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sleepless-in-southlands · 1 month

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Little Light

Ao3

Summary: Luke's grievances with Mumbo's death games, Joe's definition of northerners, and Hermitcraft's climate. Content: Fluff, short & sweet; banter, friendship, any pronouns for joe hills, inspired by northern attitude, obligatory characters not CCs (except for luke, whose character Is a CC) Pairings: Luke Carder & Joe Hills, Lucky Jumbo (Mumbo Jumbo / Luke Carder) Notes: Happy 2 year anniversary lucky jumbo-ers! Part nine of Lucky Jumbo (part eight not yet posted; this fic works fine as a stand-alone in the LJ universe)

“I still don’t understand the appeal of this.”

“Were you ever into sports?”

“I’m a trading card game collector, Joe. I wasn’t into anything that had to do with physical exertion.”

“Then I wouldn’t imagine you’d be into this either.”

Luke laughed. He and Joe were seated in the grass, two chests set up next to them and holding their respective companions’ belongings. Across the way from them, Mumbo and Cleo were setting up a game of blow-up-the-end-crystal-with-eggs, the activity Luke had been calling into question. Luke had only half followed the series of events that had led to the challenge being declared- he and Mumbo had been doing their own thing when they ran into Joe and Cleo, also doing their own thing, and somehow that ended up with Luke and Joe casually playing bystander to what Luke felt was a type of war game.

“I think I’m still adjusting to living with so many adrenaline junkies.” Luke said, sighing in faux disapproval as he watched Mumbo pretend to pat the top of the highly sensitive purple bomb next to him, presumably as a way of taunting Cleo. “Adrenaline junkies who don’t even know what adrenaline is.”

“Doesn’t help that we’re not afraid of death!” Joe added cheerfully, her friendly way of reminding Luke that even if they (maybe) hailed from the same original world, she was still a hermit through-and-through.

“Don’t remind me.” Luke reassuringly placed a hand over his totem necklace, protecting him from that exact thing. “Not all of us get to forget self preservation.”

At that, Joe just grinned. Since discovering Joe knew what both dinosaurs and playing cards were, she and Luke had had a few conversations centered around Luke’s old world and what Joe knew of it. Those conversations had left Luke with two main take-aways: one, that Joe was no card game expert, and two, that Joe’s memory when it came to anywhere she’d been before (or after) Hermitcraft was- at best- hazy.

Which meant that where Luke was still unwilling to drop down more than a few blocks at a time after however long he had been on the server, Joe had shown up in Hermitcraft more or less completely ready to start respawning.

Unfair, in Luke’s (correct) opinion.

“So, Luke,” Joe said after a few minutes had passed, Mumbo and Cleo stalling out the main event in favour of practice egg throws and more attempts at intimidation, “where did you live, back in our old world? Since I’m guessing it wasn’t good ol’ Nashville, Tennessee.”

“You don’t remember what or where Australia is.”

“This is true.” Joe acknowledged. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t remember your locale! Unless it was Australia.”

Luke chuckled. “No, not Australia.” Luke assured her, taking a moment to think before he answered the actual question. His memory wasn’t poked through and torn up like Joe’s was, but that didn’t change the fact that it was rather… fuzzy.

With non-Inscryption related things, at least. Remembering the name of the country he once occupied took a minute of deep thought, but the coordinates that had led him to his doom were on the tip of his tongue without him even trying for them- not that latitudes and longitudes would tell someone who couldn’t remember all seven continents very much. “It was Canada. British Columbia- uh, Vancouver? Above the states.”

Joe accepted Luke’s jumble of locations- of varying levels of detail- with a thoughtful nod. “A northerner, then.”

“You remember cardinal directions, but not the continents?”

“What’s a bird got to do with directions?”

“I- we’ll come back to it.” Luke had learned, after an extremely complicated discussion about video games neither he nor Joe fully understood, that Joe recalling a certain term or concept didn’t always mean she really knew what it was or what it meant. “What do you think a ‘northerner’ is?”

“Someone… cold. Doesn’t see the sun much. Drinks from trees.”

Luke snorted. “That, uh, that sure is a definition there.”

Joe glanced at Luke, amused. “I take it I’ve missed the mark by a good deal?”

“More like… made some mental mistranslations.” Luke offered, also opting to turn towards Joe over continuing to watch the entertainment waste eggs. “‘Drinks from trees’ just sounds like a weird Canadians-and-maple-syrup joke, for one. And everything north of Tennessee was probably colder than you were, but that doesn’t mean we were all constantly cold. We had warm seasons too.”

“Nashville, Tennessee.” Joe corrected solemnly, as though Luke neglecting to name the city drastically changed the meaning of the sentence. “Is that why you don’t like Hermitcraft’s climate? Do you miss your northerner seasons?”

“Everyone had seasons, not just people in the north.” Luke was fairly certain that Joe was only pretending to not remember the basic idea of seasons, given her delivery of the question was akin to a comedian setting up a punchline, but he refused to let a chance to re-air one of his minecraft grievances go to waste. “And I don’t like the climate here because it’s unnatural. You have four types of weather, and three of them are just variations on each other.”

“Would you prefer we still have tornadoes?”

“Some days, Joe, I really don’t know.”

Joe laughed at Luke’s melodramatic tone. Of all the hermits, she had the best understanding of the things Luke missed about his life before Hermitcraft, but she still tended to stand with the rest of the server in their belief that Luke had some odd lifestyle preferences. “What about the sun, then? Did I at least get that right?”

“Well, given we weren’t really living in caves-”

Luke’s thought was interrupted by a sudden boom! With a jerk, he looked forward again, finding that the sound had come from one of the end crystals finally being blown up. A quick analysis of the scene found the crystal in question had been Cleo’s, with her side of the makeshift arena devoid of both it and Cleo; the undead hermit had reappeared in the bed they had put to the side for that exact reasoning, already sitting up and grumbling about Mumbo’s victory by the time Luke relocated her.

Mumbo’s end crystal was still bobbing on its stand, confirming that the match hadn’t ended in a double homicide. Luke moved his gaze from the beds on the side to his boyfriend, looking proudly victorious.

Luke couldn’t help but grin at Mumbo’s expression, how excited he looked to have (once again) won his self-invented death game. Luke knew that in a moment, Mumbo would collect himself, school his expression into one that managed to be both smug and humble, something more suitable for polite boasting. But first, there was the genuine reaction, with his bright eyes and shining moustache-smile, and Luke couldn’t look away.

“You were sayin’ something, Luke?” Joe prompted, only half-catching Luke’s attention. If Luke hadn’t been so distracted, he might’ve noticed the teasing edge to the question, Joe well-aware Luke had checked out from their conversation. “About the sun?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, northerners, very cold, never see the sun.” Luke responded without thinking, letting his brain piece together the first random segments from his former thoughts it picked up as he shoved himself to his feet. Mumbo had realized Luke was staring, his moustache-smile somehow growing even wider, and Luke was fairly certain he was required to go over and congratulate the danger-game athlete. “Listen, I have to, uh-”

Joe, who had also gotten onto her feet, waved Luke off before he could find a tactful way to phrase ‘kiss my boyfriend like it’s the only thing I know how to do.’ “I’ve got a consoling consolation speech to deliver to my fighter. You enjoy your sun, northerner.”

The fact that he was still very much being teased flew over Luke’s head with a mile of clearance, Luke offering a half-nod in acknowledgement as he hurried towards his light.

#lucky jumbo #luke carder #joe hills #mumbo jumbo #cleo's there too but only in the background #hermitcraft #inscryption #m.y funky words #joe's memory of earth is whatever makes the bit funniest <3 #hope y'all enjoy!! cheers to everyone still interested and/or invested in this crack series after a whole 2 years <3333

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soulsnoartyes · 7 months

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I never put him on tumblr besides anon so have a Luke to start off the october art nonsense

#my art #repostober #luke carder #lucky jumbo #the lighting is kinda weird #but the point is not to retake the photo and I do like the ominous energy #go read lucky jumbo <3

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faxeysama · 3 months

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Someone anyone please send me some shiny hunting luck! I've been hunting for a shiny jumbo Applin for what feels like forever, and every single one I've caught is just below the mark 😭

#pokemon scarlet and violet #i was lucky enough to get an Applin outbreak on Thursday #ive been using the same 2 spicy herba mystica over and over again #im so tired lol #it technically #probably #hasnt even been 72 (straight) hours yet since i started #but everytime i see “this is a serious big'un” i die a little inside #i caught 3 in a row last night and not one was jumbo #help #i just want to play the new granblue fantasy game...

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whosjunglejim4322 · 1 year

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Saccharine - E.M

Warnings ® smut! Fluff, soft bf Eddie<3, first time sex as a couple! Nasty IN LOVE smut bc this bitch is a hopeless romantic! Eddie is super sensitive, Established relationship, you stroke his dick, Eddie almost cums in his pants, lil bit of dry humping, this is incredibly self indulgent but u didn't hear that from me, overly descriptive bc why not

You shouldn't be nervous, really. It's just Eddie, who is your boyfriend of three months and twenty-six days. Who is sitting across from you on his creaky mattress criss-cross style, your knees touching. Your Eddie, who has two big hands flailing in the air as he goes on about the recent campaign, broad mouth etched into a whimsical smile, big eyes wondrous and full of excitement for the tale.

The bed bounces with his enthusiasm, and you draw closer to him with each syllable.

Your Eddie, who is doing nothing out of the ordinary, and who is as beautiful as ever in loose fitting plaid pyjama bottoms and a tattered black tee that exposes half of his collarbone and smudges of black ink - he doesn't even have to try, and perhaps these simple mundane realizations are what cause the flutter of wings in the pit of your stomach.

"And then Mike - hey, you okay?"

If it weren't for his vast change in expression, you truly wouldn't have realized what a trance you're in. Between the furrow of his unkempt brows and the amused but curious tilt at the corner of his mouth, you come back to earth. The weight of gravity settles in your bone marrow, as his calloused thumb quickly strokes your chin as if to remind you he is still here.

