and some of them ranks are fairly arbitrary. Why are hunter and warrior separate? What is the obscure difference between healer and herbalist? Artisan and caretaker really need to be separate—or a thing to begin with?

a. Hunters/warriors. They're not constantly at war. Actually, we haven’t been given any indication these dogs ever fight—check out the allies list on the wiki—and while Vigr says they’d face an attack if they didn’t meet the Guild…what? The wiki itself tells us no one actually has to listen to the Matriarch:

Throughout the years, the Matriarch has set out a set of guidelines, to keep life in Aedra as peaceful as possible. No tribe has to follow these guidelines, but doing so will grant them access to get more help from the capital if needed, and ally bonds with other tribes can be created.

Even if they were out and about, it'd be a bit essential, don'tcha think, for warriors to know how to hunt. Otherwise they'd have to bring hunters with them...and that's just extra weight. Or are hunters meant to stay at the tribe and bring food there? Well, in that case, then the warriors HAVE to do their own hunting—and if the answer is that they already do, why have a separate hunters rank?

b. Herbalist/healer. Let's get one thing out of the way: the limits on healing bark haven't been established, and apparently that shit can heal everything from falling off a fucking waterfall to decades-old scars. It's Applied Phlebotium. That said, it really ignores how primitive the rest of their medicine is. Herbs are not that simple...nor are they always strong/effective. In real life, holistic/herbal remedies are trashed for a reason.

This could've been a really interesting point to expand on. I would even accept Aedra has stronger herbs, like an opium-like plant the dogs use as a painkiller. Eat too much of it, it'll kill you. Of course, I'd lean toward "well, we hope these herbs will work, but there's a 40% chance you'll live. Cross your tail!" (Or toes, since they can probably do that.)

Another thing—you know how people say you shouldn't guess if wild mushrooms are edible? That's because many of them look nearly identical. And one is edible, and the other will cause violent stomach cramps. Or kill you. Give me a dog who's a healer and fucks up herb identification and kills a packmate. Makes skilled herbalist-healers valued. Since Aedra’s as dangerous as a stapler, though, there’s really no use for them either.

More on topic, why are healer and herbalist separate ranks anyway? The healer would just need the herbalist right beside them saying what to do and use. Doctors still know about medicine. They're not pharmacists, of course, but this is a primitive medical system in Home. They’re not messing with fentanyl.

Combine the damn ranks. Maybe make herbalists the healer’s apprentice and they gain that rank once they’ve mastered herb identification and can move on to putting the herbs to use.

Hilariously, this is what the wiki has to say about it:

Both the Herbalist and Healer will have about the same knowledge when it comes to herbs, but the Healer will always stay with the tribe while the Herbalist will go out on long travels to collect the various herbs the tribe is in need of. Healers are often well rounded when it comes to healing the sick and wounded, while Herbalists may also know what herbs can be used to keep meat stored and fresh for a long period of time, how to craft poison and even how to summon malevolent spirits.

So basically, “Basically these ranks are the same.”

c. Artisan/caretaker.

Couldn't be more useless.

Akleja and Ronja's WIP pups weren't in the story at the time those ranks were conceived (no pups at all, actually), and the MT hasn’t had pups in a while...so clearly the caretaker has fuck-all to do most of the time. Mothers would be the caretakers, and during the moments they want to get away from the pups, someone else could watch them for a bit—does there really need to be an entirely separate role for something so brief and rare?

A Caretaker will be in charge of taking care of the young in the tribe. They will stay with newly born offspring and help the mother out if needed. If the parent is absent, the Caretaker will teach the young how to read and write, the laws of the tribe and everything else there is to know.

Oh, silly me. They also teach the young how to fucking read and write.

And artisan? Christ. Worst rank, hands down. Apparently tribes living in the harsh world of Aedra have enough resources to waste on a rank devoted to painting markings for an hour (and how long does this shit last anyway?) and then clocking out. See ya at the timeclock tomorrow, Alva.

According to the wiki, this is what they do:

An Artisan is in charge of keeping the huts strong, re-applying paint to the members and repairing clothing.

Yeah, guys—these dogs can repair clothing. Kique even says they could mend clothing by attaching a tough thread to a piece of bone. Fuck the fact threading a needle requires tying it.

Then again, given we have a tribe whose leader says they need to hunt frequently—yet his tribe regularly holds community LARPing—is anyone surprised no intra-tribe resource/energy economy is taken into account?

d. Gendered rank pairs

Why do we need a male/female pair for lead hunter and lead huntress? Whoever’s best at the job, give it to them. Hunter is gender neutral, for fuck’s sake. Adding –ress/-ess to words that are otherwise neutral is unnecessary.

