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#I never start a tag meme and I always wanted to kinda

sovhina · 1 year

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A wip Wednesday on Wednesday bc it gives me the illusion of productivity anyway here’s my first official doodles of 2023✨! I can’t wait to finish them it’s my mc, Tana, Hadrian and Alessa from anathemafiction’s IF the Golden Rose!

I’m gonna tag @coldshrugs @impossible-rat-babies @laaskrin and @brambeag no pressure ofc! <33

#the golden rose #oc: tatiana romanus #ch: hadrian #ch: alessa #wip #wip wednesday #wip whenever #I never start a tag meme and I always wanted to kinda #and I wanted to post something in general bc I get anxious when I don’t lol #also I’m really proud of these lines so far

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ugh-yoongi · 2 months

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the very last thing i decide | pjm

(or, the one in which a love exists that's easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.)

✘ PAIRING jimin x f. reader ✘ SUMMARY you learn what it means to love with blood on your hands. ✘ GENRE hitman/assassin au; angst, smut ✘ RATING explicit. minors dni. ✘ WARNINGS they are both hitmen (hitpeople?) so there's all the content that goes along with that: violence, death, mentions of blood (a lot) and weapons, murder, but no explicit gore. everyone is morally grey at best and downright psychotic at worst (especially yoongi). reader gets stabbed. no one knows how to be a functional human being. swearing, smoking, light smut (penetrative & oral sex), miscommunication and unrequited love but not really, i drop a classic tumblr meme in a line of dialogue. ambiguous/hopeful ending!! some of the themes here are kinda heavy and i am not entirely sure how to tag them so if you have any questions pls don’t hesitate to ask! ✘ WORDCOUNT 12k ✘ LISTEN TO manchester orchestra - telepath ✘ THANK YOU i cannot remember everyone i’ve showed this to over the years. @the-boy-meets-evil for looking this over and brainstorming with me today. @hot-soop for always being a help. @effortandmore because you told me an embarrassingly long time ago this was worth finishing. and i’m pretty sure i also sent this to @jihopesjoint at some point too. i did a quick edit of this on my own, but after nearly three years i just wanted it posted and out of my wips so i'm sure i missed things. pls ignore them. ✘ AUTHOR'S NOTE fic drops two days in a row?? who am i?? i started this in may 2021 and it was supposed to be a simple pegging fic. i abandoned it bc i was convinced no one would want to read it. between today and yesterday i have written thousands of words and made it across the finish line. i hope you like it. the violence is a metaphor for love or whatever.

[37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA]

Jimin’s hair had been red the first time he met you.

How fitting, he thinks, considering he’s currently bleeding out on a table.

Well, there’s still a bit of fight left in him. He hasn’t lost consciousness yet, which he assumes is a good sign; he can still hear Hoseok barking out orders quite clearly. The edges of his vision are fuzzy and the pain in his abdomen is sharp and unrelenting, but he still has enough brain power left to wish he’d died instead.

Because you’d saved his life. And now he’s further indebted to you.

(Jimin never leaves a debt unpaid, but he’s not sure how to make even on something like this.)

Jungkook and Taehyung are fetching supplies faster than Hoseok can ask for them. Two pairs of frazzled, spaced-out eyes. Four sets of trembling limbs. Namjoon’s wearing burn marks into the floor, his cuticles bloody and nearly worried to the bone since he can’t keep them out of his mouth.

And then there’s you.

Sitting cross-legged in a chair as you scroll through your phone. Jimin’s blood is still drying on your hands, leaving smears as you drag your thumb back and forth across the screen, and this doesn’t seem to faze you one bit.

Behind you, Yoongi takes a seat at the piano and starts playing Toccata and Fugue in D minor, and Jimin simply cannot die like this. He can’t die on a wooden table in a room with a piano on which Min Yoongi is playing Baroque organ pieces.