"I - yeah yeah, sorry I just," you grab his hand by the heaviness of his wrist, dragging it into your lap so you can stroke the back of his rough knuckles. "got distracted s'all."

Your eyes divert to where your fingers are joined and the sound of his airy, through-the-nose chuckle has more heat blossoming behind your ribcage, nudging at your organs.

"I'll stop with the D&D talk, know you hear enough about it from the kids. There's only so much dorkiness you should be subjected to, y'know?"

It's lighthearted, he's smirking and looking down at you with enough palpable fondness the apples of your cheeks feel like they're being stroked by a flame. Still, the implication that he may be bothering you in any way has an urgency filling your eyes. You shake your head.

"No, no that never bothers me Eds, don't be silly." The nickname makes his mouth dry, still, after three months and twenty-six days. You finally meet his glance. "You're just handsome, really handsome especially when you're talking about something you're passionate about and I just...yeah."

It's word vomit, messy and you feel like it makes no sense but then he squeezes your hand and you know that he reads between the nervous mumbo jumbo - you have no clue how you make him feel, do you?

"You're fucking cute." He breathes out earnestly, smoothing his grip upwards to your forearms and pulling you forward with minimal effort - right onto the stirdiness of his lap.

Your giddiness is the perfect portrait, your arms finding a resting place atop his broad shoulders. Curls tickle the tops of your arms and your wrists, and your thighs brace your frame by the slim of his taut waist. He can't help it, the giggles escaping his throat. The proximity is intoxicating for no reason at all.

"Can't believe this is our first time spending the night together, I'm so used to falling asleep on the phone with you that it really doesn't feel all that different." He smooths your hair out of your eyes, tucks it behind your left ear.

I get to touch her like this, he thinks to himself. His chest jostles underneath the muscle and bone.

"Yeah, except I get to fall asleep with you'n my arms, wake up with you in em' too. I'm one lucky son of a bitch, hmm?"

He's practically thinking out loud, but he's too far gone to feel shame. When you nuzzle your face against the warm nook of his neck, wet lips smiling against the flesh, his encapsulating arms squeeze you impossibly tighter. He buries his nose against the top of your head, inhaling the fresh scent of your shampoo. Your cheek grazes the side of his jaw as you meet him face to face, nose to nose.

He sees you trying to formulate words, a sentence, even a sound but none of it seems like a totally accurate way to express the adoration threatening to consume you from the inside out. You graze his cheek with your mouth, slowly, tentatively, and he hangs on with half an air full of lungs.

You suckle his bottom lip and he sighs into your mouth, the relief making him lightheaded. He kicks into gear and pushes back with an overlap of his mouth - hands wandering over the small of your back, to your soft lovehandles and upwards until his fingrtips have passed your jugular and he's holding your face as tenderly as you're holding his.

It's now, when you feel it - the growing firmness beneath he thin material of his bottoms. He tries to keep it at bay but it's damn near impossible, and the whimper, the fucking whimper you let out when his soft tongue touches yours from the warm cavern of your mouth - he couldn't stop it from twitching even if he wanted to. He's only a man.

And you're a menace. As new as this is, your body reacts to the prod in between your legs, underneath your crotch. You press yourself tighter to his frame, hips scooching against his hard-on in the process and he stiffens.

"Mmm, baby baby..." your pout is immediate when he breaks from your mouth, brows furrowed and lips a kiss bitten fuschia. For a moment, you think you've taken it too far too fast - he's stopped you from moving completely. Your whole body burns with a tingly sensation somewhere between shame and the aftershocks of arousal.

"Are you...are you okay? Did I do something wrong?"

You sound so sweet, it makes his lower belly ache among other things. He stifles a laugh brcause he knows it will only make you feel worse. Something wrong. Something wrong.

"Fuck no, I-sorry I just uh...almost..." He can't bring himself to say it, you guys haven't even been kissing for five whole minutes and here he is about to blow his load. When you realize how close his dark lashes are from kissing his cheeks, how his pupils have almost turned the whole of his irises onyx, you connect the dots.

Woah, you did that to him? That moth in your belly threatens to take flight, and without much thought, your mouth is moving before you can stop it.

"I wanna see."

Those are the only words your brain allows you to spit out. His chest has gone still, and you feel that twitch against your center again. Your thighs have begun to tremble.

"You wanna see...? My cock?" He shouldn't sound so incredulous. You're his girlfriend for christ's sake, but you are important to him. More important than he ever thought anyone could be, and so he has kept his lust at a minimum of 48% when he's around you for the most part. Save for intense makeout sessions.

"Yeah, I wanna...well I wanna know how to make you feel good."

He's worried for a moment that he's having another wet dream, but he's sure this is real life because he feels how warm you are against him and you are so close he can see his own reflection in your eyes. You toy with the shell of his ear and a chill ascends his spine.

"Sweetheart if you touch me m'not gonna last long." His skin is pink and scarlet, and he's gotten at least ten degrees hotter judging by the heat billowing off of the back of his neck. His adams apple bobs when he swallows.

"That's okay, really it is. You have nothing to be embarrassed about....I like it. Like that I make you feel that way. " You rake your fingers through the front of his hair, pushing it away from his pretty face. He checks your eyes again, needing confirmation.

"Are you sure? You don't have to do anything you don't want to." He gnaws on the inside of his plush mouth, tries to calm the animal inside of him that wants to fuck your brains out right now. He almost feels guilty just thinking about it, until you lean over to peck the side of his stubbly chin, fingertips grazing his taut belly.

"Yes, really wanna."

There is a curious, nervous anticipation in the crinkle underneath your eyes.

"Kay' baby, explore all you want." The boyish smirk he gives is enough to have that knee buckling tingling sensation coming back full force as he presents himself to you like this. Does he seem as pulled together and totally not overly nervous as he thinks he does? Probably not.

His arms depart from your body, ribs expanding as he reclines on his palms. Tendons flex and stretch underneath the black bats and fuzzy layer of hair atop his forearm. You swallow, intimidated by the beauty of the boy.

You find the courage to finally move off of his lap so that you can take him all in, and the bulge of his cock swipes the underside of your thigh as you slide off.

You don't know where to touch first. That's a lie, your hands almost instinctively slip underneath the hem of his old shirt, where that dark thatch of hair trails under his belly button. He's soft, so soft it's unreal, he is velvet and delicious scarring and beauty marks. His tummy convulses underneath your hand.

He watches you with complete fixation. You have your bottom lip tucked between your teeth and you don't even realize it, all perched and pretty in front of him. He closes his eyes when you explore his sides, over the planes and arches and past the small stretch marks by his chest.

You can't ignore it anymore, the tent that has formed at his crotch and continues to throb with each passing touch.

The blunt of your nails rake down the soft plaid covering thick thighs, and he takes this sharp breath that has you glancing up at him with heavy eyes.

"So pretty...Eds you're so pretty." You say it ardently, your voice small and weak. An arm reaches down, strong but gentle as he strokes the back of your plush cheek with his ring covered knuckles.

"Can't fucking believe...can't believe you're mine, finally. Shit." He's almost murmuring to himself again, on the verge of cardiac arrest. Maybe he's losing his mind, maybe this is heaven.

Then your palm presses against the thick of his cock where it's bulging out, and his thighs spasm.

"Oh, oh." He's all curses and praises, giving you encouraging glances each time you look up at him to silently ask for guidance. You move your hand up and down what you assume is his shaft, and he keeps his hips from bucking into your touch. He feels thick, and the back of your mouth starts to water.

Without warning you're hooking your fingers into his waistband, and he lifts his hips in compliance so that you can pull them down to his mid thigh. He has no time for nerves anymore. Any fear he previously had about what his dick looks like, or what you'll think of it, is stripped along with his clothing. You're looking at him with too much love for him to be insecure - and that takes him by surprise the most.

At this point his checkered boxers are just in the way, and you take it upon yourself to pull those down too. A thud hits his belly.

And really, you should've known. He's big. Not because he's impossibly long, his size is above average but he's thick - the tip iridescent with precum, the same shade of plum as his lips underneath the slick sheen. He is slightly curved upwards, a prominent vein decorating the underside parallel to his frenulum. It's pretty, just like the rest of him. He's neatly trimmed, which is the most surprising part if you're honest - but nothing about Eddie could ever be displeasing to look at.

Your mouth is parted with this expression of surprise, and Eddie almost can't believe what this is doing for his ego.

"Woah." Is all you say, transfixed when you reach out to grasp the appendage. He hisses through his teeth when your small hand finally grasps it, so fucking warm and so gentle it's almost maddening. You both feel it, the invisible weight that has settled in his small, messy room.

The weight of being alone, together, all night and all of tomorrow afternoon while his uncle Wayne is away on a business trip that is probably more lucrative than what he leads on - but Wayne has never been one to boast or speak about things like that out loud. Says it'll jinx the whole thing.

The feeling hits you first, as you find this foreign courage to lean over and dribble spit over the slit of his cock. He gasps, watching the glob of saliva drip down the front of his dick till it's soaking into the curls at his pubic mound.

"Is this okay?" You already know the answer but you ask anyways, taking more pride than you should at the expression on the pretty metalheads face. He nods his head fervently, unable to respond right away.

You twist your palm, spreading your spit further until his whole head is covered and you're able to stroke him with no resistance.

"Fuuuck, yes. Yeah, that's so good baby." He's panting as you begin to properly jerk the tip of him off, the sounds in the room too lewd for you to handle. A squelchy feeling has developed between your thighs, led by each filthy groan that leaves your boyfriend's throat.

Then you're looking at him through fluttery lashes and a gone expression, with your chest rising and falling almost as rapidly as his and thick fingers grasp your wrist quickly, rougher than anticipated.

"Sorry, just - close."

Seeing his hand blanket yours over his cock is doing something to you. You know his palms like your own, hold them more than you look at your own, and yet right now such a sweet thing has never been more provocative.

"Shh, no more apologizing," you lean over and he meets you in the middle. The kiss is sloppy this time, evidence of the maddening desire taking him over from the inside out.