(But speaking of painting…)

3. The paint is useless.

Okay, two questions:

1.) How are these dogs deft enough to apply paint? In Fjordor’s case, how the fuck is his paint applied? HE LITERALLY LIVED ALONE. (Don't @ me with "it's long-lasting" or "he's been alone for a week." Then again, that last explanation actually works considering how these characters face major life events and fall in love within days. Remember: 100 pages = two hours.)

2.) Why is the paint even necessary? It'd be one thing if they had a splash of color to mark them out to other tribes, but differentiation within? The tribes aren't large enough to need rank-identifying paint. They would know each other by sight. If the tribe was so massive it’d be impossible to know all packmates intimately, sure. In that case, it would be necessary to know someone's rank by sight, especially if the system were based off a strict hierarchy, like passage keepers being the lowest of the low or warriors honored like deities when they stride into camp.

4. All tribes follow the same hierarchy. Even when they have no reason to.

All the tribes follow the same ranking system, apparently no dogs live as loners or in tribeless family units, everyone is allied sans the MT, a jarl always leads, they use identifying paint within their own tribe—not paint that would mark them out to other tribes—and so on. What kind of networking is going on that makes all these tribes—all of whom seem to inhabit different biomes—follow the same system even when the standard tribe setting may not be beneficial to their culture/survival?

But more on that latter point, the MT was characterized as problematic rebels with no allies, yet they still listen to the Guild...even though they don't respect Axilyah and her group...and while it was said they'd face attack if they refused, we were later told ACTUALLY…—no one has to listen to the Guild! Fjordor even tells Axilyah she's in no place to question him...so exactly what authority does the Guild have?

Oh, right.

None at all.

Maybe “no one actually has to listen to them” shouldn’t have been created after the pages where Vigr expressed fear of the Guild’s arrival. (Also, so much for the Guild anyway if everyone else turns a blind eye to what goes on in the MT yet still demands those arbitrary scrolls. “We need to know your population but fuck the suffering going on within.”)

5. None of the female MT dogs have lasting trauma.

If there's one things fans on DA loved screaming anytime anyone criticized the female MT dogs' lack of trauma, it was "Not all victims act the same!"

Well, they're right. Not all victims act the same...yet that same exact logic can be applied to Home, where all victims act the same. Literally no one is traumatized. It's obvious they're trying any argument they can (without thinking about what they're actually saying. Congratulations, you played yourself.) to get the opposition to shut up.

This point alone could turn into it’s own thing, but its better lumped under the much larger discussion surrounding sexism and the female characters.

6. Productivity and unnecessary brutality.

The Meteor Tribe: *complains about infertility and health problems* Also the Meteor Tribe: *abuses their members capable of furthering the population*

So who wants to tell me why abuse even goes in the MT? The answer can't be "because they're just assholes." I'm looking for something along the lines of "cheap drama and the creator is as unimaginative as every other male creator out there with a rape fetish." Really, I’m curious—give me a good reason they abuse their female members, especially the ones capable of reproduction.

Abused creatures aren't productive creatures, and we were shown the mothers starving and skinny in flashbacks, yet...

1.) …none of the current members are in an emaciated state.

2.) …why would you abuse members who've proven they can reproduce? You think you'd want to treat them like royalty.

7. The tribe isn't really that inbred.

Yeah, this is another one of those things we've been given the impression is happening but...isn't. If you’ve seen one of the various fan-made family trees, you’ll notice there sure is a lot of outside blood. The inbreeding happens in really only one line—Ranach’s family.

Maybe it's just the science/genetics nerd in me, but this could've opened a lot of interesting and unique plot points—someone's condition starts acting up at the wrong moment or it has dire consequences on themselves or those around them—and it would add an actual sense of urgency to the tribe. As it is, they've been living...just fine and dandy. Ranach says they've been plagued by infertility and inbreeding, yet the tribe isn't actually experiencing any negative effects. Supposedly they have an issue with infertility, yet the tribe is full of outside blood (Fuss, Rogio, and other dogs shown on the chart to have come from outside the tribe)...and their numbers looked fairly large before Kargo the Killer singlehandedly decimated them.

8. Ferah and Kargo were involved in and led the only escape attempt.

Don’t come at me with “we don’t know that!” because nothing implies otherwise. “Actually, there were ten attempts at liberation before Home started” is meaningless. You can pull any explanation on the spot when your story is so shallow. What was it about Kargo and Ferah—both of whom grew up in the same environment as all the others—that made them have the guts to escape?

Aside from being the protagonists.