“What is this, a fucking funeral?” Hoseok snaps, though there’s a desperation creeping into his tone that Jimin does not like, does not want to hear. “Cut it out, Yoongi.”

Said man staunchly ignores the doctor, transitioning flawlessly into the fugue. Jimin barely hears the tinkle of your laughter but he hears it all the same, and he wants to pretend it doesn’t calm him, bring him back down to earth when he starts drifting too far away. But you do, and it does, and all he can think about is: will you miss him if he dies? Will it take you long to wash his blood from your hands?

Hoseok’s absolutely incensed, pushed to the limits of his stress at the thought of not being able to save Jimin’s life, and Jimin appreciates this, really, but not when Hoseok pushes two gloved fingers deep into the wound in his stomach so hard all he can do is cry. “Yoongi—”

You snort. You don’t even look up from your phone.

Namjoon, for all his leadership and stoicism and poise under pressure, is just as frantic and panicked as the rest. It’s not everyday one of his people is inches from death ten feet away from him. Most people usually die in the shadows. Kim Namjoon has faced down death more times than most, yet watching the life slowly fade from Jimin’s eyes is too much even for him. “Yoongi, please—”

But the fugue keeps going, tempo change after tempo change, the two pillars of this organization spiraling completely by the time the coda starts, unfocused and sweating and praying. To gods they don’t believe in, to hope, to chance—whatever and whoever might be listening. Jimin usually loves hearing Yoongi play. It’s the only thing that humanizes him, and Jimin had spent so many restless nights shoulder to shoulder with him on that exact bench in the blue hours of the early morning, hypnotized by the way the older man’s knobby fingers moved across the keys.

This is it, he thinks.

Jimin’s going to die with Toccata and Fugue in D minor playing in the background.

He’s imagined his death so many times. Stupid not to in this line of work. Violent, quick and painless, in his sleep, drawn out and gory, a message. And in all of those scenarios, it’s either jarringly silent or there’s someone screaming. Usually him, sounding much like he is now, two fingers stuck in his gut. In all of those scenarios, Min Yoongi is never playing Bach as everything fades to black.

You sigh. “Shut the fuck up, Yoongi,” you say, your tone as blasé and inconvenienced as ever.

Shocked at your audacity, one of Yoongi’s fingers slips and hits the wrong key, something dissonant and metallic as it rings out. But the music stops all the same, the silence nearly giving Jimin whiplash. Now he can hear the clinkof Hoseok’s tools, the squelching of his wound, Jungkook’s desperate pleading for him to just be alright, please God, just hang on. He wants the music back. He doesn’t want Jungkook’s crying to be the last thing he hears. Doesn’t want the sound of his own organs imprinted into his memory.

“What’d you say?” Yoongi asks, because no one talks to him that way. They wouldn’t dare. Most people try not to talk to him at all.

But you do.

And, inexplicably, Yoongi listens.

You roll your eyes. “You go deaf in your old age? I said shut the fuck up. Hoseok’s two knuckles deep in Jimin’s fucking stomach and you’re over there having your little Amadeus moment.”

He bristles. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” Yoongi repeats, and Jimin can’t see him, but he knows his eyes are narrowed, lips pulled back in a snarl, fists clenched at his side.

“Oh, princess,” you coo, and Yoongi’s fury is palpable, permeates every inch of this place, overrides all the fear and anguish. “I’m talking to you, baby. I know Jiminie’s busy trying not to die and that’s stressful for all of us, but please do try to keep up.”

Jimin hears the flick of Yoongi’s switchblade. Then he hears him say, “Please let me fucking kill her,” in that lazy Daegu drawl of his, like forming full words are beneath him. Not worth the effort when they’re directed at you.

Still seated, you uncross your legs and, through blurred vision, Jimin watches you grab Yoongi by his belt loops to tug him closer, grab the wrist that holds his knife and press it to your own throat. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Yoongi. Be a good boy and make it hurt.”

