No Damage Done

There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter....

[lordegrit-blog]

calculatedfear

His lips press together just to keep a traitorous laugh (elation, delight, satisfaction) from bubbling out and catching on foreign fishhook ears. ShinRa is a name that draws bright eyes and brown noses wherever he may be, and he’s not willing to cater to anyone when his attention and focus have zeroed in on Tseng, backlit by affection and an imaginary spotlight, drowning out most all else.

Instead, he compresses his feelings into a smile, slightly salacious, of the type fit for back alleyways and backroom gambling, and flicks out a clove cigarette snatched from Elena’s desk stash. Rufus leans back, fitting their ankles together as his arms spread along the back of the booth, and traces the contours of Tseng’s face, admires the put-upon indifference and learned ignorance. He has little social grace, but makes up for it with perfect aim and good hands.

“Order more.” He has money to fill hundreds of coffers. Not that he’d ever make the offer. It’s not like Tseng has ever had a budget limit, not since he replaced Veld and stole all of Rufus’ nicer sentiments. Besides, maybe he can get him to admit they’re on a date, and not waiting on a mark or intel or the world to end. “I’ll even drive you home when you inevitably can’t stand from being grease-drunk.”

"Absolutely not." Tseng licks the crumbs from the corners of his mouth. If Rufus picks up the bill, that makes Tseng obligated to do whatever his awful mind can piece together. Rufus doesn't dream big. He makes his fantasies real. The textbook definition of a psychopath.

But...maybe he's a sociopath. Sociopaths have feelings. Rufus has a lot of those.

"So you can call this a date? Pfft..." Tseng looks at his watch and squints yet with nowhere important to be. There is no one important in his life to cater to but Rufus. Then he realizes how pitiful he is.

He scrunches his lips into a frown—disgusted with himself. 

"I can pay for myself. It's just a fucking basket of fries. I might be a cheap slut, but I can definitely buy myself a basket of fries...and a burger if I wanted."

[lordegrit-blog]

calculatedfear

He’s halfway into the daydream of Tseng’s ink blotch hair splayed out over the cloud white of his coat, halfway into spitting a half-tended to retort concerning consumption of edibles in a more timely manner, halfway into twisting his tongue to say there are much better things (people, himself) to eat so quickly, that the dive had a coat closet, or maybe it was a supplies closet.  

Halfway to the stars. Halfway to absolution, a clean conscience, a clean bill of health. Halfway, hanging in the balance, in between states, waiting for change. Water and steam and ice; Rufus is all three.

–Fullstop. Like the end of a telegram, and Rufus hangs paralyzed in the summer day heatstroke stillness for longer than he would with anyone else stating the same. Something so factual, applicable to many, but none so meaningful as Tseng himself.

Tseng hardly ever meets Rufus halfway, like this, for this. Is he reading too much into it? He’s not ever had anyone by his side for longer than Tseng has been with him; there’s a trust there they’ve never really spoken about, and poking it like this has him thinking of hornet’s nests and honeybees.

He’s stripped of words, heartbeat pounding in his ears, and he breathes an exhale. A breeze that moves the world along, a steady release like a train moving out of the station.

“I do need you,” he admits, with more feeling and truth lacing through his voice than Tseng perhaps has come to expect. He offers a clear afterthought, soothing over the punched wound. “…but I’m thinking of your stomach,” and his tongue, “–and the possible resulting indigestion.”

Emotional incompetency keeps Tseng from pulling back the layers of this multifaceted shitsuation. There are only two people in the world who understand Rufus—Rufus himself and Tseng. At least, Tseng hopes he understands Rufus better than woman who birthed him.

Rufus knows how to say a lot without saying much anything at all. Tseng chooses to never say anything ever. He's just not intelligent in that way. He's never had time for feelings. 

If Tseng were a different person, he'd be able to articulate why his mouth fills with spit. He reaches for his cold glass of cola, picks out the straw and drinks it straight from the metallic tasting glass. The temperature suddenly rises and the creased fabric of his shirt sticks to his armpits.