9. M-m-m-missed opportunities to make the MT threatening.

This story had the potential to be so much deeper had anything been put into it. The MT doesn’t really do much except take others captive…but with so many surrounding tribes, all it’d take is one war to get rid of them. While the MT would have the defense advantage due to their wall, the dogs have fire. Burn that shit down and kill they asses. Everyone else is allied anyway, for fuck’s sake.

Cannibalism. Worshiping dark spirits. Sacrificing caught outsiders. Ambitious for more territory. Rumors they’re not fully canine. Maybe Aedra dogs are very suspicious. Who the fuck knows.

We do know the MT sucks.

10. Ulfr and Ranach pose no threat.

So...why are Fuss and the others afraid to go outside? Because of Ranach and Ulfr?

Okay, they could be a threat...if it weren't for a few things.

1.) Ulfr and Ranach are two dogs.

2.) The tribe has Rogio, Roamer, Vigr, Javo, Galti, Fuss, Fremja, Inna, Alva, Vandi, Ronja, and Jonna. Even if you argue "but the female dogs can't fight!", that's bullshit for two reasons:

a. Rogio, Roamer, Galti, Vigr, Fuss, and Javo still outnumber Ulfr and Ranach.

b. Goddamnit, they're dogs. They know how to fight. It's not like Inna suddenly doesn't know how to use her teeth. It’s not like they’re even traumatized, either, and would freeze up when faced with one of their abusers.

3.) Even if they wouldn't fight well as individuals—and that’s a mighty big “if” since Rogio, Roamer, and Ronja have killed motherfuckers—there's goddamn six times more MT members than Ranach and Ulfr. They could overwhelm them by sheer number.

11. Ulfr's personal code of conduct.

I have one thing to say about this: it was done to avoid drawing a fight scene between Fuss and Ulfr. Like the recent bullshit with Roamer the Mature & Wise and Kargo.

Okay, I have a bit more than one thing to say about this, but it’s not restricted to Ulfr and this sudden character revelation.

12. There’s no depth to the MT characters.

See, the issue with Kique waiting so long to show us individual characterization for the various MT members is that so much of it comes as an ass pull, and we’ve known these characters since the early comic, but they were just background fodder and existed to waste space.

I can’t even give thumbs up to Jonna since she was shown to be bubbly and peppy and switched to demon overlord in a second…and then that was also forgotten, and now she’s against the guys. Or is she? We saw it with only Ulfr.

But according to Vandi, Javo, Vigr, and Fuss are totally good guys. Once again, none of that was shown. Let’s look at a few things first:

· Vigr

With Vigr, actually, we got the opposite of what Vandi said. He was among the dogs who roped Ronja, and he was specifically the one who held her down for Arenak—held her down to be raped.

“He was scared of Arenak” doesn’t fly. While we know little of Arenak (and this is something I consider a massive failure, too; we didn’t need tons of screentime—or really any screentime at all—to know he was a super feared guy), and these dogs were all too eager to follow along.

When Ronja was coming into the tribe to be roped, there was no moment of hesitation on Vigr’s part—even a brief moment of him being reluctant and the other dog telling him to do it would’ve shown not all of them were comfortable.

But that didn’t happen.

· Fuss

Good ol’ Fuss. Another we’re-told good guy…yet he joined a rapist cult, had ample opportunity (just like Rogio) to leave and didn’t, and rather than busting out his woman, he impregnated her. All while under Arenak’s rule. So he knew from the beginning what environment his offspring would grow up in: the boys would become rapist murderers, and the girls would be sex slaves.

You think his priority would be freeing Vandi rather than fucking her.

· Rogio

Oh, Rogio, Saint Rogio. He’s going to get his own post probably, but I’ll sum up his being a good dude:

Rogio was retconned into not having a choice to join the MT even though he had opportunity after opportunity to escape with others or even by himself but he didn’t because his love for Raniboy overpowered his horror at what went on in the tribe so he stayed and led the patrol that fully intended to capture Alva’s sister and said sister’s pups and he was mad at Ronja being made viscountess because that meant Raniboy wasn’t solely his anymore and then he left the tribe and fucked Roamer who was fresh out of a relationship after they had a long retconversation about who was the bigger saint and then he went back to the tribe and is now back at his baron position and no one has any lasting bitterness toward him and Ronja even apologized to him for treating him badly even though she never did.

Yay for Rogio! Such a great guy.

· Inna, Fremja, Jonna, Alva, and Vandi

They were a hivemind. Not a single one of them wanted to leave during the second freedom run—and Jonna flip-flops on characterization depending on how much Kique needs his fans to say some gross shit—yet now Fremja is having an orgasm over the wilderness, and Vandi, who could’ve been portrayed as a mentor/motherly figure from the beginning, is now doing it. Alva is still pure background fodder and seems to exist just to stare around and be the resident Golden Retriever.