Jungkook’s near hysterics at Jimin’s side. “What the fuck is wrong with you two? He’s dying!”

Jimin tries to say I’m not, Kookie, I’m okay but the pressure on his abdomen is too intense. He can barely breathe, and Hoseok’s still digging around, still looking for that stupid fucking bullet, had to do something and do it quick so there’d been very little anesthetic and finesse, and he’s silently screaming for someone to just comfort Jungkook, tell him everything’s going to be okay, but instead—

“Serves him right for being a fucking idiot,” you say, words muffled by the knife still pressed to your throat. “What a painful, permanentlesson in not forgetting your fucking vest.”

“Stop it!” Jungkook sobs, fingers ghosting along Jimin’s matted fringe.

Yoongi’s still scowling. “Just say the word, Joon-ah. I’ll make it quick.”

You actually laugh at that. The kind of full-belly laugh Jimin would kill to be able to produce. “You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

Someone snarls. Probably Yoongi. “You’d look so good gutted on the floor like a fish,” he replies, and if Jimin knows him at all, he knows he’s got that dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. The one he always gets when he’s about to kill—the one that makes him so unhinged and dangerous. “Left there to bleed out and die all alone like the trash you are.”

No one’s survived that look before, but you just grin, as if being on the receiving end of it is nothing more than another simple inconvenience. “Do it, then,” you prompt. “You’re so big and bad, yet here you are, waiting for Namjoon’s permission like some kind of pathetic fucking dog.”

“I’m no one’s dog.”

Your eyes slowly flick over to Namjoon. “No?” you ask, smile widening as Jimin watches you drag your heeled foot up the inside of Yoongi’s calf, his thigh, stiletto coming to rest in the center of his sternum. “That’s a shame, princess. That pretty neck of yours was just made for a collar.”

There’s no doubt in Jimin’s mind now that he actually died back in that penthouse and is now residing in whatever level of hell is watching you give his associate a semi despite him being a millisecond away from murdering you.

Yoongi would do it, too. No hesitation. You’ve been on his shit list for as long as Jimin can remember, and you’ve been daring him to put his money where his mouth is and just kill you already for just as long.

Taehyung groans. “Can you two just fuck already so the rest of us can be spared of this?”

You click your tongue, tone melting like butter. You’re fond of Taehyung, soft on him. “No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie, and god does that hurt his little feelings.”

Your wicked smile gives away nothing—whether you’re telling a bold truth or just unnecessarily needling Yoongi further—but Jimin’s caught off guard and chokes on your words nonetheless.

Hoseok’s forceps still digging around in his stomach, there’s a quiet hurrah of triumph as he finally locates the bullet. Jimin feels nothing as he retrieves it and plucks it out, a reverberated clank! as he drops it into a kidney dish, your words the anesthetic he’s needed as they play on a loop in his head.

When he finally blacks out, either from the pain or the adrenaline or both, it’s your face that greets him. He never gets the chance to tell you why he forgot his vest.

[64.1466° N, 21.9426° W | Reykjavík, ICELAND]

Jimin’s hair is blue when it happens the first time.

It’s November. Namjoon has sent the two of you to Reykjavik and it’s dark all the time, the midnight hue of his hair blending into the impenetrable nighttime that surrounds you. Jimin works best like this—out of sight, part of the shadows. He’s light on his feet, lithe in ways no one else is, not even you, and he’s impossible to anticipate under the cover of darkness.

That’s why Jimin always takes care of the appetizers.

It’s your job to clean up the main course.

The two of you are two halves of the same lethal coin, working together flawlessly after years of carefully honed practice. Jimin slams an unsuspecting man’s head into a wall and you’re right behind him to put a bullet in it.

It’s just how it goes.