"I'm still hungry." Tseng taps the glass back down on the table, burping against the back of his right hand. It still smells like ketchup.

[lordegrit-blog]

calculatedfear

His feelings toward food are overlaid like power grid lines on top of building blueprints with early memories of dinner, fish, and salad forks, knives, new plates for each course, and a thousand other minute rules and extra china. Rufus could recite each mandate of etiquette for breakfast, brunch, lunch and dinner, formal or informal, in the very same sharp monotone used on him in his formative years by various tutors, but only if he cared enough to. And he doesn’t. Hasn’t ever.

He keeps such dull things buried, but looking on Tseng now, and the splatters of artificial cherry red ketchup dotting his hands, dripping sloppy down an index finger, he finds in himself the tiniest bit of burning appreciation for a greyed out recollection from twenty-plus years ago of white linens and candlelight and four long hours of straight-backed forced politeness. (He had hated the soup–some kind of chowder. He hasn’t eaten corn since then.)

He tears his curious focus from Tseng to the white linen of his outer suit jacket, twisting his wrist around to feign looking at his watch, picking out the pattern of weave in the fabric instead. He looks good in white, and that’s all he’s willing to concede to, when connecting thought to thought.

“If you don’t slow down,” he mutters, lacing fingers together and resting his chin on his folded hands. Rufus can’t remember ever going hungry, like he knows many of his Turks have; how maudlin, to try and find similarities there. He refrains from reaching over to pat at Tseng’s hand, like he would for other things. He settles for knocking his ankle against the man’s knee. “–you’re going to choke. No one’s taking it away from you.”

Tseng sucks the ketchup from his finger, licks the space between his index and middle. Not once does he stop to look at Rufus. He bites at the grains of salt from under his nails, then drags his tongue across his teeth and says, "You're just not used to having lunch with people who actually like to eat."

He doesn't use a napkin to wipe the grease from his hands—unfastens his necktie and tugs at the first two buttons of his shirt.

"And if I do choke, you're not going to let me die." Tseng gives him a perfunctory nod, but holds eyes down on the grease sodden paper. Where he had dragged a fry through a pool of ketchup, the paper had torn. 

"You need me." He's not exactly sure how he means it. The statement just happens like a spasm. Instead of allowing himself to feel shame for feeling this way, he busies himself with finishing off the basket of fries.

[lordegrit-blog]

@calculatedfear

Normally, Tseng is never in a hurry. He creates deadlines, sternly proposes them in meetings, but doesn't break a sweat until the last fives minutes. Doesn't anxiously wiggle when he travels. Will listen before he speaks.

But when it comes to food, he has no patience. Tseng shovels a handful of hot fries into his mouth and burns his tongue, scorching his gums in the process. He only grimaces because he's felt worst inflictions of pain. The means to rectifying this kind of discomfort? He takes three fries and swirls them in the ketchup.

And again, burns his mouth but it's not as bad as the first time.

[lordegrit-blog]

calculatedfear:

+ @lordegrit 

Veld held too much trust in Rufus’ promises. Shouldn’t he be far away from the Mideel battlefields and tucked safely away in the home offices? As far as anyone knew, he was in his home office being the perfect vice president. The folly of believing in the fox’s lies. He was a very good fox when he wanted to be. As he liked. 

Shotgun loosely against his shoulder, he lifted the PHS in his other hand as a greeting and sidled up to his newest infatuation. “Tiny Turk,” he said, almost warm, almost sweet. Like a crumbled pie stuck on the sill for too long. “When did you notice I was following you?” 

Tseng tilted his head from his binoculars and grimaced as ifRufus carried the stink of trouble. He wasn't going to admit that he hadn'tnoticed for some time. It was beginning to sink in that he had not only failedat being attentive, but that Baby Shinra's presence alone gives him an immenseamount of culpability.

"What the fuck..." It's a breathy statement. Tsenglowers his hands, drops the binoculars with a hard thud against the ground. Hestorms towards Rufus, balling a fist as his initial response to this colossalcompromise of his mission. Thismission was suppose to solidify his position as a Turk.

