* ♔ — RUN.

striker kim. i'm not a killer but don't push me.

[ofstrikcrs]

*   ♔   —     - ̗̀    @thewatchdcg​ !

𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐓, 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐀𝐓 𝐀 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐒.  he didn’t anticipate for the bag to be empty  —  how the FUCK did the diamond get taken from a bag that was in aubrey winfield’s hands ALL DAY, anyway ?  —  and he certainly didn’t anticipate the reveal of there being a MOLE in their group. his trust in a lot of people feels shaken. there’s a handful of people who he still can’t bring himself to be suspicious of, but he doesn’t know if that’s because they really DIDN’T do it, or if he just doesn’t want to believe that they COULD. regardless, he can’t bring himself to think for even a moment that thea would be capable of something like this, which is why he shows up at her hotel door with a bag of ice.  “ hey, ”  he greets once the door is opened for him, cautious. just because he isn’t suspicious of thea doesn’t mean that thea isn’t suspicious of him.  “ i saw you get escorted out by a guard that never came back in, so i figured you could use this, ”  he explains, holding the ice up for her to take if she wants it.  “ not to mention that buyer.  hope you got some good punches in, at least, before it all went to shit. ”

[ofstrikcrs]

chvmberlain·:

𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐘, 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐃. he stares down at the purse for what feels like years; the beading suddenly seems tacky and fake, the satin lining lackluster and unflattering. as if holding the false diamond and the note suddenly makes a designer purse into an agent of destruction. perhaps he’s a little dramatic — but, well, he’s upset. maybe he didn’t join this group for the money, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t take pride in what they do. countless hours of research, preparation, going over the same details again and again — for what ? some shitty plastic diamond ? for some… other group ( and that’s a whole other disappointment ) to snatch their prize from right underneath their nose ? and what hurts the most: the fact that matisse or monet or whoever the fuck’s intel came from right inside their own hq. monty stares at the note again, and has the sudden urge to buy a michelangelo sculpture and kick it to pieces. “ well, what the fuck do we do now ? ”

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐓 𝐒𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐓, but he doesn’t need to be one to tell that monty is INCREDIBLY upset. it’s not like striker blames him, he’s angry, too. it’s not like he wanted to spend his whole day schmoozing with aubrey winfield to come out empty-handed. even worse, this failure didn’t come out of nowhere. it wasn’t some chance outcome, some well, there was nothing we could have done about it anyway type of deal. it was orchestrated. they were set up to fail, lured straight into the LION’S DEN  —  and by one of their own. his stomach twists at the idea of ivy, or indie, or violet feeding information of their every move to another group, and he has to shake the thought away before he can dwell on it too much. it isn’t the place OR the time for that.

striker’s anger is usually quiet and calculated and careful. he doesn’t like to make a scene, doesn’t like to show too much to the jury. monty is very much the OPPOSITE. striker can practically see the emotion bubbling up in monty, like he’s about to boil over with it. striker moves before he can think better of it, overcome by instinct and instinct alone, placing a strong hand carefully on monty’s shoulder to ease him down from whatever ledge he’s ended up on.  “ figuring out who the fuck is working against us would be a good place to start. ”

[ofstrikcrs]

deathshalo·:

· · · · · · HE  ISN’T  SURE  ,   EXACTLY  ,   WHAT  POSSESSES  HIM  to  go  on  a  coffee  and  snacks  run  for  the  others  who  are  still  hanging  around  .   he’s  even  less  sure  why  he’s  calling  out  striker’s  name  and  following  his  voice  rather  than  just  telling  someone  else  to  give  the  bagel  and  drink  to  him  .   maybe  it’s  an  attempt  to  show  how  CIVIL  he  can  be  ;   to  showcase  that  just  because  he  doesn’t  like  the  guy  ,   he  doesn’t  actually  care  enough  to  be  spiteful  and  rude  to  him  .   all  he  has  to  do  is  give  striker  his  order  and  leave  ,   anyway  .

and  then  striker  speaks  ,   and  mazzie  has  to  hold  back  a  sigh  .   he  doesn’t  do  well  with  casual  conversation  ,   much  less  something  as  casual  and  lighthearted  as  gardening  ,   and  even  less  with  STRIKER  .   he  just  shrugs  his  shoulders  as  he  reaches  out  the  drink  and  little  paper  brown  bag  .

“  depends  on  how  much  you  wanna  grow  ,  ”   is  all  he  says  ,   although  it’s  a  lot  more  than  even  he  expects  from  himself  .   he  doesn’t  try  to  smile  or  look  polite  and  interested  .   mazzie  does  love  gardening  —  any  and  all  plants  have  his  heart  just  as  animals  do  —  but  he  blames  his  lack  of  emotion  on  getting  no  sleep  in  a  twenty - four  hour  period  .   he  takes  a  deep  breath  and  purses  his  lips  before  surprising  himself  even  more  by  asking  ,   “  what’re  you  planting  ?  ”

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐍 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃  —  at least, he’s keeping as open of a mind as it gets for someone like him.  truth be told, the moment that they opened aubrey winfield’s stupid fucking purse, the one he spent the entire goddamn derby trying to steal, he only had one real suspect on his mind. hungry dogs are never loyal, the note said. sure, that could mean ANYONE in the group, which is why he’s not ruling out anyone ENTIRELY  —  well, aside from the very, very small handful of people who he’s certain couldn’t be behind this whole mess  —  but there’s only one person whose loyalty is being BOUGHT right now. in striker’s eyes, mazzie is as HUNGRY of a dog as they come.