"Not fair," his voice is strained through your mouths ministrations. "Got me all worked up and you're sitting there neglected." He smiles and his tongue strokes your bottom lip. You shudder as that heat comes in an overwhelming wave.

He's gripping the back of your neck now, properly hungry and your hand continues its ministrations between your bodies, that wet sound prompting a shared groan from the both of you - intensifying the feeling. His nose is scrunched against your cheek from the vigour of his kisses.

"You can undress me."

He doesn't waste time once you've granted him verbal permission, and with an exhale you're being tipped over onto your back, breathing in the weight of him as nimble and eager fingers pull his tee shirt over and off your body.

"Jesus," He whines, and you're captivated by the look on his face. It's impossible not to feel flustered.

"Can I-" you don't let him finish.

"Yes, please touch me." You're just as fucked as he is, arching your chest upwards and into the warm, all encompassing mass of his palm. He stifles a groan, cock bobbing up and down in the space between you two, dribbling with a bead of pre arousal. You feel like you're losing your mind.

Eddie short circuits for about five whole seconds flat, and he can't concentrate. He makes a bee - line to your chest, plush lips sucking your swollen nipples into his mouth. A gasp and a pulse of your poor clit later, and your fingers delve into his curls like they'll keep you here in this moment forever.

He's sloppy, moving between the valley of your breasts to the other one, leaving trails of spit across your flesh.

"Eddie, that - that feels so good, can't - mmph." You're a mess. How are you such a mess? He's a phantom, a head of hair across your sternum until he glances up at you with saliva soaked lips and red cheeks and a sweaty forehead.

"Sweet girl, oh god I can't believe..." All you taste is him, the words being uttered between the space when he forces himself to breathe. "can't believe you're all mine, wanna make you feel so fucking good. Give you anythin' you want."

He lies his full weight on you, and through the thin sleeping shorts you've got on, his cock beckons you with throbs and weeps. You feel drunk off of him, every sense surrounded by Eddie. Eddie. Eddie.

His shampoo from two days ago, the old spice lingering under his arms, the natural scent of his skin, the sweetness of his breath and the perspiration that's formed in little beads on his upper lip. He's all but devouring you, lust and admiration for the angel beneath him taking over any sense of importance regarding anything else.

Your heels dig into the back of his bum, knees pulling inward so that his hips come clashing into yours. Your fingernails claw on the material covering his back, taking it upon themselves to pull it over his head. He's beaming like a kid in a candy store at your eagerness, eyes all crinkly underneath.

"Want me to grab a rubber now?" He mumbles between the sloppy kisses, hoping you can't hear the hitch in his throat at the prospect of this finally happening.

"Mhmm, yes." It feels just as surreal for you.

He whines as he departs, reaching over across your head to pull open his bedside drawer and ungracefully tear open the new box of condoms. His eyebrows are furrowed, arms flexing with intensity from his excitement. He groans out of frustration, and you giggle, grasping his thick forearm.

"Let me help baby." You reach in the drawer for him and pull the box out, finishing the rip he'd made and pulling out a metallic row of squares. You tear one at the perforation and hand it to him, grinning at the entire situation. He huffs and rests his forehead between the valley of your breasts.

"What would I do without you?" He mutters, matching your expression when he lifts his head back up and pushes forward to kiss you on the tip of your nose.

"Not have sex, I suppose." You bite back with no hint of malice, only an insurmountable level of love and he sees it shimmering everywhere around you. His girl. His.

"You're somethin' else, sweetheart." He mouths the side of your face, across your jaw and underneath your ear.

You feel like you're in a psychological limbo, in a world between consciousness as he sits back on his haunches and lifts his shirt off of his body from the back of his collar. That may be a dramatic sentiment to many, but it's fitting.

He does it so casually, throws his shirt to the side with the rest of discarded clothing and stray items that live on his bedroom floor. You feel weak in the knees when he tears the condom package and pulls out the slippery rubber, unraveling it before bringing it down to his cock.

You watch his face the way his pink tongue darts out and nips the tip of his tongue, brows furrowed in concentration and arousal as he fits the condom down his thick shaft. You watch his biceps twist, his taut abdomen clench, the black ink coming alive with the ministrations of his muscles underneath.

When he meets your eyes again, you look completely overtaken with desire, eyelids heavy and breath bated. Your pebbled nipples stand at full attention, mimicking his dick and Eddie hooks his fingers underneath those infuriatingly sexy shorts of yours so that he can get rid of them.

You're not wearing underwear. Of course you aren't. Your entire existence is specifically designed to test the bounds of his composure, of his strength. The gold room lighting from his lamp illuminates your body and your shy thighs only part when he's placing his palms between them, slowly encouraging them to allow him a peek or two.

You reach out to stroke his arms as he separates your legs, his jaw hanging ever so slack, cock twitching just a few centimeters away from your opening.

"Fucking hell...you're so goddamn pretty." He strains, swallowing hard as he touches you with hesitant hands, as if he's scared to break you. Your hips lift, just enough to make contact with the tip of his dick and you whine. It's a sound so sweet he almost whimpers himself.

"Please, Eds. I want you inside of me. Please."

His stomach tightens and he crawls over you once again, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

He maintains eye contact, breath fanning your mouth as he slips an arm between your bodies and grips his shaft, lining it up with your entrance. Your thighs lift towards your chest, ankles stationed at his waist, and you feel the welcome intrusion of his tip as it passes your slick labia.

You both take a breath in, your fingers needing a vice and moving to the back of his neck as he pivots his hips forward and slips himself into the tightness of your cunt. The stretch causes you to hiss, both in pleasure and pain.

"You okay? Let me know if I need to stop." He grunts, kissing your chin.

"M'okay, don't you dare stop."

His eyelids flutter in tandem with yours, a choked moan leaving his throat as he continues to push himself in, till he's nudging against the soft roundness of your cervix and his balls are resting against your ass.

It feels right. Having him this deep, this close.

You shudder nuzzling your face against the bicep that holds him up. You kiss the skin there and he groans, dragging himself back out and then back in. Your whole body jostles with the movement.

"Jesus Christ, how do you feel s'fucking good? I don't - I can't, fuck." He's a slur of words, beginning to form a steady rhythm. Your moans are more like squeaks the faster he goes, increasing the lewd, sticky sounds between your legs that squelch with each drag and pull of his cock.

"Eddie...E-eddie." Your words are hiccuped from the impact, his hair dangling in your face, tickling your cheeks. His belly is pressed right against yours, the curls at the mound of his pelvis pressed against yours. He lets out this pained sound and goes to bury his face in the crook of your neck.

"My name, fuck say it again. Say it again." It's muffled but you can hear it right underneath your ear, his lips a soft vibration against your flesh. You feel so full, it's hard to speak at all. To say anything other than his name. So you recite it like it's the only words you know.

"Eddie Eddie Eddie Eddie." They're all punctuated with a whimper that starts from your diaphragm and crawls it's way out of your throat, pistoned by his hips and their grueling ministrations. Skin against skin can be heard from down the park, you're convinced, with how he's fucking you.

Eddie is fucking you. Your boyfriend, Eddie, is fucking you.

"Ohhhh, god, please." You cry out, heels digging into his back, hands splayed across the broad expanse of his shoulder blades. Every breath that passes his lips is followed by a grunt, a groan, a sound that is so close to agony and even closer to toe curling pleasure.

Each stroke of his cock inside of you feels like a pull into his being, and you get frustrated with the fact that you can't see his face, tugging at the back of his neck.

When you look up at the boy above you, reality, for once, feels like the most beautiful thing you've ever endured.

He's flushed, all sweat and shades of pink and red. His eyes are glassy, mirroring yours in the way that it almost looks like he could shed a tear. You move his sticky bangs from his forehead and Eddie is sucker punched in the gut with a wave of adoration.

"Oh, sweetheart," he leans down, slowing his thrusts so that he can kiss you steadily, purposefully. Somehow he feels deeper this way impossibly so, and he nips your bottom lip when you flutter around him. "didn't mean to...to not show you attention m'sorry, just...you feel so good. S'like heaven."

He's half sober half drunk on your pussy and it's so fucking endearing. Neither of you can make out a coherent sentence.

"Keep - keep going, just like that, ohhh." You glance down between your bodies and somewhere behind your organs a warmth, teetering unbearable, flutters throughout your limbs. His arms shake with the fight to hold himself up, until he doesn't anymore, and slips his hands underneath you till they're sandwiched between the mattress and your back. Snug, safe, he engulfs you.

His thrusts are deep and slow now, meaningful instead of mindless bunny fucking. Which, he's not opposed to, but you're you. He wants to fuck you like he might not ever get the chance to again.

"I love you, I love you." He whimpers against the crook of your shoulder. You hold him with the same ferocity that he's holding you, staring up at the ceiling and the stars that blanket your vision instead of the fan above.

"I love you too, fuck, Eddie."

He makes this noise, it's almost pathetic. Petulant. That coil holding you tight, snaps and all at once you're gasping, thighs a deadly grip around his waist.

"Cu-Cumming, I'm cumming." Your walls flex and spasm around his length and Eddie thinks he might pass out. You're still twitching and whining his name with his balls are emptying, when he's spurting into the condom, nudging your cervix.

"Fuck, fuck just like tha- ohhh fuck." He thrusts like he's fucking his cum into you, like he's filling your womb up and making you his forever. He made you cum. He's never felt this high before, and he's a fucking drug dealer.

It's a mixture of panting and the thud of your shared heartbeat for what feels like eternity and one split second. You feel his lips peppering soft, gentle kisses along your jugular, and your fingers trace lines up and down his warm back as his cock softens inside of you.

He rubs his cheek against you, and your fingers pull his hair away from his pretty face. He's looking at you with so much love you could burst again.

"I love you so much." He speaks tenderly, softly, for once. It's scary and breathtaking all at once. The tip of his nose rubs yours, your smiles a reflection of the other.

"I love you too, Munson."