He doesn't give a narrow shit that it's Rufus Shinra.

Rufus Shinra was inthe way of his progress–so Tseng swung his fist.

[susierpt]

3 LITTLE WORDS... || starter pack

Send me one to see how my muse reacts. Some are fluffy, some are angsty, some are smutty, some are something else entirely…

Some of these may be triggering or NSFW!

“I love you.”

“I hate you.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“I guess so…”

“I guess not.”

“Love me, please.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Please, hold me.”

“Pain changes people.”

“You haven’t changed.”

“Please don’t go.”

“Look behind you.”

“Go kill yourself.”

“I can change.”

“Don’t ever change.”

“Want a hit?”

“Do you smoke?”

“Fuck me now.”

“Take my hand.”

“Lead the way.”

“Duck and cover!”

“Just go home.”

“Take me home.”

“Walk me there?”

“Everyone, shut up!”

“Just shut up.”

“Please stop it.”

“Please don’t die.”

“I need you.”

“I want you.”

“Want a hug?”

“Want a kiss?”

“Are you sure?”

“Are you lying?”

“That’s the truth.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Oh my God.”

“For fuck’s sake!”

“I got it.”

“I found it.”

“Call me later.”

“Text me later.”

“Don’t call me.”

“Are you crying?”

“I wasn’t crying.”

“Please don’t laugh.”

“Please don’t cry.”

“That’s a lie.”

“What’d they say?”

“What’ll it be?”

“It’s last call.”

“It’s almost midnight.”

“Do you promise?”

“That’s a promise.”

“Are you serious?”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

“I punched him.”

“I killed him.”

“I kissed him.”

“I love him.”

“I hate him.”

“I lied before.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not sorry.”

“I’ll come over.”

“Can you come?”

“Want to cuddle?”

“Maybe we should.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t.”

“You don’t say.”

“Make me come.”

“Did you come?”

“I stole it.”

“I broke it.”

“Any bones broken?”

“Are you okay?”

“Are you hurt?”

“That must’ve hurt.”

“He was lying.”

“It’s our song.”

“Can I help?”

“Help me out.”

“Please, for me?”

“Anything for you.”

“I doubt it.”

“I believe you.”

[lordegrit-blog]

"🙋" + thoughts and views of the Wutai-Shinra war. Where does Tsengs allegiance lie?

OOC: Yes I love questions like this. Let me explain to the best of my ability. My interpretation of Tseng is very apathetic regarding the Wutai-Shinra war. Outside from his mother, Tseng feels no connection to Wutai. Wutaian is his first language, but after her death (she died when he was 7) he had no use for it. He had to really adapt to his surroundings in the Midgar slums. This is debatable, depending  on who you ask, but I like to think that there weren’t many Wutaians, if any at all, in Midgar. Although Tseng is mixed, he’s not passing so he wasn’t able to breeze by. He’s faced a lot of discrimination and his experiences growing up kinda nudged him into having a very misanthropic perspective about things. My Tseng has a history of criminal activity so becoming a Turk was an easy transition. He has a very ‘choose the winning team’ outlook on life. Becoming a Turk is the best thing to happen to him. He gained discipline and has formed very solid relationships within Shinra. 

I HC that Tseng’s first time fully becoming immersed in Wutaian culture was during a mission and the duration of it, he realized how he didn’t belong there either. Even though its a small part of him, he’s not ‘one of them’. It hurt him a bit at first but he’s ok with not really belonging anywhere. Being a Turk is just enough. That’s were his allegiance lies.

Tseng doesn’t like to be asked about his heritage either. He will dead ass pretend he doesn’t understand a word you’re saying if you try to speak to him in Wutaian. He won’t teach anyone if they ask how to say ‘cool words’. It’s a very sensitive and uncomfortable subject for him. 

[randomroleplaymemes-blog]

Send "🙋" + any headcannons you want to know about my muse.

[lordegrit-blog]

thecxmmissioner:

@lordegrit started following you.