and now, here he is, in striker’s own fucking yard. he has a lot of NERVE showing up here, something of an olive branch in his outstretched hands. only, striker’s not really ready to make peace with him yet. not right now.  really, he has half a mind to take the coffee from mazzie’s hand and dump it out in the space between them, but even he can recognize that’s a little TOO FAR. instead, he takes it, eyes it warily, and sets it down on the ground.  “ if this is meant to be your attempt at sweet-talking me off your trail, you’re doing a really SHIT job of it. ”

[ofstrikcrs]

‘ what’s this between us ? ’  —  @chvmberlain !

soft angst :  ‘ what’s this between us ? ’

the question catches him off-guard, just as monty so often is able to. each and every time, striker stumbles like a baby deer just learning how to walk, like a planet being knocked off its rotational axis, like the goddamn FOOL that he is for monty chamberlain. 

he doesn’t know what to make of it, really. he doesn’t know what kind of answer monty’s looking for, what he wants striker to say. he knows what he would LIKE to say, if he could look monty in the eyes and just tell him EVERYTHING without fear of what the impact might mean, or of the way that the aftershocks might tear apart the foundation that they rest on. 

striker’s never known how to be gentle, how to be soft, how to be delicate. usually, he follows monty’s lead. they move in waves  —  monty calls and striker echoes it back to him response, monty offers and striker reciprocates in equal measure  —  and striker is so fucking CAREFUL to mirror his every motion so he never runs the risk of accidentally swallowing monty whole. he knows that he’s close enough to extinguish him if he’s not cautious enough.

he tries  —  god, he tries so hard  —  but he always feels like he’s one misstep away from ruining everything.

and, still, here they are. monty’s big, beautiful, blue eyes are watching him, almost like he’s SAD, and it’s too much for him to take. he scrubs a hand over his face and heaves a muted sigh into the center of his palm before he looks back to monty. 

the question feels where it rests on his shoulders, between his ribs, rising up in his throat.  WHAT’S THIS BETWEEN US ?  he doesn’t KNOW. 

he thought that the way he took monty’s face between his hands, pressed his lips to his chest above his heart, whispered a quiet déjate querer against his skin was enough to tell monty what he wanted  —  what this MEANS. 

but maybe… maybe there’s a disconnect.  maybe this whole time, it’s never meant the same thing to monty that it’s meant to him. he knows that he can’t EXPECT for monty to feel the same way about him, that he can’t hold him to any hopes or any preconceived ideas of what this all means. that isn’t fair. he won’t do that. he won’t box him in or put him in a cage. he’ll hold out hands to monty, offer him silent permission to take whatever he wants, and he’ll wait. 

it’s harder to do that when monty meets him with a question like THIS. he can try to test the waters, but he doesn’t know how successful he’ll be. still, he takes monty into his arms, tries to smooth out the worried lines on his face with a kiss to his forehead. 

he doesn’t know how to say everything he wants to say without overstepping, without putting too much on monty’s shoulders. 

WHAT’S THIS BETWEEN US ?

(  it’s EVERYTHING. you’re EVERYTHING. ) 

WHAT’S THIS BETWEEN US ?

(  it’s ANYTHING. it can be anything you want, anything you need.  )

he doesn’t say either of those things, though. instead, he relents  —  he caves, like he always does and like he always will  —  and gives a quiet,  “ what do you want this to be ? ”

[ofstrikcrs]

✱ (;  —  @deathshalo​ !

✱ :  take my muse by the hips to carefully move them out of their way.

the feeling of hands on his waist is FOREIGN at best, and enough to make him go on the DEFENSIVE at worst. there are a very, very small handful of people who are permitted to get close enough to striker for such an action to go over without sounding an alarm inside of his mind.

monty could AND would, but striker watches him too closely for him to ever sneak up on him. at the present moment, he’s positioned on the other side of the room and far too engrossed in his story, if the speed at which his lips are moving and the enthusiasm behind the motions of his hands are anything to go by. indie could but knows him well enough NOT TO, always going for a more neutral touch of the shoulder or the elbow if she can, and a quick sweep of the room shows that she’s also within his line of sight. thea could, and though she’s nowhere in his field of vision at the moment, he knows that it’s a very, VERY slim chance that she’s the one behind such an out of place motion. 

unable to stop himself, he shifts his weight and allows himself to turn, shoulders square, to see who is touching him. and, in a surprising turn of events, it’s MAZZIE.

his first instinct is to remove his hands from his waist IMMEDIATELY, but he’s self-aware enough to know that there’s a very good chance he would be unable to perform such an act without immediately drawing attention to them. instead, he takes a shallow breath in through his nose, features pinched as he allows mazzie to carry on. 

that, in and of itself, goes against his very instincts. he can trust mazzie about as far as he can throw him, and he KNOWS that mazzie feels the same goddamn way about him so he’s far from GUILTY over it.

the difference between them is subtle, but ever-present  —  striker’s not the one whose allegiance can be BOUGHT, he’s the one doing the BUYING.

to know that indie and monty and erica all trust mazzie enough to keep him around ISN’T ENOUGH. he trusts his instincts first and foremost, always, and his instincts KNOW that there’s always someone willing to bid higher for something that they really want. the fact that mazzie’s really fucking good at what he does only makes him more dangerous. 

still, they have enough on their plate to worry about right now. every heist seems to pull up as many new things to worry about as there are rewards to cash in, and striker refuses to be the person to set ANOTHER fire for them to fight  —  especially not one that they all have to try and put out from inside the house. it can’t be done.

so, THIS TIME, he allows mazzie to step over the boundary line that striker had drawn between the two of them and he does not protest so loudly. he does, however, lean in a little closer once mazzie has gotten striker where he wants him and allowed himself to slip past. 