And you do. You really fucking do.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x you #joseph quinn #stranger things #stranger things x reader #joseph quinn x reader #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson has my heart

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acanvasofabillionsuns · 2 years

Text

it's been a While since i've done a good things post. hi again <3

a fic i've been YEARNING for just updated and i binged the whole thing again and y'know it's okay, i'm fine. the fact that i'm going to bed immediately after instead of reading a different fic is fine too.

homemade cake!! with buttercream frosting!!! v good and also cute

also i crocheted a hello kitty keychain as a gift and i was a bit nervous about it but she put it on her backpack like immediately :]]

talked a bit with eris!!! always nice talking with nigh <3

also i listened to music with percy for a bit and !!!! it was so nice and fun <33 epic percy and meri siblings moment <3

got to give fic recs to rac a;ldkfjs;jf;alej

also watched kris stream a bit and through that kind of semi-hung out with kris, rem and rac it was neat i had fun

i have had a character rotating in my mind for MONTHS and earlier today i had a breakthrough about them and i'm !!!

i've got a bag of dark chocolate almonds that i've been eating a little handful of every day and mmmmmm they are so tasty. they've got some fancy salt on them but not a lot, it's great

jammed out to some good music!! both with percy and on my own :^)

had a nice conversation with ancer where sae told me about characters and i vibe checked them fakldj;asf

listened to taz for the first time in a bit!! i'm on graduation now! did not enjoy this episode as much as the other ones but i think that's bc it's been a bit and bc

my brain has recently bitten onto fantasy high from dimension 20 and shook it around in its teeth. which is fun but also like. other stuff too please brain kdjfs;lkdjf

oh also i woke up p well!! like sometimes i'll be sleeby and keep pressing snooze but today i got up p easily :]

OH WE WIN THESE I GOT OIZYS TO AGREE TO WRITE A LUCKY JUMBO FIC BASED OFF A PROMPT I HAD

i'm so excited ksdjf;lsjfl;jsenfa :DD

#okay there might be more but i'm ending on lucky jumbo <3 #it's a good good good good good good morning #abcdefghijklmnop queue #meri monologues #the character i've been creating btw is a dnd character and i finally figured out that a sorcerer class would work best for them <33 #oh another thing #this happened the other day actually but i want to share aksdfja;lskej i was taking the long road to coming out to an irl friend #bc they didn't know what neopronouns are so i wanted to explain it to them first #and THEY actually came out to ME before i could to them kjdl;fjas;ekja;k

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kkolg · 1 month

Note

I got a stupid prompt for you

*N and uzi in the building cannot find their meeting room and there 3 floors the main one the upper and lower N and uzi running*

N: oh look how lucky were in the 'big jumbo one'

*uzi caught off guard and started laughing*

Uzi: you're soo stupid

N: its a talent

Context: N calls the main floor the 'Big Jumbo One'

Pfff yeah that definitely seems like an N thing to do

#k’s rants #ask #md #md future au #murder drones #serial designation n #uzi doorman #nuzi #sorry if you wanted me to draw this btw🧍‍♀️#Not taking requests atm😔<\3

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archangeldyke-all · 3 months

Note

(I honestly don’t know if my asks are getting in atp but im just gonna keep resending them if they get removed because I’m not a fucking wimp 🗣️‼️‼️)

______

Wait no because what if Sevika had a group chat with her coworkers and shit (Smeech, Ran, Renni, Silco, Finn, Signed, Dustin and ofc her lovely gf <3)

And at least once every two weeks there is ALWAYSSS chaos

Like; Sev and Finn could be arguing and then Ran pulls up with the fucking Curse of Ra 💀or Renni just uses the gc as a shopping list since she forgot to open notes and everyone is just like “Ren, wrong app 💀” or someone points out shit from her list HSHJERJD

PLEASE i'm gonna do the roach 'verse gang, because i think it would be insane.

men and minors dni

silco: if any of u have spare cash on u, bring it to my office and leave it on my desk. i'll pay u back tomorrow.

you: jinx, get off of silco's phone.

lock: fuck, that was jinx? i put ten on his desk!

sevika: idiot.

ran: LMAOOOO IDIOT

thieriam: shit, i put twenty bucks on his desk too.

you: jinx! how much fucking money did you steal?!

deckard: she got me too, that fucker.

ran: you are all so fucking stupid.

singed: just checked the office, the cash and jinx are nowhere to be found.

deckard: fuck!

lock: fuck

thieriam: oh fuck, silco's never gonna pay us back.

silco: no, i'm not. you should all know better by now. i would never use 'u' to type 'you'

ran: this is fucking hilarious

sevika: babe, what's for dinner?

you: you, if i'm lucky ;)

deckard: HELLO?? this is the gc??

sevika: stfu deckard.

ran: no but fr, what's for dinner, roach?

you: idk, i'm thinking chicken chili?

lock: ooooh, with cornbread?

you: sure, if you guys want.

lock: yes please!

ran: yes!!!

deckard: oh, yum.

singed: fuck, roach are you free?

you: yeah?

singed: i just sliced my hand open. can you come stitch me up?

you: lmao, i'm on the way.

ran: roach to the rescue!

sevika: put a heart in the chat if i'm the stupidest one in the gang.

deckard: <3

thieriam: <3

ran: LMAOO <3333333

you: <3

you: jinx, give sevika her phone back.

sevika: i'm gonna kill her someday.

sevika: babe, you put a fucking heart in the chat????

you: cant talk, stitching singed up.

silco: i'm sorry for jinx's behavior today. she's upset that she doesn't have her own phone yet.

lock: it's no fuckin fair! u guys get to talk all the time and i have to steal a phone to be in on the chat!

silco: jinx!

you: lmaoo jinx you can come play on my phone.

lock: fine.

lock: shit, i didn't even notice she took it until she gave it back.

sevika: she's a fuckin' weasel.

you: whats up assholes?

ran: hey jinx. what'd you buy with your stolen money?

you: more flamers. a few candy bars. a new jumbo plushy.

lock: you wanna share your candy?

you: no.

silco: jinx, at least share with the man you stole from.

you: ugh fine. they're in the kitchen lock.

lock: sweet!

thieriam: some of us are trying to work, can we please not abuse the work groupchat for not-work purposes

you: put a heart in the chat if thieriam sucks ass!

sevika: <3

ran: <3

deckard: <3

silco: jinx, what did i tell you about that kind of language?

you: i'm not jinx i'm roach.

thieriam: fuck off jinx, roach would never be so mean to me.

lock: <3

you: effective. Power. لُلُصّبُلُلصّبُررً h ॣ ॣ ॣ

across from where you're finishing up singed's stitches, deckard gasps down at his phone.

"you fuck!" he exclaims, looking up at jinx where she's sitting beside you. she giggles.

"what'd you do this time?" you ask. she laughs and hands you back your phone, before running out of the lab.

"she shut all our phones down!" he says. "how the fuck did she do that?" he cries.

upstairs, you hear ran and lock's shared groan.

you chuckle and shake your head. "jinx you stupid fuck!" sevika roars from the second floor. you giggle.

"i better go handle that." you say, finishing your final stitch. singed chuckles.

"you better." he says as jinx's squeal floats down to the lab.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @ellabslut @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner @shimtarofstupidity @love-sugarr @chuucanchuucan @222danielaa @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther @gr0ssz0mbi3 @ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @leomatsuzaki

#sevika #sevika imagine #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #sevika x you #soft sevika

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monggay · 2 years

Text

mumbo jumbo :] haha he glows in the dark and emits radiation like if a specific 10% of his body was replaced with redstone

aka mumbo design from my hc x the mechanisms au and as usual, rambles under the cut !

also see: pearl as gunpowder tim, gem as drumbot brian, and cleo as ashes o'reilly !

so like the mechanisms are a band but they all have characters that they play and have lore and tell stories (theyre immortal space pirates who roam stars in the starship aurora having fun violence and more violence etc etc) GHSJHKFSH im not gonna ramble abt them anymore lol @lucky-sevens is a very good resource for all things mechs + check out lyric vids of their songs on here + their official site

SO BASICALLY, mumbo right? i know i said hed be nastya and he does share some stuff w her but then ppl reminded me of who would be aurora and what of nastyas backstory and i realized tango would be a better fit for those details of nastya so (ex princess tango + starship impulse !!! zed is the ships doctor btw n his mechanism is his brain) i decided to mix n match stuff from different characters n change whatevers, so now about mumbo:

his mechanism is his blood ! which is replaced with redstone :] this makes him radioactive, and also glow red. hes also like, a powered redstone circuit or w/e they are, and can power things by touching them/being near them even. i think redstone would be terrible for circulation but also that i think redstone itself would be pretty hot, being radioactive and all (especially powered redstone)

the coat + gloves etc are for hiding the glow (and also maybe some of the radiation??? i cant imagine that would be very good for normal people), and the scarf is for his head when he goes out n such

the mustache is fake. yeah. mumbo got meched young and did not get a mustache u_u

i think theyd have a backstory kinda like ashes, mumbo worked for the governemnt as a scientist/weapons expert but double crossed them for the rebellion or smth and got assassinated/sabotaged via lab safety violations

ok thats all i got for now abt mumbo

im kinda thinkin if ill keep the original number of 9 mechanisms or if ill add more hermits, i want other mcyts to be album characters and such, with one smp focused on one album maybe, but i dont know if i wanna add hermits as albums characs or as more mechs. maybe them as non-mechs immortals? like king cole or lyf or briar etc. thoughts on etho as carmilla tho?

btw i read everthin ppl say on my posts!!!!! i love all of ur hermitmechs ideas !!!!!!!! im grateful for each and everyone even the keysmashes u_u <3 all three characters in this au so far is now tagged under #hermitmechs!

#the mechanisms #mumbo jumbo #mumbo jumbo fanart #maeart #hermitmechs #just remembered that this was what i originally wanted to put up for mechtober prompt crossover so here u go :)!#u can still rly tell lmao that i just put what i remember of nastyas outfit on him lol #next ive got sort of cleo as jonny/ashes or false as marius ish :]]]]#this ones for all you mumboboys out there

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devilscastle69 · 17 days

Text

jumbo pork (t/diapt)

hi this is a story that contains emet! please scroll if not interested <3

u/rushihara gets food poisoning.