Inna needs to stay off-screen since she has a nice design and I don’t want her to be ruined once she says more than ten words.

Anyway, I can’t talk about this anymore and am now actively aware of how shitty Rogio is so I’d rather scream about him. If there’s something obvious I missed, let me know. Thinking about that half-assed comic has me braindead.

Or even if anyone just wants to comment/discuss it, go ahead.

#nacl #001 #meteor tribe #asmundr #sodium chloride

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assumptionprime · 7 years

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Okay, so our D&D party played with the Deck of Many Things tonight.

First up, the Sorcerer that stole the Deck drew four cards:

Comet - If you single-handedly defeat the next hostile monster or group of Monsters you encounter, you gain experience points enough to gain one level. Otherwise, this card has no effect.

Alright.

Gem - Twenty-five pieces of jewelry worth 2,000 gp each or fifty gems worth 1,000 gp each appear at your feet.

Nice.

Skull - You summon an avatar of death-a ghostly humanoid Skeleton clad in a tattered black robe and carrying a spectral scythe. It appears in a space of the DM's choice within 10 feet of you and attacks you, warning all others that you must win the battle alone. The avatar fights until you die or it drops to 0 hit points, whereupon it disappears. If anyone tries to help you, the helper summons its own avatar of death. A creature slain by an avatar of death can't be restored to life.

Whoa, shit. He wins though, and as per the Comet card he drew first, gains a level.

Donjon - You disappear and become entombed in a state of suspended animation in an extradimensional sphere. Everything you were wearing and carrying stays behind in the space you occupied when you disappeared. You remain imprisoned until you are found and removed from the Sphere. You can't be located by any Divination magic, but a wish spell can reveal the location of your prison. You draw no more cards.

FUCKING BYE. So our characters are all pretty scared of this deck now. Our bard is happy that it left the money behind. We collect his belongings and head back across the desert and magical wilderness to the town we were traveling toward.

So a few days travel later we reach the town and my Monk, hoping to draw something to save the Sorcerer, draws one card:

Skull - An avatar of death appears and attacks. I win, but I didn't have a Comet, so I gain nothing.

Our Oath of Conquest (i.e. Evil) Paladin said he would draw to try and save the sorcerer if I did, and declares he will draw two cards:

Rogue - A nonplayer character of the DM's choice becomes hostile toward you. The identity of your new enemy isn't known until the NPC or someone else reveals it. Nothing less than a wish spell or Divine Intervention can end the NPC's hostility toward you.

So he has a new enemy we don't know anything about, somewhere.

Jester - You gain 10,000 XP, or you can draw two additional cards beyond your declared draws.

TWO MORE DRAWS! TWO MORE DRAWS!

Gem - 50,000gp of gems appear at his feet

So our money troubles are pretty much over with.

Knight - You gain the service of a 4th-level Fighter who appears in a space you choose within 30 feet of you. The Fighter is of the same race as you and serves you loyally until death, believing the fates have drawn him or her to you. You control this character.

His character is driven by his diety/patron to amass power and followers, so this is pretty cool. The first of his army.

Our Bard gets over his fear and declares he is drawing three cards:

Flames - A powerful devil becomes your enemy. The devil seeks your ruin and plagues your life, savoring your suffering before attempting to slay you. This enmity lasts until either you or the devil dies.

Well, shit. The bard, and by extension the party, have been trying to build a trading company in addition to performing around the world as a travelling band, so this angry devil has a bunch of ways to ruin us before killing the bard and maybe all of us.

Star - Increase one of your Ability Scores by 2.

Always good. 20 Charisma now for the Bard.

Vizier - At any time you choose within one year of drawing this card, you can ask a question in meditation and mentally receive a truthful answer to that question. Besides information, the answer helps you solve a puzzling problem or other dilemma. In other words, the knowledge comes with wisdom on how to apply it.

Okay cool, he's hanging onto it for now, but we're pretty sure we'll end up using it to find out how to stop that devil that wants to destroy him.

Did you notice anything about the Knight card? Oh that's right, the player controls the fighter. So next up, the 4th level fighter, ordered to draw from the deck by the Paladin, draws four cards:

Key - A rare or rarer Magic Weapon with which you are proficient appears in your hands. The DM chooses the weapon.

He gets a +2 cursed weapon that one of the components of the curse is that he won't give it away. No free loot for the Paladin.

Fool - You lose 10,000 XP, discard this card, and draw from the deck again, counting both draws as one of your declared draws. If losing that much XP would cause you to lose a level, you instead lose an amount that leaves you with just enough XP to keep your level.