“ a simple EXCUSE ME would have been sufficient, ”  he says. the words themselves sound like a suggestion, polite enough on the surface, but the look in his eyes makes it clear that they are nothing more and nothing less than a WARNING.  “ be careful. i think you would find that it’s not as easy to shoot a gun without a hand. i’d hate to see you out of work. ”

[vhsmeme]

touch prompts

with love

with relief

with happiness

with a promise

with an apology

to say goodnight

to say good morning

to protect

for comfort

for luck 

for encouragement

on a scar 

on a falling tear

on a bruise

after a tough day

after a nightmare

after an argument

because you are dying

because i am dying

in a moment of worry

in a moment of anger

in a moment of annoyance

in a moment of sadness

to say hello

to say goodbye

[rp-memes-atyourservice]

Manhandling symbol starters

Send one for your muse to…

★ - drag my muse by the arm ⁂ - grab my muse by the front of their shirt, possibly shoving them back ✱ - take my muse by the hips to carefully move them out of their way ➜ - smack my muse upside the head ⌧ - grip my muse by the back of the neck © - put a hand on my muse’s back to steer them somewhere ✂ - point sternly at a chair and tell my muse to sit down ✉ - push my muse back down when they try to get out of bed (perhaps involving illness, injury, or sleep deprivation) ☛ - press a finger to my muse’s lips to shut them up ♚ - put a hand on my muse’s knee while sitting next to them, to discourage them from standing up ♧ - slap my muse’s hand away from something they shouldn’t touch ♦ - grab my muse’s hair and yank ♤ - slam a door shut before my muse can leave the room ♞ - physically pick my muse up and carry them ♭ - grip my muse’s jaw to make them look yours in the eye ♨ - rub my muse down with a sponge/wet cloth  ☀ - pin my muse with their arms behind their back ☠ - slam my muse into a wall ☾ - wrestle/pin my muse to the ground

Add as much or as little context as you’d like!

[elimemes]

SOFT ANGST STARTERS.

‘stay for me.’

‘what’s this between us?’

‘i don’t want your apology.’

‘you know i have feelings for you.’

‘yeah, i remember the drill.’

‘you’ve never hurt me. ever.’

‘then leave her/him/them. at home.’

‘i don’t believe it.’

‘this is breaking my heart.’

‘you met me at a very strange time in my life.’

‘what keeps you up at night?’

‘i wish you were here.’

‘i let you down.’

‘something strange happened here.’

‘you’re not safe here.’

‘i wasn’t ready to say goodbye.’

‘we are not the same, and never will be.’

‘don’t touch me.’

‘is it my fault?’

‘i’m not like them.’

‘i forgot my name again.’

‘i don’t know who i am.’

‘your fear of looking stupid is holding you back.’

‘are you still alive?’

‘i don’t like being told what to do.’

‘am i making you uncomfortable?’

‘nobody cares if you don’t go to the party.’

‘it was supposed to be fun, and you ruined it.’

‘where the hell are my friends?’

‘stop pretending life doesn’t terrify you.’

[ofstrikcrs]

- ̗̀    𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐍'𝐒 𝟏𝟐   +    𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒋𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒂

JACE HARRISON-SHEA   —   𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑯𝑬𝑹𝑴𝑰𝑻 *   solitude, introspection *   it’s time to step back from the business of day today life and focus on your inner realm. become self aware. your inner fire is ready to be lit… it will shine for ALL to see.   /   @hotwirings​

IVY WANG   —   𝑱𝑼𝑺𝑻𝑰𝑪𝑬 *   decisions, karma *   two cats look directly at you… waiting for you to choose between them. which is right and which is wrong ?  all of your choices affect your life, and SOMETIMES the lives around you, both now and in the future.   /   @agentwang​

MAZZIE YILMAZ   —   𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑯𝑨𝑵𝑮𝑬𝑫 𝑴𝑨𝑵 *   sacrifice, letting go *   be more like the hanged man. find stillness, open your eyes, and use this new perspective to learn something. you’re STUCK here either way.   /   @deathshalo​

STRIKER KIM   —   𝑫𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑯 *   closure, transformation  *   don’t let the drama distract you from the message: something in your life needs to END. it needs closure. this will happen voluntarily or involuntarily.

JUDY FAULKNER PRYCE   —   𝑻𝑬𝑴𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑨𝑵𝑪𝑬 *   healing, renewal *   the great blue heron remains calm and peaceful as she blends the opposing elements of fire and water. the temperance card asks you to be a MODERATOR much like the heron.   /   @ofjudyshcart​

MISCHA DOSTOYEVSKY   —   𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑻𝑶𝑾𝑬𝑹 *   unexpected upheaval *   when the tower card appears, it’s time to brace yourself for a change. the well rooted tree that’s been growing strong for decades is CRASHING down around you. even  though the space is painful and confusing, it will be over soon.   /   @prvntcessa

[ofstrikcrs]

- ̗̀    𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐍'𝐒 𝟏𝟐   +    𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒋𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒂

VIOLET   —   𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑭𝑶𝑶𝑳 *   spontaneity, innocence *   be ready to be called the FOOL. be ready to fall. no matter what people say about you, this is your journey  —  and it’s already begun.   /   @ulltraviiolets

INDIE ASCENCIO   —   𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑯𝑰𝑮𝑯 𝑷𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑺𝑺 *   mystery, psychic wisdom *   sometimes this card appears as a sign to look past the obvious, to find what’s being kept secret or hidden within a given situation. acknowledge the SHADOWS.    /   @ofcatalysis

ERICA WRIGHT   —   𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑬𝑴𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑶𝑹 *   protection, stability *   the emperor suggests reconnecting with the part of you that stands strong and TALL and knows just what to do. with help from the sun, the emperor can see for miles and miles.    /   @mvstermiind