Ashiya gratefully ate Maou’s leftovers from the dinner his boss had treated him to, and Urushihara glared daggers at his own meal. The taste of the pork bowl was especially dull and practically inedible tonight, but there was no avoiding it unless he wanted to starve. After the recent incident where Urushihara had fallen for a buy-up scam, Maou had canceled his credit card and had not left his wallet unattended since, so there was no option of ordering delivery later.

Urushihara screwed up his face as he swallowed down another bite. These bowls were starting to taste worse and worse each time Maou picked one up from Sugiya. The quality hadn’t been great to begin with, and the fact that it was barely lukewarm wasn’t helping.

“Dude, there’s gotta be another cheap food y’all could pick up next time,” Urushihara complained, picking at the contents of the bowl.

“Silence, ingrate! You will eat what you are given.” Ashiya glared at him from the other end of the room.

“Easy for you to say.”

“It was the only premade meal in our price range at Sugiya,” Maou said with a sigh, “And you complained that I bring home too much Mg R’s just the other day.”

“Don’t humor him, sire. He’s lucky to have anything to eat at all given his lack of work ethic and basic decency.”

Urushihara rolled his eyes as he stomached another mouthful of the rice. The aftertaste was odd and he gave up on the meal and put the lid back on the bowl. He rose to throw it away, but Ashiya blocked the garbage can with his body.

“You will finish that for breakfast. We cannot afford to waste food in this household.”

Urushihara rolled his eyes, but since he was in no position to protest, he put it in the middle shelf of the fridge. The idea of eating more of it tomorrow made his stomach churn.

Ashiya and Maou continued their conversation, mainly about Maou’s coworkers and the dinner itself. All of the noise was beginning to give Urushihara a headache and so he retreated to the closet for the rest of the night. He pulled up his bootleg copy of Crossing Animals: Island Living and put his headphones on to drown out the chatter of the two demons.

He relaxed for a few moments as the music started. He only completed a few basic tasks before he started to fall asleep.

***

When Urushihara awoke after midnight, cheek pressed up against his keyboard, bangs soaked with sweat and plastered to his skin, he knew immediately something was wrong. The pain in his stomach was comparable to when he was bleeding out from the wounds inflicted by the hero herself, and for a brief moment he wondered if he’d been stabbed in the middle of the night. That thought was immediately put on hold as he recognized that the pain had come with a level of nausea so intense that he couldn’t deny its inevitability.

He was gonna puke.

Frantically, he opened the closet door, fell in the process, and scrambled over to the bathroom to collapse in front of the toilet and retch. He trembled as his alleged meal from earlier forced its way out, tasting twice as wretched in its horrifying new form. His throat stung as he emitted a sound of misery with every passing wave of nausea.

The horrible bitter taste and smell only fed into the miserable cycle of vomiting until nothing was coming out of him other than the strangled noises of his dry heaving. He flushed away the evidence, but it did little to quell the nausea and he was doing little more than screaming into the toilet. Now that the adrenaline had depleted, he was left panting and moaning in pain as he released his grip on the porcelain to clutch his abdomen.

“Urushihara? You alright?”

“Wait, sire, let me check on him. He could be contagious.” Ashiya entered the bathroom. Urushihara hadn’t had the time, never mind the frame of mind to lock the door. He hesitated for a moment before kneeling next to him and pulled back his long hair and held it in a single hand.

“What’re y’doing?” Urushihara slurred. He sniffled and wiped his nose with toilet paper. His eyes were watering, though he hadn't been crying.

“Come on now, you don’t want to get it in your hair.”

Urushihara shivered as he continued dry heaving, spitting out foul-tasting saliva. “N-Nothing left. A-ah, dude, don’t touch me.”

“You have a fever.” Ashiya sighed, withdrawing his hand from the fallen demon general’s sweaty forehead. “He’s burning up.”

Finally, Urushihara slumped into himself, unintentionally leaning into the taller man. The body heat was both welcome and nauseating, though arguably, everything seemed nauseating at the moment, from the light that’d just been turned on, to the sounds of their voices, to the feeling of his clothes. “Dude, just…” He shifted away and curled up on his side and laid on the bathroom tile and mumbled that he was tired.

“I don’t think we have any medicine,” Maou said, returning from his search through the kitchen cabinet. “What do you think it is?”

“Perhaps it’s the flu, but…” Ashiya hesitated before finally saying, “I’d bet on food poisoning.” The two exchanged a grave look as the realization set in.

“Damn, y’all poisoned me?” Urushihara mumbled from the floor. He’d curled into a fetal position, trying to press as much of his skin to the floor as possible. “With a cheap pork bowl?”

“Not on purpose!” Maou said a little too loudly. He rubbed the back of his neck and gave him an apologetic look. “C’mon, if you’re done puking, you should lie down properly.”

Apparently satisfied with lying on the cool bathroom tiles, Urushihara shook his head. “Let me die in peace.”

“Nobody’s dying,” Ashiya muttered. “But you can’t sleep in here.”

As soon as Urushihara started to protest, Ashiya carefully picked him up.

“Dude!” Urushihara winced, as if shouting had sapped him of all energy. “Put me down, I’ll get up when I feel like it.”

“Stop struggling like a petulant child,” Ashiya admonished, laying him on the tatami. Maou retrieved a blanket and makeshift pillow and Ashiya wet a cloth to place over his forehead. Once Urushihara seemed to be settled, the other two men lowered their voices to decide on their next move.

“There’s a store open twenty-four hours, I know there’s not really a cure for this, but I’ll get you some drinks and stuff that’s easy to eat when you’re up for it, okay?”

“Not Sugiya,” Urushihara mumbled, his stomach making a noise of protest.

Maou’s next sentence died on his tongue and he exhaled in a nervous laugh. “C’mon, we can’t have you getting dehydrated.” He patted Urushihara’s head gently and was met with a glare. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I guess I know why those bowls were so cheap now…”

Ashiya shook his head. “Disgraceful. Be grateful, our benevolent king is offering to venture out in the middle of the night to help cure you.”

“Be grateful I can’t shove my leftovers down your throat,” Urushihara muttered under his breath.

“You little wretch!”

“Please don’t kill each other while I’m gone,” Maou said with a soulless smile.

“As you wish.” Ashiya bowed.

“Honestly, death would be better.” Urushihara turned to his side and brought the blanket up to his cheek.

#warning for emet #emet #t/diapt #u/rushihara #whump #fever #food poisoning

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sleepless-in-starbucks · 18 days

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reasons i cant make jokes about characters' genders: it will not be a joke for very long

#the cryptid speaks #the cryptid speaks in tongues #case in point:#lucky jumbo <3 #tbh this is about All versions of luke lucky carder inscryption but just like especially his lj variant that I control the canon to #bc yeah . 'what is luke' / 'doomed thanks for asking' Was a joke . was #i thought about it too much Ok and ive come to the conclusion that guy Does Not have time for a solid gender identity there are Horrors #which Then lead to me thinkin about lj luke and going . ok so he's like joe great thanks for telling me this Now luke #cant believe im adding a gender fic to the lj roster (believes it very much and isnt even really that surprised)#anyways . fic where litch rally the entire hc server cottons on to luke not being cis before he does . bc that's my oblivious blorbo #luke mentions smth to mumbo about it being cool how chill the hermits are with joe's pantheon of pronouns #mumbo thinks he's trying to Hint that he's the same bc he's not comfortable with saying it directly #so mumbo tells boatem and boatem tells everyone else and soon luke's getting multi-pronoun'd #he probably doesnt even notice until someone tries to talk to him about it and he's like . wha #canon luke is adab lj!luke is agahc (assigned gender at hermitcraft)

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foreveratlas · 7 months

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Luck Reminiscence

Gas stations remind me of Mom

and the way we'd pool our little earnings

for a chance at scratch-off glory,

scraping away one card at a time

with lucky dimes on a dirty dashboard.

One day, I win big-- a big win being

anything more than spent

to line our pockets for a chance to eat--

gambling our last five bucks for a meal,

or maybe the idea of hitting it big,

so big we'd never be hungry again.

My big win is thirty three dollars

off a two dollar Jumbo Buck,

and we celebrate by gorging

on chips and jerky and packages of

Little Debbie Cakes, a feast in the summer

without free school lunches.

A decade later, at a casino in Atlantic City,

I pull the Ace, King, Queen of Spades

while playing 3 card poker at a full table.

I walk away with eight hundred.

It's gone just as quickly, and not nearly

as satisfying as the days

when I had nothing, and yet everything

celebrating with a Zebra Cake

in my mom's '92 Toyota Camry.

#poetry #spilled ink #poets on tumblr #spilled thoughts #writerscreed #gambling #grief

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embossross · 2 years

Text

From His Mind to Yours

Chapter 1 >> Chapter 2 >> Chapter 3

✣ Pairing: Hanma x AFAB fem!Reader

✣ Warning: 18+, minors DNI; unhealthy relationships & dark content

✣ Chapter CW: graphic torture (not of reader); murder (not of reader); very very bad therapeutic practice

✣ Story CWs: patient/doctor relationships; sex (oral, ptv, pta, etc.), degradation, torture (not of y/n), murder, discussions of suicide, trauma and abuse, and many more that I don't know yet

✣ Synopsis: Forced into therapy, Hanma expects to waste his time and yours, but you’re not about to let the chance of a high-profile and higher paying patient slip through your grasp. The fact that you’re both attracted to each other doesn’t hurt either.

✣ Word Count: ~5k

Any day now, the rainy season will end, bringing a brief respite before the humidity of summer becomes unbearable. You often think about moving to a land with a more temperate climate. A country near the equator, where you could invest in a single wardrobe that works year-round, rather than switching out the contents of your closet five times a year to accommodate the seasons.

Raindrops break through the protective barrier of your hooded cloak. When you lick your lips, you taste cold and wet.

The trip from your apartment to your office is a long one, three-quarters of an hour by train plus a nine-minute walk from the station. Plenty of time for the elements to drench and shake you. Snow in the winters proves especially brutal. Waiting at your office is a change of clothes, cosmetics, and hair product. You construct your work attire like a suit of armor. A blank slate of dry-cleaned perfection distracts from your age and makes patients respect you.