He literally just magically materialized here at level 4, so he has no xp to lose. He draws again.

Vizier - Ask any question and receive a truthful, useful answer.

The Paladin lost his memory just before the start of the campaign, so he's going to have the fighter ask later about that.

Moon - You are granted the ability to cast the wish spell 1d3 times.

Hot damn. He gets 1 on the roll for number of wishes, and grants the entire party permanent fire resistance. Our DM even decrees that the resistance will stack with the Paladin and Fighter's tiefling fire resist and make the immune to fire, because hey, it's the Deck of Many Things, it's real fucking powerful.

The Fates - Reality's fabric unravels and spins anew, allowing you to avoid or erase one event as if it never happened. You can use the card's magic as soon as you draw the card or at any other time before you die.

Jaysus. The Paladin and I had agreed that we were drawing to save the sorcerer, and he decides that applies to his servant's draws also. We use this power to undo the Donjon draw that banished the sorcerer. So he appears alone, naked, in the desert where he had drawn the card. He starts walking, quickly becoming exhausted by the heat and his complete lack of any clothing, food, or water.

But he had declared he would draw four cards. We had undone the draw that banished him, and per the rules of the Deck of Many Things, he must draw all the cards he said he would. An hour after he reappears, a new card flies off the deck, and its effect immediately applies.

He's lying face down in the desert sands, when suddenly, a 4th level fighter appears, offering him a waterskin and some clothing. They believe that they have been drawn to him by fate, and will serve him loyally until death.

He is saved! But there's one more thing about the Knight card.

He controls this character. Next week, he's going to have them draw from the goddamn Deck.

#dnd #DnD 5e #Dungeons and Dragons #deck of many things

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shervonfakhimi · 4 years

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The Playoff Bubble Swing Characters

Remember playoff basketball? It may seem like forever ago since we saw out favorite teams and players duke it out on the hardwood in the postseason, but now we are back and get the chance to see them all return in the bubble set up in DisneyWorld in Orlando, Florida. These teams aren’t just here for shits and giggles either; they’re here to win a damn championship! With that in mind, I thought it’d be a good time to bring back a recurring article of mine, highlighting a few NBA characters who can swing the season. I wrote one before the 2019-20 season started in October, and wrote another before the season was paused in March. But now we’re in July heading into August, and things have certainly changed not just in the NBA, but the world at large. With that brings new characters and developments that can alter the course of the remaining season. Welcome back, NBA!

Alex Caruso PG/SG & Dion Waiters SG Los Angeles Lakers: In previous iterations of this column, Kyle Kuzma had been earmarked because of his potential for this Lakers team. While that still applies, things have changed for the Lakers since the season was halted. Avery Bradley opted not to play, choosing safety for his family and helping fight social injustice over basketball (sidenote: anybody who chose not to play, for whatever reason, has no qualms with me. I’m happy for Avery and all those who chose what they thought was right), and later on, Rajon Rondo broke his thumb and seems like the closest he could return is the 2nd round of playoffs. Suddenly, 44 guard rotation minutes per game just flew out the window for a title contender. As frustrating (and flat-out bad) as Rondo has been, any time you lose two rotation pieces, your margin for error decreases… or has it?

Kentavious Caldwell-Pope has started the three scrimmage games in the bubble for the Los Angeles Lakers, as he did when Avery Bradley missed 20 games earlier in the season and the Lakers went 17-3 in his absence. Though they will miss Bradley’s pestering defense and cutting offensively, Caldwell-Pope brings an offensive punch that fits the Lakers better. Whoever starts, in my opinion, is not the primary concern (just about anybody who plays next to LeBron James and Anthony Davis should kick-ass) more so than what the rest of the rotation looks like.

Rondo’s struggles this season have been well documented. He was about as frustrating to watch as being behind a driver looking at their phone at a stoplight. The Lakers have been outscored by 8.1 per 100 possessions in the 984 minutes Rondo has played, the majority of which playing with at least one of LeBron James and Anthony Davis. In Rondo’s stead comes the man of many nicknames, the living legend Alex Caruso, whose results have been the exact opposite of Rondo’s this season. Caruso has the 2nd best on/off net-rating on the team, trailing only LeBron James. In fact, when Caruso and LeBron share the floor, those two possess the best net rating among 2-man lineups in the entire league (+20.8)! It makes sense; Caruso is one of the best help defenders in the league. Not only that, but he’s a great individual defender when his number gets called upon, whether it’s a speedy guard like Damian Lillard or a bruising wing in the mold of Khris Middleton who tests Caruso’s defensive acumen. Caruso is also a smart off-ball player who routinely frees up players with screens and cuts. The area Caruso can improve upon is as a playmaker with the ball in his hands, but in his first attempt to showcase said improvement, he did, slicing up the Wizards to the tune of a 17 point, 6 assist, 5 rebound performance. Granted, everybody has sliced up the Wizards this season, but still. Caruso looked comfortable running the offense and showing he *can* create off the bounce, although it isn’t necessarily his strong suit. Luckily enough, the Lakers also brought in someone whose strong suit is exactly that.