MONTY CHAMBERLAIN   —   𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑺 *   desire, joy *   two geese are mates for LIFE, traveling partners within an expansive sky. the lovers honor and respect each other and with that they can go anywhere.    /   @chvmberlain

PERCY BANKS   —   𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑰𝑶𝑻 *   strong will, triumph *   the chariot is your CONFIDENCE, your will, and your inner warrior. at points in your life when you felt the bliss of achievement, you were riding on his back.    /   @plutomade

THEA JAIN   —   𝑺𝑻𝑹𝑬𝑵𝑮𝑻𝑯 *   mastery of emotions  *   it’s common to think of this card as the roaring, devouring side of the lion. but look again  —  the strength this card suggests is a much DEEPER force that’s found within.   /   @thewatchdcg

[ofstrikcrs]

mvstermiind·:

— TENSION. starting at the base of her spine, coiling around each individual vertebrae, pulling muscles uncomfortably taut while creeping through the entirety of her back, her shoulders, her neck– finally ending at her temple. she couldn’t help but contort her features as the irritating pain that seemed to appear out of nowhere, though erica should have been well aware that it had been lurking below the surface of her skin, permeating each and every part of her body and just waiting for the most inopportune moment to strike. bringing two fingers up to massage the area and closing her eyes, erica let out a soft sigh at the temporary relief it brought, before letting her hand fall to rest on the edge of her chair and feeling that familiar throb return with a slight hiss added to her exhalation.

“fuck,” the muttered curse left her before she could truly think about it, her mind totally and unequivocally absorbed in the next job and what’s to come with it. there’s no time for this, the frustrated thought floated through her head and she wholeheartedly agreed. there wasn’t any time, and she couldn’t falter now. not when her plans had only begun to see fruition.

heaving out a sigh as she pushed herself up off of the seat, erica reached up to card her fingers through her hair in an almost agitated motion. there was too much to worry about, too much at stake… but all she could think of to soothe the ache was drink– or sex. the latter, while there were, admittedly, many options available to her– no. erica could not do that. she refused to allow herself to get even remotely tangled in a connection that could be her downfall, and refused to allow herself to become so involved with any of the people that were supposed to be her coworkers. this was business, after all. she could give them her respect and temporary trust all she liked, but at the end of the day erica still couldn’t be sure who would stick around after (god forbid) a failure in their plans. her plans.

… the bar it was, then. always the bar.

it wasn’t uncommon to find her drinking, alone, at any hour of the day and most of the time the rest of the team seemed to just accept it without question. however, tonight felt… different. off. and perhaps that was on her. despite finishing nearly four glasses of whiskey and a couple shooters of vodka and wallowing in her discomfort for a good hour, she couldn’t manage to shake the feeling. as though it had sunk it’s claws deep into her shoulders, drawing blood and resting heavy on her admittedly small frame. it refused to let go, and she refused to stop trying, an endless struggle that she didn’t want to admit she’d already lost.

the tension was there to stay, and she hated it, along with the many other fears she had over this next job in particular. they wouldn’t come down to kentucky. would they? it– no, they… they wouldn’t…

ugh. that was not a thought she was the slightest bit prepared to be considering.

even as the liquor dulled her senses and her mind, erica wasn’t blind, deaf or dumb to the presence of someone else in the room when they entered it– thank god for that, she was in need of a distraction –but when she heard her name it certainly had a… watery air to it. tipsy, at the very least, the brunette very nearly didn’t acknowledge whomever had called for her attention, quirking an eyebrow and attempting to catch their gaze in the mirrored wall of the bar first.

… oh, for fuck’s sake. she couldn’t see a damn thing, having forgotten her contacts, and her vision blurry beyond five feet. that wasn’t going to help matters.

at the very least, it could only be one of eleven individuals that had access to this place. eleven individuals that she could be (mostly) sure weren’t about to try anything stupid. and after a long moment of frustrated silence, erica hummed quietly, tilting her head just a fraction to let whoever was there know that she was listening and she was aware, before trying her hand at a half-hearted joke; “… forget something at the office?”

𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐀 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊.  his respect is a very fragile thing, at that, something of a fabergé egg. so long as it was handled well there was nothing to worry about, but all it took was one fumble to SHATTER it beyond repair. erica has proven herself time and time again to have nothing but a good handle on striker’s respect, even from the get-go. 

she started off in his good favor having already earned indie’s trust, but it quickly stemmed beyond some sort of respect by proxy. when striker told erica he wasn’t interested, she let him walk away. when indie managed to reroute him and bring him to new orleans, erica somehow managed to offer him a second chance without making him feel like he was caged in or being pushed. when striker leveled with her about his concerns, she listened and met him in the middle. with erica, EVERYTHING was a fair trade, an eye for an eye. 

for striker to give erica his respect as not only a person, but as a leader, says a lot. he’s seen enough terrible leaders  —  those like his father, his brother, the people who believe that they’re entitled to power and have no other ground to stake their claim upon. he knows that things that truly make someone the person in charge  —  like power, and authority, and honor  —  cannot simply be TAKEN. they have to be EARNED. 

erica has earned her position in striker’s eyes, and until she does something to make him think otherwise, she’ll maintain his respect. 

it’s because of that respect that striker carries for her so high in his chest that he permits erica to know so much about him. in some ways, the striker that erica knows is closer to his REAL self than any other iteration of striker seen by anyone else on the team, except for MISCHA. he’s always remained purposefully vague in order to protect himself and to protect everyone else  —  no family names, no faces, no abundance of details  —  but some things she still knows.