Most patients anyway.

On the train, you scan an article about the winner of last year’s Nenmatsu Jumbo. Through the lens of your phone, you read how the lucky fortunate pledges half his fortune to a shrine in Hokkaido and will spend the rest on sending his four children to private schools, lavish vacations, and a plot of farmland. The winner says he has no intentions of retirement just yet.

700 million yen. A transformative amount of money. You have run the numbers, and with about half that much saved, you would be set for life. No need to worry about disability, disaster, or devils sweeping away your years of hard work. With 350 million yen, you would finally be safe. Happy even.

Hanma Shuji is your winning lottery ticket.

The price you charge for his treatment is obscene; more importantly, if you’re successful, it will unlock a new revenue stream with the Tokyo Manji gang. Their organization must be rife with degenerates, neurotics, and depressives, all with blood money to burn. Ten years of catering to the criminal class, and you may well reach your savings goals. When you think about it at night, you fall asleep with a smile.

Your happy dreams assume, of course, that Hanma doesn’t sabotage you at the get, which is not looking promising.

He’s late.

At the office, you change out of your rain-soaked clothes, blow dry your hair, and read your case notes three times over. Your eyes stray repeatedly to the time on your phone as Hanma’s lateness makes the move from possibility to definitive reality. Arriving a few minutes late seems like Hanma’s style, and arriving fifteen minutes late as a power play might be his m.o. as well, but half an hour? He doesn’t plan to show, and you know it.

You walk to the empty reception room. There are a couple other patients on your case load right now, but you are scheduling their therapy around Hanma’s, clearing entire days just to focus on your golden goose. You even gave your receptionist the day off to ensure his privacy. An hour-long train ride here and an hour back would be for nothing if Hanma ghosts you.

Frustrated, you hover over his name in your contacts. Calling and begging him to participate in his own treatment will cede all authority you have.

While your office is disturbingly minimalist – designed to keep your most distracted patients engaged – the reception room is livened slightly by large windows that overlook central Tokyo. The rain beats against the pane thunderously, but you can still see the activity on the street below. It’s an office district, so mostly fellow professionals leaving for meetings or a working lunch. The street is more active than typical as the Samurai Blue are playing a match at the stadium, and your office block is a well-known detour to the venue. You can make out the blue jerseys as lucky fans stream toward the game and unlucky fans look for a bar to catch the match on TV.

It sparks an idea, and you press Hanma’s name before fully processing it.

“Hello, who is this?” Hanma greets, voice twisted with mockery.

He knows exactly who is calling and why. Your number is already saved in his phone. You ignore the flame it alights in your gut. Hanma likes to play games, and you can oblige that.

“The Samurai Blue are playing right now. Are you near a TV?”

“Hello to you, too. Hide has been resurrected from the dead and is giving an impromptu concert at Tokyo Tower. Are you near a radio?” Hanma says, mirroring your bizarre introduction.

“That’s funny. You’re funny,” you say, momentarily surprised into laughing before you remember you are angry with this man.

“Mmhmm,” Hanma hums. It’s a filler noise. He’s waiting for the inevitable chastisement, to see you plead for his cooperation. He will be disappointed.

“I’m not going to waste your time asking why you are late for our session or if you’re coming in. if you were a typical client, I frankly wouldn’t care. I’d bill you for the session anyway and treat myself to pork belly on your dime. But Kisaki-san has impressed the importance of working with you upon me, so I want to keep this appointment. Rather than beg for you to have mercy and come in –”

“I wouldn’t mind hearing you try,” Hanma interrupts.

A spark of memory from your last session. Standing at full height, he was mountainous, easily one of the tallest men you have ever encountered. His wide-legged stance, so much space between to settle at his feet, legs lolled out because spaces weren’t designed to contain a man of his stature. The hint of tenting, possible erection. Predator’s eyes.

You ignore him.

“How about a wager?” Silence. You think that’s a good sign, so you bully on. “If the Samurai Blue score within the next minute and a half, we keep our session today. If not, I start looking for flights out of town for when Kisaki-san sends someone knocking on my door.”

“Kind of funny to imagine it might very well be me that he sends in that eventuality, huh?” Hanma says, though it’s not funny at all. “Fine. You’ve caught my interest. Ninety seconds. They score, we meet, and you can try your psychobabble on me.”

“Perfect.”

There’s a flatscreen to entertain waiting clients, mounted above a gurgling water tank. The remote is missing, so you manually press the power button and scroll until you find the match. On the line is silence as you assume Hanma also finds the right channel.

“Starting now?” Hanma asks.

“Time it.”

You watch as the match unfolds. The Samurai Blue are already down one, and their opponent, red jerseys, have possession of the ball. Blue streaks of activity as the national team tries to defend and retrieve.

You don’t have any special affinity towards football, but only the most stubborn could avoid watching the World Cup or Olympic matches, when the radios blared the action from the open door of every convenience store or market stall. In university, most of your fellow students were men, and you would join them semi-regularly at the student bars to watch a promising match; you would call it “making an appearance.” Your boyfriend keeps up with the international leagues, catching the scores on his phone and commenting on coaching decisions without ever bothering to actually turn on a match.

This wager is a shot in the dark from a gun that may not even be loaded. You have no insider insight to guarantee Japan scores, and probability is against you.

That’s why when the center forward retrieves the ball, barreling past the center circle, your heart rises in your chest. The impossibility of it, this quick drive down the length of the field, from winger to striker and now nearing the goalpost, is a pure shot of adrenaline.

What are the odds? Are they as impossible as winning the Nenmatsu Jumbo, a New Year’s miracle?

The goalie lines up to block, and you will the striker’s attack to land. Millions may be watching, singularly concentrated on this very play, but in this moment, you are on the field. Your will is all that matters.

When the ball connects with the net, Hanma roars on the other side of the phone. He doesn’t groan in disappointment; he’s celebrating the goal. Like you, the adrenaline has drugged him. You stare at the players taking their victory lap in disbelief. Your own celebration a quiet closing of your eyes, a silent prayer.

“How’d you do it, doc?” Hanma whistles into the phone. “Did you bribe the goalie in advance?”

“Pure luck,” you say, a little breathless at how true the words are. You have never been lucky, and it stuns you. You have to will yourself back to professional reserve. “You wouldn’t have been interested enough to take me up on a wager if the odds weren’t completely stacked against me. That’s what makes it exciting.”

While the Tokyo Manji gang runs underground casinos and Mahjong parlors across the city, no one reported Hanma as a gambler. Under the right circumstances, you speculate he would thrive on gambling. The moment of tension, when both the loss and the win feel equally possible, is an adrenaline high, and the kind of thing to electrify a bored misanthrope. You did not plan to test this hunch on Hanma so early, hoping to save it for future sessions, but you are happy to see your suspicions proved accurate.

“Smart, and a coin toss wouldn’t have worked because you couldn’t trust me to be honest about the results, and I wouldn’t trust you in return. You know, you’re pretty manipulative. Are you sure you’re not a sociopath?” Hanma says. It’s the first compliment he’s spared you, followed immediately by an attack.

“If manipulating someone occasionally was all it took to meet the diagnostic requirements, everyone would qualify,” you disagree.

“That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking. Yeah, you say all these things about me being a risk-taker, unempathetic, manipulative, whatever, but am I really all that different than anyone else? In my experience, people are plenty self-serving when anything half important is on the line?” Hanma says.

Sampling bias, you think. Hanma’s line of work exposes him to society’s desperates, the people drowning beneath the weight of their previous mistakes and dying to breathe again.

“That’s a good topic of discussion for when you come in. I’d wondered what you thought about my assessment last week, especially now that you’ve had some time to process.”

“Oh, I’m not coming in,” Hanma says. You hear the slam of a car door and the beep of a lock. Now, the sound through the phone is distorted as Hanma walks through the rain to wherever he’s going that isn’t your office.

“Hanma-san, we had a deal…”

“I know that, and I won’t reneg. You can have your 90-minutes, but I never said I’d come to your office. You can come to me. I’m down by the Port. I’ll text you the address.”

“My office is in Ueno. That’s…over an hour away by train,” you say, knowing as you say it that your logistical concerns will be met with indifference.

“And I have a meeting that can’t be missed. I know, I know, self-care, put yourself first, but I think I might be a workaholic, doc. Work, work, work. They don’t even give me holidays off!” Hanma jokes.

Even as you negotiate with Hanma, you know it’s futile and start preparing to brave the elements once again. You zipper your wet clothes into a plastic bag and hang them in your closet. Your receptionist will take them for dry-cleaning when she stops by to lock up for the night. Your raincoat hasn’t dried off from before and wets your clean clothes as you pull it on again.

“If I come to Koto-ku, will you still be there?” you challenge, imagining making the trek only for Hanma to move onto some other distraction.

“You have my word. I think it’ll be good for you to see me in action,” Hanma says.

You choose not to think about what that might mean.

“If I take the train out to Telecom Center, you need to pick me up. I’m not walking down to the port in this rain, and I doubt you want a random taxi dropping me off at your important meeting,” you say.

Reasserting some boundaries, not allowing Hanma to control the terms. It’s part of your role as therapist, but it feels seedy with him. Maybe because these power plays are standard for his job. Normally your clients are less aware of how you subtly maneuver them.

“I’ll send someone to pick you up,” Hanma concedes.

“We have a deal.”

“I love hearing you say that,” Hanma moans, and then a beep as he unceremoniously hangs up.

As the rain beats down upon your head once again on your walk to the station, you half hope a tsunami strikes the city and carries Hanma Shuji out to sea. But only half.

- - - True to his word, a yakuza decked out with a neck tattoo and everything picks you up from the station and delivers you to a warehouse by the harbor. The grey sea is frothing and angry. Here, the wind is twice as strong, tangling your hair and tripping your feet.

You enter the warehouse, off-kilter and a little afraid.

In the movies, these criminal warehouses are always empty, perfect for a drawn-out battle, but this one is in active use. Rows, stocked with packages, stretch up to the ceiling. A line of cranes sit powered off by the entrance. A couple yakuza stand off to the side, smoking and playing dice.