Remember when Mark Jackson said on a broadcast that the Lakers didn’t have *anybody* to run pick and roll with? While ridiculous because he was talking about a team that employs LeBron bleeping James, he wasn’t totally off base. Outside of LeBron (who, while operating as the pick and roll ballhandler generates 0.98 points per possession), the most efficient pick and roll ballhandler on the Lakers this season has been… Anthony Davis at 0.92 points per possession. When your most ideal roll man is your second best ball-handler in the pick and roll, that seems like a sign for help. Enter Dion Waiters. In his last two seasons in Miami, Dion generated 0.88 (on about 5.5 possessions a game in 2017-18) and 0.86 (on about 2.6 possessions a game in 2018-19) points per possession while running the pick and roll, both marks better than any guard on the Lakers this season. The only Laker guard to run more than 2 pick and rolls per game this season? That would be Rajon Rondo, who has only been able to muster a paltry 0.78 points per possession while doing so, ranking inside the 38th percentile. Dion’s only played three scrimmage games in a Lakers uniform, but the results have been promising. He came off the bench to drop 18 points and six assists against the Wizards in their final scrimmage, which came on the heels of him icing their previous scrimmage against the Orlando Magic. No Laker guard on the roster has the size nor the scoring repertoire Waiters has and it isn’t close. I may not trust him with my Scooby Snack gummy packs, but I do trust Dion Waiters to get me a bucket.

Like I said earlier, 44 rotation minutes opened up with Avery Bradley’s opt-out and Rondo’s injury. It’s far from ideal, but it does give the opportunity for Alex Caruso and Dion Waiters to get more playing time. The Lakers were already a great team without Dion and Caruso frustratingly not getting more minutes. They have the potential to get even better if these guys deliver in the bubble.

Shake Milton PG Philadelphia 76ers: Maybe the most surprising and newsworthy development of the early-going of the bubble was the news that Shake Milton would be inserted into the starting lineup, moving Al Horford to the bench and, most importantly, shift Ben Simmons into the super-sized Draymond Green playmaking roll-man many hoped he’d be used as while Milton handles the ball. Early results looked promising before the season shut down. Milton was the most efficient playmaker running the pick and roll for Philly this season registering 0.88 points per possession. Milton really showed his skill set and potential as a three-level in his breakout performance against the Clippers before play was suspended. Philly surely had visions of Markelle Fultz becoming the scoring dynamo on the perimeter that could help mesh Ben Simmons and Joel Embiid’s games together; that duty was bestowed upon Jimmy Butler by default before he bolted to Miami. Shake Milton is the best they got now.

I was hoping for this move to activate the best version of Ben Simmons we could hope to see, but unfortunately, Simmons injured his left knee and will miss the entirety of the bubble season after only playing a handful of games. This just ratchets up the scrutiny and necessity placed upon Milton. Philadelphia still has enough talent to pull off an upset or two in the postseason as they look to shift the offense back to feeding Joel Embiid. But they still will need creation from the perimeter and Shake Milton is their best bet for it (though if Josh Richardson could continue to drop 34 points like he did against the Blazers, that would be cool!).

This is important because of the expectations heaped upon the Sixers headed into this season. They weren’t favorites but were a trendy pick to make the Finals. They were a shot away from being five minutes away from making the Eastern Conference Finals a year ago. They essentially chose Tobias Harris, Josh Richardson, and Al Horford over Jimmy Butler and JJ Redick last summer. Those contracts, alongside Simmons’ and Embiid’s are on the books for a while. This is essentially their team for the foreseeable future. Teams are already circling the Sixers like vultures in the sky or sharks in the water in the event one of the two stars hits the market. Does a lengthy postseason validate the notion the Sixers are better off without one of their stars? I personally don’t think you can properly evaluate this without one of them playing, but crazier things have happened before. The decisions made a year ago forced the Sixers into this position. Ideally, you’d like to avoid trading an All-NBA player. Hopefully, Shake Milton and crew won’t make them do so.