❝Well, they’ve accepted Cait into their group without much of a fuss. But what do you expect me to do if they feel that he isn’t very…useful?”

Tseng parts his lips to speak, but he delays his response. Eyes wondering to his left, falling onto the tile floor, he drags his coffee cup across the table and takes a meticulous sip before furrowing his brows– as if he’s having a profound thought.

“You’re a clever man, Reeve.” He nods slowly. Smacks his lips and drops his glare back onto Reeve.

“I’m sure you’ll figure something. Failure isn’t much of an option.” Rolling his tongue against his jaws, he mulls over how shitty the coffee tastes.

“On a scale from one to ten–how much do you doubt yourself?”

[lordegrit-blog]

.

[lordegrit-blog]

shockwavepulsar:

She chuckles softly and shakes her head. She believes his thoughts betray his words or tone at the very least, but she appreciates a bite here or there. If anything, it fuels her desire to tease him further. There’s something exhilarating about pushing his buttons in particular. Perhaps it’s because he’s just mysterious enough to be a challenge to predict. “I appreciate the fact that you noticed,” she says, leaning towards him slightly. “Although, I didn’t think you had the capacity to understand. Color me impressed.” She hopes her rebuttal does something to break the silence, the tension that always seems to form between them. Words are all she has sometimes and she’s almost afraid of the possibility of a gap or rather, what to do to fill it if they fail her.

Tseng  blinks at her, shunning the swirl of his thoughts. His smile wrinkles.

“Contrary to popular belief, I have a sense of humor.”

He really looks at Quistis– remembers the very last time he saw her and searches for some kind of change. He’s happy to find that nothing is out of place from his memory.

“My feelings are a little hurt that you think I’m so drab. Maybe it’s my fault.” Tseng laughs softly for two reasons. He’s not serious outside of his office and he knows she would hate him for mentally comparing her to the neatly stacked pile of books on his desk. There is the urgency to tell her that she has seemed to be a very solid person. Put together and neatly packaged. All clean pages and a sleek, glossy cover.

It’s normal to want to take a peek, but reading Quistis without her permission felt wrong. So he has only considered what she has presented.

“I should wear more colors than black. I look like a mortician.”

[lordegrit-blog]

shockwavepulsar:

@lordegrit

She feels relieved when he plays his part in her attempt at playful banter. It isn’t any fun when only she participates, which is often the case when it comes to associating with her friends, unfortunately. It’s a pleasant surprise whenever someone deviates from the norm.  “I’m not worried about my weight. I just think it’s important to maintain a healthy body,” she states coyly. “But if you’re implying I have ulterior motives for saying such a thing, you might be mistaken. I just enjoy educating others.”

Kissing Quistis would’ve been one of his few good ideas. And then what? Would it terminate all of his convictions? He doesn’t show how far his imagination has escaped him. Tseng keeps his smile–it only shortens a fraction. It’s possible that she doesn’t even notice it.

Immediately, it occurs to him that she is one of two people that he truly thinks highly of.

“You have an award winning sense of humor.” The sarcasm is bittersweet.

Tseng clears his throat but he discovers that he’s out of witty things to say. Then he understands himself better– he’s not used to being comfortable.

[lordegrit-blog]

silverxskies:

She draws her tongue across the back of her teeth, a mixture of approval and amusement playing across her features.

“Quite the closed book, aren’t you?” More an observation than an accusation.

Meia paces away a short distance, a gloved hand retrieving her own packet of bad habits. His answer didn’t matter. Even silence told tales a thousand words could not. Meia needed no ones fantasies but her own.

She took a pull of the black filter between her lips, allowing the smoke to flow lazily into the chill night air.

“Not quite.” He ashes his cigarette.

“If you pay close attention...people will tell you about themselves.” 

The smog of the city is so thick that he can’t see the stars. Tseng heaves a cloud before pressing his fingers into his chest, rubbing at the itch beneath his skin.

“Everything you need to know is hidden in plain sight.” Balancing his cigarette between his lips, Tseng loosens the buttons of his cuffed sleeves.