she knows that striker has a brother. she knows that his brother is dangerous. she knows that he’s the reason why striker still has obligations to uphold somewhere else. for a while, she knew that striker genuinely felt like he had nothing to fear because he had nothing to lose. now, she’s about to know otherwise.

he knows that her question is an attempt at a joke, but he’s not one for small-talk or for diffusing the tension when he believes that it’s rightfully present. instead of engaging with the remark, he continues his walk forward and settles in a seat beside her at the bar, reaching to pour a glass of whiskey for himself.  “ i was looking for you, actually. i had some things that i wanted to talk about. ”

[ofstrikcrs]

chvmberlain·:

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐌 and holds him, fixing him in place. wide-eyed, monty feels a shiver run down his spine at being called baby yet again — he doesn’t think he could ever possibly get used to that. it’s already become something of a soothing balm: every time striker says it, monty melts, forgetting where he is for a moment in a haze of who, me ? like he can’t quite believe it. when he comes back to himself, he’s softened, his gaze open and trusting. he’s spent so long dancing around striker, touching him so freely — finger walking up his arms, brushing up against him, playing with his fingers, tracing his tattoos — yet now that it’s being actively reciprocated, monty doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. it’s almost as if he’d accepted the fact that he was doomed to pine. it’d be easier, at least, if he was left with the certainty that striker didn’t want him back. now, he’s as unsure as ever. striker wants him in some capacity — he wouldn’t have let him stay here if he didn’t — but the thought that he might not want monty in the same way is a terrible one. 

with every word that striker says, though, he seems to be soothing all of monty’s worries. not in the morning. not ever. it makes his heart sing, but the problem is, monty only half-believes him; the idea of striker wanting to continue this beyond a single night exhilarates him, but he discards the possibility of forever without a second thought. no one has ever wanted him for that long, and he doubts the trend is about to change. he’ll enjoy his time with striker, cling until striker is ready to toss him aside, and he’ll nurse his broken heart all over again. it’s what he always does. he won’t resent him for it — monty knows there’s something in him that makes this happen, over and over. he’s always trying to fix it, but it never quite works. striker will see that wrongness in him, whatever it is that’s prevented everyone else from staying, and he’ll leave. monty tries to hold this reminder in the forefront of his mind, but with striker looking at him the way he is, he can’t help but waver.

in this moment, he decides, he’ll let himself fall into the idea that it’s true. how could he not, with striker’s hand, gentle and firm all at once, curled around his chin ? with his eyes, dark and warm and inviting, holding monty’s own with a steadiness that almost unsettles him with how certain it is ? with his voice, that same soothing rumble he’s become accustomed to over the time they’ve known each other, saying things he’s always dreamt of hearing from someone he’s grown to admire and cherish the way he does striker ? it feels far too good to be true, but monty’s always wanted the fairytale. he’s always been such a sucker.

so he lets himself fall all over again, feeling weightless as he sinks into striker’s touch, every angle of his body crying out to be held. he tips his head forward, pressing their foreheads together gently, and swallows down the lump of emotion in his throat. “ for months ? ” he echoes softly, wanting to hear him say yes, i’ve dreamed about you just as you have of me. monty’s selfish like that; striker could say it a thousand times and he’d never be satisfied. “ striker, i… ” he shakes his head slightly, suddenly at a loss for words. for someone so self-assured, someone who always has something to say, he can’t grasp any of his own emotions and spin them into something coherent. “ i don’t know what to say, ” is what he settles on, quiet and bare of his usual bravado. “ you don’t have to promise me that. i don’t want any promises you can’t keep, ” he insists, relieving striker of any obligation to him before he’s even had the change to form such a thing. monty brushes a thumb over his cheekbone, right over top of his tattoo, cataloguing every detail of striker’s face. he wants to remember not ever for the rest of his life. “ i just want to be here with you. ”

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐎 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐍’𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃, so many things that he doesn’t think he’ll EVER understand about the world and all its dark, ugly tendencies. more than anything, though, he doesn’t understand how someone could look at monty and want to HURT him. striker has been devoting months to trying to figure monty out  —  he’s far from a math problem, but striker’s still determined to solve him, anyway. he makes his careful observations, takes his notes and annotates his margins, and while he’s finally reached a point of being able to tell when monty’s wearing a mask and when he isn’t, he has yet to figure out WHY. he cannot fathom someone getting a glimpse of the monty that’s REAL  —  the monty that softens against his touch, the monty that watches him with wide and trusting eyes, the monty that reaches for him with such tender, careful hands  —  and doing anything but cherish him. that’s the monty that striker is always searching for, the monty whose heart he wants so desperately to hold in his forgiving palms. something dark threatens to rise up in striker’s chest every time he thinks about what could have possibly hurt monty enough to make him hide that part of himself beneath so many layers. 

he’s pulled from his thoughts and back into himself with the simple act of monty’s forehead pressing against his own. after so many years of being deprived of this kind of closeness, striker thought it might be SCARIER. instead, monty’s touch makes him feel like he can breathe again. his eyes flutter for a moment as he fills his lungs, both of his hands finding a new place to rest on monty’s freckled cheeks, thumbs slowly dragging over his cheekbones in a caress that feels a lot like trying to prove this is real, though he’s not sure if he’s trying to prove it to himself or to monty. monty’s words  —  his repeating of for months ?  —  makes a momentary burst of shame seep through his chest, heavy and hot and uncomfortable. it’s only when he’s hearing it for a second time, from someone else’s lips, that he realizes how PATHETIC it sounds. anything he could possibly say  —  since i met you in july, since you let me live with you in november, it’s just been you this whole time  —  would make it WORSE, so instead he settles on a small, wordless nod to show his acquiescence. 