Your guide leads you past them to a row cleared from merchandise. Amid the narrow row are two folding chairs, in one sits Hanma, and in the other sits a man who is handcuffed and chained at ankle and wrist to his seat.

You swallow.

The bound stranger is in his thirties. He wears a satin button-up, probably a fellow yakuza or at least someone who works in the entertainment district. Freshly shaven, which means he hasn’t been hostage for longer than half a day. The man sports a black eye, but no other obvious signs of struggle.

“You made it, doc!” Hanma calls out. In contrast to his prisoner, he’s the picture of casual comfort. He sits backwards in his chair, chin propped against the backrest with plenty of room for his gargantuan legs to stretch out.

“Thanks for sending someone to pick me up,” you say primly, deciding not to rise to the bait and comment on the other man. You glance around and realize your guide has disappeared in the few seconds it took you to get your bearings. Apparently, this is Hanma’s show alone.

“I want you to meet Fujimori Hisao,” Hanma says, gesturing at the bound man. “I’m afraid I can only give you half my attention here. You can ask me your questions, but I need to ask Hisao-kun some questions of my own.”

“And if I don’t like your answers, can I do whatever you do to Fujimori-san to you, too?” you ask.

“Funny! I keep forgetting that you can be funny when you want to be,” Hanma giggles. “I promise to be completely honest in all my answers. I need to set a good example for Hisao here. Don’t want to have him thinking he can pick and choose when to answer me. Honesty is the best policy and all.”

Hanma likes to hear himself talk. Sometime during his monologue, Fujimori starts to silently weep. With his hands restrained, there is nothing to catch the tears until they streak past his chin and collect in the column of his throat.

The scene is unlike anything you’ve ever witnessed. Sometimes you hear about violence in the past tense in a clinical setting, but never before your own eyes. Criminal acts are hypotheticals to you, who has never even noticed a shoplifter in action. Your boyfriend always tells you that you’re naïve in the ways of the world. Innocence must cling to your skin, despite your best efforts to conceal it, because Hanma smells it on you, too.

The surprise reveal, the casual greeting, all of this is an act, a performance to frighten you. He wants to see you break.

You decide to get comfortable, shrugging off your coat. There is no third chair, so you lean against the shelves. You situate yourself close to Hanma. The other man is in your periphery, but you can ignore him with effort.

“May I begin, Hanma-san?”

He grunts.

“We could have scheduled for later this evening when your…appointment wrapped up. Why did you want me to see this?”

“You’re gonna cure my boredom, right? I thought you should see one of the last things that still gets me hot and going,” Hanma says.

“You’ve thought about what we discussed last session. Do you have any thoughts or questions?”

“I told Inui that I was officially a sociopath, and he said everyone already knew. Go figure,” Hanma sneers, and the other man goes deathly silent at hearing his captor self-describe as a ‘sociopath.’ “I stand by what I said on the phone though. I don’t see what’s all that different about me from your average guy. Take Fujimori-san here, he betrayed his friends, giving information on Toman to the HKJ – that’s a triad we’re in business with – and for what? Money!”

“NO! I didn’t. I swear! Hanma-san, I swear I would never –”

The way Hanma bursts from his seat is violent, knocking his chair to the ground with a clang. The way his fist connects with Fujimori’s chin is something worse than violent. Fujimori’s neck snaps back, so hard, you fear it broken, before his head falls limply forward. Frantic denials turn to drawn out moans of pain.

“Don’t lie to me!” Hanma hisses.

Your heart thunders in your chest, as if the threat is directed at you. Rather than return to his seat, Hanma prowls around Fujimori’s limp body. A victory lap or another intimidation tactic.

“People can be self-serving, especially where money is concerned. That’s not enough for a clinical diagnosis,” you say as calmly as possible. “To be diagnosed with ASPD, you need to meet additional criteria. For example, right now, I’m having a physiological reaction to seeing you punch that man. I feel for his pain and wish it would stop. A sociopath wouldn’t have that kind of empathy for someone else’s suffering.”

Hanma drops large hands onto Fujimori’s shoulders, massaging them and getting into the beaten man’s face. “You hear that Hisao-kun? She feels for your pain! It’s true that I don’t, but you should just confess and tell me who your contacts in the HKJ are, so that I don’t have to hurt you anymore.”

Before Fujimori can answer and earn Hanma’s wrath again, you forge onward, “I’d love to know more about how you feel about other people, too. Have you ever felt something you would describe as love? Does spending time with your favorite people make you happy? And while we’re at it, why are your favorite people your favorites? What makes them special.”

“You’re asking too many questions at once, doc. Rookie interrogation mistake!” Hanma chastises.

“That’s because I’m not seriously asking those questions yet. We’ll save them for another day. But I wanted to answer your question about what makes sociopaths different than the general populace, and the answer probably lies in how you’d respond to those questions,” you say. “Here is a direct question for you. In as much detail as possible, since we last met, when were you most bored?”

Hanma seriously considers the question, “Last Thursday was collection day, where all the men who report into me, bring their cash for the week. I just have to sit there, watch people count bills, and threaten to split a few heads if they come up short. No one was short this week, so I just sat there until four, then dropped the cash off with Koko. I called Kisaki, but he didn’t need me for anything. So, I decided to try one of our new nudie bars, where the girls are all pros. Nothing worse than seeing the show and finding out they’re all amateurs that can’t deliver, right? Well, I get there, have a few drinks, and as I’m looking around, I realize, I’ve already fucked every girl in the place. A real drag, right?”

You note Hanma’s verbal tick, the tacking on of ‘right’ at the end of his sentences. Is it to make you complicit in whatever vile things he says or a bid for validation? The former seems more likely.

“You never sleep with the same woman twice?” you ask.

“Where’s the fun in that, am I right?” Hanma says, giving a comradely clap to his prisoner’s arm. “Anyway, that was probably the moment, when I realized there wasn’t a girl in the place to interest me and nothing better to do with my night.”

Like you hypothesized on day one. He craves novelty.

“This is a hard question for most people to answer, but please give it a try. What does your boredom feel like in the moment? Can you find the words to describe it?”

Once again, Hanma takes the question seriously, allowing a long pause to collect his thoughts. You find it impossible to watch him as he ponders because to look at him requires you to look past Fujimori. He has regained some of his wits, mouth shaping around silent pleas for you to save him. You, this strange woman who doesn’t appear interested in torturing him, appear like a guardian angel, but there is nothing you can do. You lack the leverage with Hanma, and you would find a bullet in your skull before you finished dialing the police.

There is a sheen of sweat about Fujimori’s lip that strikes you as especially pitiful, and you look away.

“Cold,” Hanma says, at last. “It feels like that one night in winter, the coldest night of the year, when your bones freeze from the inside. Rationally, you know it’s only a few hours until the sun comes back, but instinctually, some part of you thinks, ‘this is it.’ That all you’ll ever know again is the bone deep cold and the dark.”

A phantasm of cold slices through your gut. You didn’t expect such evocative words. A high school dropout with abysmal marks to show for his public education, you didn’t expect Hanma’s intelligence, but his words move you. They are so uniquely human and familiar to the worst days of your own life.

Softening against your better judgement, you continue your line of questioning, “When I’m cold, I usually grab a jacket, an extra blanket, warm up by the kotatsu. My instinct is to do something to get warm. On Thursday, when you realized there were no girls to seduce, what did you do to warm yourself?”

“This is damn poetic what we have going here,” Hanma laughs, breaking a bit of the spell his words cast upon you. “Let me see…Thursday, I took a bump, and then decided to wander around the city. See if I stumbled on something more interesting.”

“Did the change of scenery help, or were you still bored while you walked around?”

“Still bored. I’ve been walking these streets since I was eleven,” Hanma says.

“And did you interact with any people during this walk?”

“Some juvenile delinquent bumped into me. Literally. Landed on his ass. Then, he wanted to pick a flight like it was my fault. I had to shut him down,” Hanma says and then scoffs when a fissure of concern ripples across your face. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t kill the poor kid. I just flashed a gun, so he understood I was the real deal, and suddenly it was ‘a thousand sorries, sir.’ J.D.s in my day weren’t so quick to back down, but anyway. I ended up at my tattoo parlor. My artist was working on someone else, but she kicked him out when I came in. had her do a color touch up on one of my tattoos.”

“Do you have many tattoos?” you ask, thinking Hanma would fit the profile for a tattoo addiction.

“Not by yakuza standards. Wanna see it?”

Hanma undoes the lower button of his dress shirt, rolling the material up above his abdomen. You can’t see clearly around Fujimori’s shaking frame, so Hanma releases his victim and walks closer to show you. In this suit, Hanma appears deceptively lean, but he’s filled out beneath his clothes. Clear lines cut across a chest and abdomen of defined ridges and dips. Your tongue wets your lips.

A dragon winds around his side, roaring face toward the front and tail trailing to his back. The green ink is fresh and vibrant with an undercurrent of red as the skin is still inflamed from the touch up. The work on the scales looks intricate and must have taken dozens of hours to complete. It is the only tattoo you can see on his chest.

“Pretty,” you admit. “Dragons are associated with the Tokyo Manji gang, right? Do you feel pride in being a lieutenant? Many gangs operate almost as families with people willing to commit unspeakable crimes against outsiders because they’re so invested in protecting the sense of belonging they feel with their in-group.”

“I know what you mean, and it’s what guys like Hisao here should be willing to die to protect. But, for me, not really. I feel pride in how far we’ve come. I’ve been with Kisaki since the early days, and I was part of making all this happen. And, I have a…fondness for some of the top guys, but we don’t feel like a family. I followed Kisaki all those years ago because he promised me a more interesting path than what I could picture for myself, and that’s why I’m still here,” Hanma says.

Something electric is lighting you up from your intestines. The immediate transparency that Hanma offers is not typical of clients. You sense nothing but honesty from his words. There’s a speed to your back and forth, testing your ability to think of the next question and draw connections. The mental strain plus your muted fear on behalf of Fujimoto makes you feel hyper-present, more present than you have felt in weeks as you commute between work, home, and dates with your boyfriend. You don’t want the session to end.