Michael Porter Jr. SF/PF Denver Nuggets: If there’s a concern with Denver’s sixth-best offense, it’s who is the one that’s going to just get them a bucket when the game slows down and Denver’s transition game is slowed down (the Nuggets are below average in effective field goal percentage late in the shot clock, per NBA.com). Nikola Jokic is great, but his primary read is to facilitate rather than get his. Jamal Murray can get hot, like he did at the end of his first game back against the Utah Jazz, but can also go colder than the ice planet of Hoth. Enter Michael Porter Jr. Michael Porter Jr. has the outlines of a three-level scorer already, though mostly that has come playing through Jokic as opposed to unlocking Porter Jr. as a ball-handler. He’s a strong cutter, quick riser coming off screens and dribble hand-offs, and a willing offensive rebounder and finisher with putbacks. He put all that together for a breakout 37 point performance against the Oklahoma City Thunder. He’s also a great stand-still shooter. For the season, Porter Jr. has shot 42.3% on catch-and-shoot jumpers on about two of such attempts per game, the second-best mark on the team amongst those who have played at least 30 games. That number has jumped up to 44.8% on more than double the attempts in the bubble!

If there’s a hold-up to get fully enamored with Porter Jr.’s game, however, it’s on defense. He just is flat bad there, no way around it. Granted, that can be expected for a young player in his first season, but that’s the reason why head coach Michael Malone has not yet unleashed him until he was forced to due to injuries and late arrivals amongst his players in the bubble. He shies away from contact and does not provide much, if any, resistance on the defensive end. Normally, I’d side against playing a defensive liability that much in the postseason, but I think the toothpaste is out of the tube on this one. Malone has to play Porter Jr. more. Denver is already in the middle of the pack defensively. They have alternative options in the event Porter Jr. struggles offensively. But his offense drastically raises the Nuggets’ ceiling. Even with his defensive limitations, he’s still been one of the most valuable players in the bubble, according to ESPN’s Kevin Pelton. It may take another year or so for the Nuggets to truly cement themselves as title contenders, but at least Michael Porter Jr. gives them a better shot.

Mike Budenholzer HC Milwaukee Bucks: The playoffs are all about adjustments. Opposing players and staffs have plenty of time to diagnose your strengths and flaws, what you do best and what needs improvements, so on, and so forth. Perhaps Mike Budenholzer gets too much of a bad wrap for the lack of adjustments he utilizes in playoff series; had Milwaukee not gotten cold against Toronto they likely had them beat after blowing a big lead in Game 3 to go up 3-0 on the eventual champions. On the other hand, once you get past Khris Middleton, the Bucks aren’t flush with as many knockdown three-point shooters as you think, and Toronto was able to take advantage of Milwaukee’s drop pick and roll coverage with Kawhi Leonard, Kyle Lowry, Pascal Siakam and Fred Van Vleet burying pull-up threes from beyond the arc. Budenholzer doubled down on his system, not only in that series but this season in general. Last season, Milwaukee gave up roughly 36 threes per game last season in both the regular season and the playoffs. This season? 38.6 threes a game. They’re very smart and selective about it too; obviously they’re not going to let Steph Curry fire at will, but, let’s say, for example, Aaron Gordon? Sure, take that shot, because if your shot isn’t firing, we’ll either live with you keep on firing or losing confidence and giving the ball up. It’s worked so far: they have the number one defense by a mile, were on a 70-win pace before Giannis got injured and the season abruptly ended, and have a net rating (+10.6) on par with the 2015-16 Golden State Warriors who won 73 games. The Bucks should be resounding favorites… yet the belief around teams they’ll likely face in the playoffs is not one of gloom and doom, but optimism the Bucks can be beaten. I believe they are the best team in the East. They should make it to the Finals. Obviously Giannis needs to bring an extra scoring punch that isn’t just him moving through people. But plenty will hinge on whether Budenholzer can get the most out of a team that is hitting its apex in the regular season when it counts the most. A lot is on the line, both this season and the years to come after.

Robert Williams III C Boston Celtics: The Celtics essentially have six starters. Brad Wanamaker is a solid guard to eat up 10-15 minutes. But all but Daniel Theis are guards or wings. They need more help down low. Daniel Theis can’t play the entire game. We all know Enes Kanter is not the answer, but maybe Time Lord is. He brings an added element to the Celtics on both sides of the floor. Though their primary players are strong and powerful drivers, sometimes it’s easier to just dunk the damn ball, and Robert Williams brings that vertical element to the Celtics’ offense. His potential as a rim protector is stuff Enes Kanter can only dream of being. It’s a small sample size, but Boston has been world-beaters when Robert Williams is on the floor. Rotations shrink, but Boston still needs one or two players to step in the frontcourt to help them navigate the gauntlet of big men (Joel Embiid, Al Horford, Marc Gasol, the Lopez twins, Bam Adebayo, Anthony Davis, Montrezl Harrell) they likely will have to face in the postseason. Williams can help buy Brad Stevens some time.