the heat under his skin only subsides when monty follows up a quiet ‘ striker i... ’  with a shake of his head, and then it’s something cold washing over him. a no. it’s a NO. it stands to reason that even monty’s rejections are gentle  —  it’s not in his nature to be anything BUT  —  but it still stings, all the same. he’s ready to withdraw completely when monty starts to speak again and striker recognizes the tone of his voice as something vulnerable. this is real, too. what monty is saying is REAL. striker lets him finish first, encouragingly trailing his fingers down monty’s neck, sweeping over his shoulders and down to his wrists and then back up again, only this time to map their way down monty’s back instead.  “ you don’t have to say anything, not if you don’t want to. but… ”  striker murmurs, gaze carefully fixed on monty’s features in attempt to read them the best he can.  “ but i have plenty of things that i’d like to forget, ”  he reminds monty, voice both quiet and careful in equal measures.  “ not you. never you. ” 

it’s TRUE. his shirt is still halfway unbuttoned, chest bare, where his past remains etched into his skin so that it cannot be forgotten. but he doesn’t want to talk about that right now, he doesn’t want to startle the waters too much. he wants to live in this moment, and this moment alone, for as long as he can. once he can’t any longer, he’ll neatly fold up all his memories of monty and pack them away. he’ll keep them somewhere for only him to see and pull them out when it’s safe to reminisce. and he’ll ACHE  —  god, he’ll ache  —  because it will NEVER be a matter of wanting to forget monty. it’ll be a matter of keeping monty safe, of letting him have a life where he can be free and happy and away from harm. but for now he has him, for now he has THIS, and he’s not inclined to let go of it any time soon.  “ you can stay here with me for as long as you’d like. ”  he leans in as he says it, so close that the words come out half-muffled against monty’s lips, but before he can seal the distance between them entirely, he wraps a strong arm around monty’s waist and pushes them both up the bed. he wants so DESPERATELY to be as close as possible to monty, hovering just above him with his weight balanced carefully on one arm and his other hand ghosting over monty’s side, but first he needs to hear the words.  “ is this okay ? ”  he asks, voice soft as his eyes flick gently over monty’s features.  “ you can say no. ”

[ofstrikcrs]

thewatchdcg·:

thea gives him as disapproving look – only partially meaning it – but finishes off by shaking her head without an actual reply. she’s still sorting through her own increasingly messy feelings about percy, but she certainly doesn’t feel right about continuing to imagine the different scenarios in which she punches him in the face. at least, not in the way she and striker were talking about. she smiles and winks in response to his pointing. ha. 

“doesn’t it look good? i mean, it sounds super fancy, but good fancy. you can pretty much put hollandaise sauce on anything and make it good,” she says, running through the menu another time. thea’s obsession (she’d probably call it a strong interest, but it’s an obsession at its core) with food started off with her baking, but progressively grew into a more general appreciation for everything food related. there was no problem, in her mind, at least, that couldn’t be solved or made a little bit better by food. on her own, she probably would have agonized over the decisions for at least two “have we made any decisions about ordering?”s from the server before settling on one thing and thinking about her other options for the rest of the day. that’s why her eyes light up at striker’s suggestion. it may seem like a small thing, but it meant more than he’d probably ever know. “you sure? i mean, you seem pretty sure, because you suggested it, but you sure? because that would be great. like, absolutely perfect. por que no los dos!” thea’s high school spanish does her no favors in her attempt at repeating the phrase. she makes eye contact with a waiter, and they start heading towards their table. 

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐘 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍, though one might not be able to tell from the surface.  he’s not particularly big on talking about feelings of any sort  —  certainly not his own, and not anyone else’s either  —  but he notices more than he’ll let on explicitly. a handful of lingering looks on both percy AND thea’s behalves led him question, more than once, if there’s something going on there. he doesn’t anticipate asking about it any time soon, though, on the grounds that he’s not AT ALL eager to think about thea and percy being together in any capacity, nor is he prepared to encounter any rebuttal conversations on HIS OWN romantic trysts, which are equally challenging to confront. 

he nods along with thea’s observation of it being fancy  —  it IS a fancy place, but that’s what thea gets for allowing HIM to make the brunch reservation. he’s just glad she hasn’t mentioned the prices yet, as he’s determined to foot the bill regardless of any fight she may put up. any lingering qualms he had towards the lemon ricotta pancakes are laid to rest the moment that thea’s eyes light up at his suggestion, and he’s unable to curb his subtle smile.  “ yes, i’m sure. positive, even. without one single doubt. not even a fraction of a doubt, ”  he declares, reaching across the table to tap his fingers against the top of thea’s hand in assurance. when the waiter begins to head their way, it’s striker whose eyes light up.  he places the both of their orders and then lifts a hand to shield his mouth from her, as though it’ll keep thea from hearing what he says to the waiter as a follow up.  “ it’s her birthday. ”

[ofstrikcrs]

ulltraviiolets·:

At first, Violet isn’t what to make of the picture in front of her: Striker down on his knees with a shovel, padding it at a mound of dirt. For some reason, her first instinct is to giggle. To suppress it, she simply stares him down and takes another sip of the lemonade in her to-go cup–with a small cough to choke it down. Her second instinct, of course, is to fuck with him. “Right, a garden,” she winks, lifting up her full hands to give a weak quotation marks. “Nah. For a garden it needs to definitely be a little wider. And deeper. At least six feet, I think. Not that I’d have any experience with, uh, gardening.” 