“You don’t feel any loyalty? But you must have had so many opportunities to betray them over the years, and you never took them,” you point out.

“The opportunity never felt worth it,” Hanma shrugs. “But speaking of loyalty! Hisao-kun, I think we’ve neglected you too long.”

Two-pronged annoyance shoots through you. Are you more upset at the promise of pain coming Fujimori’s way or how easily Hanma drops your conversation? The magnetic aura that made you feel as if it were only the two of you in the world must have been one-sided.

“Hisao, I did my research before collecting you. Unmarried, no kids that you know of, parents in good health. No loan sharks breathing down your neck or out of control gambling addiction. So, tell me, what made the money worth betraying your family? Risking your own neck for a couple million yen. If there was some big reason, maybe I could understand it, but without one…you’re hurting my feelings,” Hanma teases.

He keeps his hands tucked in his pockets, almost like sheathing a sword or holstering a gun, but you know he will be quick on the draw. Fujimori suspects as much as well, eyes darting between Hanma’s face and pocketed hands. The purple silk of his dress shirt is stained almost black with sweat at the pits.

“I swear I didn’t do it, Hanma-san. I swear!”

There is no immediate retaliation. Instead, Hanma drops to his knees in front of his captive. You stare in awe at the submissive position. Even on his knees, Hanma’s impressive height puts him at eye-level with Fujimori, who senses nothing good from this change in posture. Unconsciously, Fujimori strains against his bonds. Your fingers flex and twist as if you too were bound.

“We’re both Toman, Fujimori, and that makes us brothers in a way. We both promised we wouldn’t lie, and an oath to a brother is not something to break casually. Do not look me in the eyes and lie to me,” Hanma says lowly. He leans forward so their foreheads are touching, spectacled eyes drilled into Fujimori’s own. You can’t see their faces, just the white column of Hanma’s arched neck. “Now, tell me who was your liaison from HKJ?”

“I didn’t do i–”

Lightning fast, Hanma’s hand darts forward. The attack is soundless. Rather than a blow of force, Hanma plunges a finger straight into Fujimori’s eye. The choice is so startling that Fujimori gasps rather than screams, and then reality catches up to him and he starts to bellow.

“I can’t stand when people look me in the eye and lie,” Hanma sneers.

He stands up to his full height and wipes his hand against his pants. Eyeball juices. His pants are wet with eyeball juices.

The screaming stops. Wait, no, you see Fujimori’s mouth still open in a wail. Above it, blood stains his cheek, and above that…No, the screaming continues but you aren’t processing the sound. You are in shock and dissociating from the stimuli around you as a method of self-defense. Looking at Fujimori’s battered face is impossible, so you look at his legs instead. Panic has set in, and the man is using all of his weight to thrust up against his bonds, arcing the legs of the chair into the air and back down. It’s futile; the chains holding him are too strong.

Eventually, you look to Hanma and realize he’s been observing you the entire time. There is a smile on his face, too obvious to be anything but performative. Like when he threatened to masturbate in your office, he is looking to unsettle you. This time he has succeeded.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Hanma asks.

Even under the traumatic circumstances, there is a fierce streak within you that refuses to back down. Hanma is watching you with a sympathetic expression as fake as the blonde streaks in his hair. You don’t want to reward his bad behavior, or worse, provoke more of it.

“What did Fujimori-san do?” your voice shakes through the question.

“We’re negotiating a deal with the HKJ, big opportunity for us to expand our slice of the Meth trade. If we can secure entry through Hong Kong and replace our current suppliers, we’ll cut our costs by 5% and mark up our prices by 10%, free money. It’s a good deal for everyone involved, but that doesn’t stop greed from setting in. everyone wants to walk away with the sweetest deal. That’s why we think the HKJ will try to infiltrate Toman, plant a few moles. If they can cause a problem for us – say an unexpected police raid or losing our current supplier – they can then swoop in, play the heroes in clean up, and then demand the better cut. In general, we keep a close watch on our subordinates’ bank accounts to make sure everything is on the up and up, and an offshore account wired Hisao-kun ¥5,000,000. Payment for services rendered, perhaps?”

The last question he directs to Fujimori, who sits paralyzed in fear. Denials could lead to another outburst of violence but staying silent doesn’t bode well either. Against your better judgment, you catch a glimpse of his eye. It isn’t dislodged from the attack, but the eyeball is swollen with blood, thick like the juices of a passionfruit.

You shake your head in disbelief, like the gesture might change things.

“That’s it? One suspicious deposit in his bank account is all you have to go on? All you have to justify…this?” you gesture helplessly at Fujimori.

“Uh huh.”

“But that could be anything! Maybe a relative died and willed him some money! ¥5,000,000 is a lot, but it’s not a yakuza-only level of money!”

You know that the Tokyo Manji gang tops police wanted lists not just for their role in organized crime but their penchant for violence. It’s rare to see a yakuza gang in the news for murder these days with so many yakuza fighting to keep their government-granted legitimacy, but Toman bucks the trend. Of the top lieutenants, Hanma is the guard dog, biting any hand that would near the leaders. If Kisaki directs the madness, Hanma executes it with extreme prejudice. You know that.

But you always imagined the violence unleashed against those who had “earned it.” The triviality of Hanma’s evidence, enough to condemn a man, shocks you more than his aggression.

Hanma flings himself back into his chair and says, “Hisao-kun, did someone die and will you the money? Mind I’ll have someone verify before we leave her, and if you’re lying to me, I’ll gouge the other eye out completely and make you eat it.”

“No! No one died!” Fujimori swears quickly.

“Welp, there goes that theory. Got any others, Doc?” Hanma waits for you to answer, but you shake your head. “No? See the truth is it doesn’t matter. Hisao-kun is hiding something, or he would have explained where the money came from already. Maybe he’s not in league with the HKJ. Maybe he’s taken a bribe and not given us our cut. Maybe he’s skimming off the top. Or maybe, he’s our little rat. Regardless, he doesn’t get to keep secrets from his masters, and so here we are.”

It makes sense in a cruel way. Maintaining a criminal enterprise requires absolute silence. You sign your secrets away at the doors. The way the movies depict it, you would have thought gangs were all about freedom and rebellion against society’s rules, but really you just trade for a whole new set of restrictions and far more dire consequences. Gangs are about money. And, if someone would try to steal hundreds of millions of yen from you…you might find yourself capable of gouging into a man’s eye, too.

The way the human brain can rationalize in moments of trauma is truly remarkable.

“You said this got you hot earlier? Are you aroused by this?” you ask, slipping back into therapy-mode.

“Nah, I mean hot as in the opposite of what we were talking about earlier, with the cold boredom. Now, if your skirt rides up any further, that might get my dick up,” Hanma leers.

Startled, you find that your skirt has risen up your thighs, so the dark band at the top of your stockings peeks through. You quickly pet it down into place, and Hanma play scowls at you.

“May I sit down?” you ask meekly.

“Sure, princess,” Hanma says, standing to offer you the seat he was occupying. “But we won’t be here much longer.”

You take it gratefully. Not until you’re seated, do you realize your legs are trembling.

Hanma returns to questioning Fujimori. You watch the back of Hanma’s head as he works, tuning out the particulars. You don’t like knowing so many details about a major upcoming yakuza alliance. It could make you a target. Even without carefully listening, you realize Fujimori has confessed and is starting to share whatever intel he can, like offerings to a malevolent god that demands human sacrifice.

Your stomach growls. Your eyelids lower. In the aftermath of a trauma, your body doesn’t know what is wrong and is cycling through possibilities to fix the problem.

There is plastic-wrapped melon pan in your bag, stashed away from a visit to the convenience store earlier that day. Would Hanma mind if you have a snack?

You are about to risk it when a pop rattles your ear drums. Ears ringing, you take several moments to process Hanma turning around and tucking away a gun. Behind him, blocked from sight by Hanma’s height, Fujimori has been shot. Somehow, you know it was aimed to kill.

Hanma approaches you, continuing to block out the dead man. He grips the chair you’re seated on and spins it around, so that you’re facing away from the body. The gesture of kindness pierces through your shock. You can’t thank him though, gaping like a fish at his blank expression. A smattering of blood and a chunk of something you won’t consider have landed on his clavicle, just above his heart.

“I’m going to take a shower and then take you out to dinner. You can sit near the entrance and wait for me. My men will be outside. Nine rows to the right and twelve up to reach the exit, okay?” Hanma intones slowly, making sure you process the directions through your shock.

You nod.

Hanma walks off in the direction of Fuji– no, in the direction of the body that was Fujimori. You ought to run. Flee the scene. While he’s in the shower, you could race out of the warehouse altogether, trick his men into letting you through, and then what? It’s a two mile walk to the station, and Hanma has a car. Unless he likes a lingering shower, he will catch you. Plus, he knows where you work. You promised him a degree of professionalism, a hardened mob-therapist who could roll with the darker sides of the job. He expects you to do just that.

But dinner?

Part of you understands. The back-and-forth before he lost interest in you had been intoxicating, and you still want to return to that. Like an abuse victim, who reminisces about the early days of love bombing and will ignore the abuse that just occurred. For a few minutes there, Hanma’s attention felt like magic.

Slowly, you limp toward the exit, following Hanma’s instructions. Plenty of time to think about whether you run screaming out the door once you’re there.

Reaching the exit, you stare at the unlocked doors that represent your chance at freedom from the day’s monstrosities. From your interviews with Kisaki and other members of the Tokyo Manji gang, you know Hanma has no history of violence towards women that fell outside the basics of his job. He doesn’t rough up the working girls or ape the girlfriends of his enemies. There is no reason to expect you are the exception. He wants to scare you, yes, but if you don’t give him cause, he won’t kill you.

You can’t forget the money on the line. The life-changing, Nenmatsu Jumbo-level miracle money to which Hanma holds the key. It is your dream, and you have come too far to abandon it now.

So, you lean against the concrete block wall and wait. You have a dinner to attend.

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