“We both share a mutual vice. I’m positive about that.”

[lordegrit-blog]

silverxskies:

“It’s cheaper than drugs.”

But just as addictive. And just as devastating when reality shows up.

Meia produced a gold Zippo from her pocket.

“And what gets you off at night?”

She held the flame up as she faced him, her smile decidedly lopsided now.

That’s an easy question with easy answers. As he inhales, his hot honey memories surface at the curl of his lips. 

What gets Tseng of the Turks off? Unfilled silences. Empty glasses. The way he almost cuts his finger when he slices a lemon. 

“Here’s the thing about business...” He drawls as a waterfall of smoke pours from his nostrils. 

“You don’t have to share it.” Deadpan, he narrows his eyes at her. If she’s searching for a fountain of fantasies, then she’s mistaken. There isn’t an inch of him made of wishes.

[lordegrit-blog]

silverxskies:

The corner of Meia’s mouth curled. 

“Philosophy first, hmm?” Arms drape loosely about her waist. “Understood.”

A soft, low chuckle escaped her throat, lips pulling a little tighter over her teeth.

“It’s what people do—they paint beautiful pictures. This is what love looks like—” She brings a hand up to wave through the air. “—sitting on rooftops under stars. Breakfast in bed. Underwater kisses.”

Her head canted a fraction.

“They fall in love with the fantasy of themselves falling in love.”

“That’s exactly what it is.” Tseng lips don’t quite reach a smile. He dips his hand into a pocket to retrieve his pack of cigarettes.

“It’s none of my business anyway.”

He slides his last short between his lips, ruminating on how little time life has afforded him to play ‘make-believe’.

“Whatever gets people to sleep at night...”

[lordegrit-blog]

silverxskies:

“Not every kiss need be a masterpiece.” Meia’s attention drifted, lingering on his clenched fist.

“I tend to hold my breath underwater,” She added, her gaze returning to his profile. “You can swim, I take it?”

Meia wondered over his whitened knuckles—was it a fear of water? Or intimacy. Or, perhaps, a third—a fear of socialising.

He can swim and has also mastered the art of playing dead–holding his breath until his throat burns is nothing foreign or strange to his senses.

"No. Not every kiss needs to be a masterpiece but I do think people like to give very simple concepts meaning for little to no reason. "

Tseng tilts his head.

"It's somewhat like narcissism."

[lordegrit-blog]

soberenough:

[  ☢  for @lordegrit – because asks are too small. ]

It was the soft squeak of his office door that would alter the Wutaian to the presence that entered his office, his Second in Command having mastered the ability to move silently.  It was only when Reno collapsed into the chair across from the Directors desk that the trained Turk made any sort of noise, his dirty untied boots haphazardly thrown to rest on Tseng’s desk, his body angled to be near parallel of the office furniture.  Leaning over, the redhead set down two tumbler glasses, which he easily carried with one hand.  His other held a bottle of vodka, top shelf, and after removing the cork with his teeth, spitting it to the far side of the room, the assassin sloppily filled the two glasses, not caring about the liquid that splashed onto the scattered papers.  

“So,” Reno drawled out, his words slow and thick as he leaned back in his chair, pulling a stashed cigarette from behind his ear and placing it between his lips.  “I got good news an’ I got bad news,” the Turk offered up, cupping his hands around the lighter he procured, flicking the flint wheel to light his smoke. “But I ain’t tellin’ ya either ‘til ya finish dat drink… an’ maybe a second.”

Tseng doesn't say anything for a while. He licks his lips, eyes darting between the smoke twisting from Reno's mouth and the wreckage of the alcohol sloshing over the glasses. Like little burning tears, it seeps through the papers and he grimaces.

"Why?" He says dryly.

Within the Turks–within Shinra, nothing is a secret so he wonders why Reno taunts with a habit he had murdered a long time ago. Tseng has the scars to show for his vices and an entire top drawer dedicated to his transgressions. He narrows his eyes, weighs them heavily upon Reno's twinkling foolhardiness.

"If it has something to personally do with you, I don't give a damn."