Before he can reply, she sticks out her arm to offer him the paper bag in her other hand. “Here’s your order, by the way. I think about half your fries are left. I ate all of mine on the ride back and was still hungry so I dug into yours.” After he takes it, she plops down on the dirt and sits criss-crossed, both hands now wrapped around her lemonade cup, the straw clearly covered in chew marks. “Really though, Striker, I don’t think it’s a good idea to bury any bodies in the yard. Just saying.” 

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐀 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐘 𝐇𝐔𝐅𝐅, turning to narrow his eyes at violet as she critiques his work.  “ exactly... what DO you know about gardening ? ”  it isn’t that he’s inclined to NOT believe her, more that she is, more often than not, trying to fuck with him. he really should call judy, if he wants any decently reliable advice about plants, but violet does have the tendency to be a wild card, and striker knows all about being underestimated. there’s a possibility she could be right.  “ how wide ?  and it is DEEP, i dug it a up, turned it over, ”  he states, matter of a fact, rotating his finger in a circular motion to signify the action.

striker takes the bag from her outreached hand, almost grateful. he might ACTUALLY be grateful if she hadn’t eaten part of it, but he hadn’t really expected anything else.  “ it’s a wonder you brought anything back at all, given your devotion to eating ANY food of mine. ”  with that, he takes a seated position, himself, reaching for the towel he’s brought out to better wipe off his hands before digging into his fries.  “ pity you think that, champ. i was thinking that your grave could be a good trial run. ”

[ofstrikcrs]

chvmberlain·:

𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐒𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐋𝐘, overcome with an urge; his fingers fumble with the buttons on striker’s shirt, unabashedly eager. he’s been thinking about this since he first saw him in this suit tonight — fucking blue glitter, is striker kidding, the audacity of it — but he digresses. once he manages to get his clumsy hands to cooperate, monty unbuttons the first few buttons of striker’s shirt, glancing up every so often as if to ask is this okay ? once he’s reached far enough, his purpose is made CLEAR. the L he’d seen for the first time only a couple of weeks ago is laid bare before him once more; monty is just as horrified as the first time, but he keeps that tucked away, hidden and safe where striker won’t see it played out on his face. instead, the corners of his mouth tilt upward slightly, a small, secret smile just for striker before he tips his head down. 

the first kiss he brushes across the scar is soft and barely-there: i know this is here. don’t hide it from me. an acknowledgement, he thinks, is the least he can do after ten months of blissful ignorance. he presses another kiss to his skin a moment later, more firmly this time: i’ll take care of you, if you’ll let me. he can’t speak it aloud, lest too many things tumble out of him and drive striker away, so he pours his heart into this quiet devotion instead. the last kiss is gentle, sweet: let me. please let me. 

he lifts his head again, and lifts his hands to match, cradling striker’s face like he’s something precious. “ a fitting frame for a work of art, ” he says, only half-teasing. the words are barely above a whisper, as if he’s afraid any sudden moves or loud sounds will startle striker out of whatever spell he’s under. monty doesn’t ever want this to end, not now that he’s waited so long. but now that he’s opened his mouth, he can’t seem to stop; this is what he was so afraid of, admissions tumbling out of him with reckless abandon. “ you have no idea… ” he drags a fingertip over the line of striker’s jaw, over his bottom lip, kissing him once more to follow the touch before he continues. “ how many times i’ve thought about this. ” 

they’re still fully clothed, but monty feels naked. it’s the nakedness of being seen, of knowing that someone can peel back every layer and see your thoughts and intentions. he hates it and craves it in equal parts. the worst part: he’s not even quite sure what striker will find, if he dares to look. if he’ll hate what’s underneath as much as monty does. “ if i’m embarrassing myself, please don’t tell me, ” he says, accompanied by a soft huff of a laugh, self-deprecating on purpose. if he’s the one to soften the blow, maybe it’ll make it easier. it won’t, he knows it won’t, but still he hopes. it’s something of a fatal flaw — setting himself up to be disappointed, over and over again. yearning for something he knows he can’t have. for someone who has access to damn near everything he could ever want, monty spends so much of his time chasing the few things he doesn’t. “ just… kiss me now and forget about me tomorrow. that’d be alright. ”

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐒, though only for one terrible, slow moment, when monty pulls away from him so abruptly. his immediate thought is that he’s done something WRONG and he eases himself away from monty for a moment, loosens his grip on him, holds his breath. it only takes a couple beats for monty to assert that he’s OKAY, his hands finding their way to his shirt and struggling with his buttons. this time, striker DOES pulls his hands away from his hips, instead moving to ghost over top of monty’s own. the action isn’t meant to stop him, but instead to reassure him. carefully, he drags his fingers across the distance between his knuckles and his wrists, a silent promise that he’s okay to slow down, to take his time. striker doesn’t have any intention of tearing monty’s suit off of him, anway. if this is it  —  if this is what monty’s been waiting for, if this is the point where the thrill of the chase wears off and he’s no longer exciting to monty, if this is the only chance he gets  —  then he’s going to take his time and cherish every second of it. he’s not so sure if monty shares that desire, but he still finds himself nodding his consent each time that monty looks up at him to find it. 

when monty’s motions stop, it’s with striker’s shirt half-undone and he has to physically resist the urge to curl in on himself at the sight of his scar on display. instead, he forces himself to lean back on one arm and offer MORE of himself to monty, his free hand encouragingly carding through his hair. he’d assumed that monty hadn’t FORGOTTEN about it, but he’s still caught off guard by monty’s quick desire to expose it again. the thing about the L burned into his chest is that it’s one of the few injuries inflicted on him that’s served its purpose properly. it’s a reminder of who he is  —  of who belongs to  —  and it’s a reminder of why he’s spent so many years keeping EVERYONE at a distance. he’s set his boundaries, built his walls, and so stubbornly adhered to his own rules. and now monty’s touching him so tenderly, pressing his lips against the very part of him that most signifies why he could never be the person monty deserves, and somehow he can’t help but wonder if he’s been WRONG this whole time. 