PJ Tucker PF/C Houston Rockets: I wrote about Houston briefly in my previous iteration of this column before the season ended, highlighting how the move to dislodge Clint Capela from the starting lineup helped give the Rockets’ offense, most notably Russell Westbrook’s offense, the tune-up it needed for it to, wait for it, lift-off (I’ll show myself out). However, it did come at a cost. From February 1st on, the Rockets ranked dead last in defensive rebounding percentage. What good is a defensive stop if you can’t finish off the possession and give teams another chance that they capitalize on? As the game slows down in the postseason, cleaning the glass becomes of utter importance, especially for a team that likes to run like Houston does, ranking fourth in the league in pace on the season, per NBA.com. That becomes a gift and a curse for the Rockets because their transition defense is quite porous. Houston allows the fifth-most points per possession in transition in the entire league, trailing only defensive stalwarts like the San Antonio Spurs, New York Knicks, New Orleans Pelicans, and Cleveland Cavaliers. Not only are they sloppy matching up, but they’re also just flat slow and bad getting back on defense. Just watch this play: by the time Toronto corrals the rebound, Pascal Siakam trails literally everybody on the floor, with three Rockets at least somewhat back on defense, yet no one accounts for him and he strolls right down the floor for the easiest dunk he’s ever had in the league. Don’t worry, Houston made this type of defense routine for them. This isn’t just PJ Tucker’s responsibility, but he’s highlighted because he is now the Rockets’ last line of defense and a leader on the team. He HAS to get more effort out of his team defensively, most notably his stars, James Harden and Russell Westbrook. Maybe it might not matter and Houston bends the math so far in their favor they shoot their way to an upset or two in the Western Conference. But until I see progress from them defensively, I’m not going to take them seriously as title contenders.

Bam Adebayo PF/C Miami Heat: I’m not sure Miami is the most dangerous team outside of the top three teams in the Eastern Conference (if they had another playmaker or two with north-south zip to go alongside Jimmy Butler and Goran Dragic, then it could get interesting), but what they do have is an antidote for Giannis Antetokounmpo. When Bam is on the floor with Giannis, Giannis’ numbers drop off the face of the earth compared to earth-shattering numbers Giannis has made the norm. Giannis has echoed Fetti Wap when Bam has shared the floor with him, shooting 17-38 from the field. 44.7% from the field is a far cry from the 54.7% mark Giannis set in the regular season. The film checks out too: Bam is one of the few guys in the league who is not only shifty enough to stick with Giannis but strong enough to not get muscled through. The idea of Giannis plus spacing typically works because the opponent doesn’t have anybody who can stay in front of the Greek Freak. But when you have a guy who can do that and make Milwaukee change course offensively? That could be a game-changer, especially if Budenholzer can’t adjust like what was noted previously. The Bucks are tied for the fifth-best offense in the NBA, scoring 112.3 points per 100 possessions; when Bam Adebayo is on the floor with Giannis, that number falls to 89.1 points. The Heat took both games the Bucks this season, though one of them was back in October. I still think Milwaukee would beat the Heat in a series should they meet in the postseason. However, I got a gut-feeling this is a matchup the Bucks would hope to avoid if they could, largely because of Bam Adebayo (I didn’t even get into Bam’s offensive game either).

COVID-19: The biggest variable of them all. It’s one thing that the NBA is re-starting the season; it’s another if they can finish it. As COVID-19 is surging across the country, most notably in the state and area the league is residing in Florida, can the league keep it out of the bubble? So far it has worked, as the NBA recently announced no players in the bubble have tested positive for the virus for the third consecutive week. The NBA has to keep the virus out for the league to continue, even if it means quarantining Lou Williams for getting wings named after him (an incredible flex, if I may add) or suggesting to Alex Caruso not to attend his sister’s wedding because it does not follow proper protocols. However, it could also not be the NBA’s choice to shut down. If the virus is still surging and Florida hospitals continue to get overrun by the virus, at what point does public perception turn on the NBA for hoarding tests that the public needs more? It isn’t an impossible outcome; it’s one part of what held the NBA back from returning sooner. At the end of the day: the reason they are in the bubble is because of the virus. If it infiltrates the bubble, then this whole experiment is in jeopardy (just ask the Miami Marlins how tenuous this can be). That means not only do NBA players have to do their job and follow proper protocols (I’m talking to you, Dwight Howard), but we as fans and American citizens have to as well to help flatten the curve. If we want our sports, we all have to do our part.

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