it’s a lot to process, and he takes a moment to recover from the sudden onslaught of tender vulnerability. he doesn’t speak, at first, even though he so adamantly believes that the only work of art to be seen is most certainly monty. instead, he carefully turns his head just far enough to be able to press his lips to monty’s open palm and hopes that it conveys even a fraction of what he’s feeling. in its entirety, he knows that its far too much to even come near explaining with words or actions, alike, but he’s not trying to drown monty in all of it, anyway. all he needs right now is to be SEEN. his lips curl into something like a smile, though a sad one, at the irony of monty’s next statement. the mere idea of having spent the last ten months looking at ANYONE but him is almost laughable. still, there’s something earnest about his words and his eyebrows furrow slightly as he watches his features, as though they’ll give way to any answers of just how long monty has wanted this. as expected, he comes up short, and all he can do is lean back into his space again, pressing a kiss to his lips, his cheek, his jaw. carefully, very carefully, he murmurs a soft  “ i think i do, ”  against his skin.

he’s startled by the sound of a breathy laugh tinged with bitterness, eyebrows knitting together as he tries to wrap his head around monty’s words. he pulls his head away slowly so that he can look at his features, already starting to shake his head before he can process the action. why monty would think that he’s EMBARRASSING himself is beyond him, honestly, but it doesn’t matter. he doesn’t need to understand his thinking in this moment  —  that can come LATER  —  all he needs right now is to assure him otherwise.  “ monty, ”  he murmurs, hand settling on his cheek to try and carefully catch his gaze.  “ monty, BABY. ”  any other soothing words he has die in his throat the moment that monty suggests that striker FORGET about him. his fingers carefully, carefully catch his chin and wait a moment to be sure that monty is looking at him before he speaks. he used to find it unnerving, the way that monty holds eye contact like he’s looking right into your soul. now he relishes in it. now he thinks that he would happily bare his whole soul to monty without question, if that’s what he wanted.  “ you are NOT embarrassing yourself, okay ?  and i’m not… ”  he swallows, gives his head a tiny shake. there’s a very fine line that separates the things that he wants to say and the things that monty wants to hear, and he very well knows that he’s likely about to cross it.  he knows just as well that once he starts saying them, they can’t GO BACK, and he has to brace himself for the worst  —  for the blow of a rejection he wasn’t ready to stomach today.  “ i’m not going to forget about you. i’ve been thinking about this for MONTHS, i don’t WANT to forget about it. i don't want to forget about you. not in the morning. not ever. ”

[ofstrikcrs]

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐀𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐃, and, oddly enough, it’s with his hands covered in dirt. “ i'm out back ! ”  he calls, pulling himself to a standing position. growing up in city meant that striker had little to no experience with yards in general, let alone with yard work. and yet, for some reason, he’s gotten it into his head that a garden is his next great endeavor. maybe he’s just BORED and in need of a hobby. “ you think this is big enough ? ”  he asks, not elaborating or looking to turn at who is joining him, too busy waving the end of his shovel towards the bed of dirt he’s spent most of the day turning over.  “ for a garden, ”  he clarifies, wiping his hands on his shorts before turning to look back, expectantly.  “ should i make it bigger ? ”

[ofstrikcrs]

thewatchdcg·:

thea’s tempted to protest, but ultimately decides it’s better not to. striker was the one who was nice enough to have brunch with her, and it’d probably be more rude to keep arguing about it. “it’s only kind of okay to joke about it because he’s fine!”  she added with a distressed look. striker’s enthusiasm was hard to fight, though, and soon enough she found herself smiling along with him. she likes that he can bring that sort of playfulness out in here. taking everything super seriously got tiring. “she probably would. i can ask her, if you want. consider it a birthday present.” alright, maybe she hadn’t dropped the subject entirely, but now she felt comfortable in the amount of times she’d mentioned it to leave it alone. she picks up her menu and scans it quickly. the paper is thicker and heavier than she expected, and runs a hand thoughtfully underneath the cursive lettering. fancy. “it all looks awesome. i feel like my biggest issue with breakfast is having to choose between sweet and savory. like, i’m in the mood for…” she peered back down at her menu for an example. “lemon ricotta pancakes? or do i want to eat crab cake eggs benedict? it’s an impossible choice.”

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐀 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐀𝐔𝐗-𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓, shaking his head when thea insists that percy is FINE following the scrape up.  he’s not entirely convinced that he’s walked away from it completely unscathed, though  —  he has a fair little bit of muscle mass on percy and HE has been on the receiving end of some blows from thea that were enough to knock him down for a good few minutes.  “ was he ?  you should hit him HARDER next time, ”  he muses, lips quirked in amusement. and, then, because thea does seem a little distraught over the whole matter, he adds,  “ i’m kidding. well, i’m mostly kidding. ”  she gets him back in another beat, bringing his birthday up AGAIN and he points his finger at her across the table once more in what’s certainly an empty threat. he nods along as she voices her concerns over brunch. he doesn’t have that same problem, always preferring a savory dish, but he can see where brunch would pose such an issue for someone who didn’t share his preferences.  “ i was looking at the crab cake eggs benedict, ”  he notes, eyes scanning the menu to try and find the aforementioned lemon ricotta pancakes. he’s not a fan of sweet things, but it IS thea’s birthday and lemon ricotta doesn’t sound like the WORST thing in the world...  “ why don’t i get the eggs benedict and you get the pancakes and we can split them both. por que no los dos, right ? ”