And he trusts you. He has to, otherwise he would’ve gotten taken out years ago. You’re not always in his line of sight, but he always feels you, senses your movements before you’re even on your feet. The times it’s gone wrong—and it’s gone wrong so many fucking times, despite how cautious and skilled the two of you are—you’re always right there to catch him before he even hits the ground. Just like a ghost, as if your only purpose in life is keeping Jimin safe and alive.

(It isn’t, but it sure feels that way.)

Tonight it’s another hit carried out in an overpriced penthouse overlooking the northern shore. You’re in and out, don’t waste a second more than you need to. Jimin doesn’t spare a glance at the carnage left behind. Nothing he hasn’t seen a hundred times before. All blood bleeds the same, but he still wonders, foolishly, if his looks different to you. If it feels wrong when it stains your hands and seeps into your clothes.

Jimin has never been covered in your blood before, but he likes to think it would.

The two of you don’t speak until you’re in the quiet safety of yet another hotel room, chain lock thrown across the door, deadbolt secured. A small arsenal of weapons is retrieved from ankles and waistbands and cleaned and packed away meticulously. Jimin’s the one who makes the call to Namjoon, tells him in code that the job’s done. You’ve barely broken a sweat, but under the fluorescent light of the bathroom, Jimin can see a small smattering of blood just along your temple when he closes the distance between you.

Someone else’s, of course.

Anyone who made you bleed your own blood wouldn’t be a quick, clean kill. Jimin would make sure of that.

There’s less to be done about the half-inch scar in the hollow of your throat—a pearlescent reminder of the twin scar he has just below his navel; a callback to the day your devilish mouth said the words Jimin can’t stop thinking about.

“No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie.”

Maybe it’s stupidity. Maybe it’s the feral, years-long build up that’s been simmering between the two of you—low enough to keep warm, contained enough to never evolve into a rapid boil. Maybe Jimin’s just finally desperate enough to go seeking out answers to questions he’s far too scared to put a voice to.

(Really, Jimin knows it’s adrenaline. Nothing more than chemicals. The two of you high on it, heads floating above the clouds. Powerless; or, at the very least, indifferent to stop the very clear path that’s unfolding on the ground below.)

But, god, he needs to know.

Needs answers.

Needs to know if there’s even a chance you feel it, too: the magnetic ebb and flow the two of you have been dancing around for years. If you see how fondly he looks at you. If you have any idea how easy it is for him to get lost in you. If you know he’d let someone put a bullet between his eyes before he placed his life in the hands of anyone else.

Jimin knows he loves you. He’s known it for a long time, just like he knows all those other things that are second nature to him. Loving you is easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.

At least that’s what he’d thought. Until your devilish mouth said those devilish words and sent him into a tailspin he’s yet to recover from.

You have to feel it. God, can’t you? The way the air crackles between you. The way his skin ignites with a simple look from you. The trembling of his fingers at his sides, desperate to just reach out and touch you—fingers that have been bathed in blood, that have taken life. Fingers that now just want to graze softly across your cheekbones, catch on your bottom lip. Fingers that want to hand you the world on a silver platter. Jimin would do anything for you, give you whatever you wanted. You wouldn’t even have to ask.

Can’t you feel that?

He needs to know.

Jimin is composed, elegant. He kills with grace and still maintains as much of his softness as he can. Isn’t ruled by emotion the way Yoongi and Jungkook are. But now, as he teeters on the edge of the unknown, all he wants to do is jump. Wants to buck all his training, all his resolve and forethought, and jump.

“Did you mean it?” he asks, voice thick. Fingers curl into the expensive silk of his shirt just so they have something to do—something to keep them from reaching out and touching you. “Back in Seoul.”

You’re the smartest person Jimin knows. When you ask, “Did I mean what, Chim?” he knows you’re fucking with him. Dragging this out. You know exactly what he’s asking and he knows you’ll never give anything away so easily.

“What you said to Taehyung,” he answers.

You tsk, eyebrows raising in intrigue. As much as Jimin trusts you, as well as you know him, know all those dirty, dirty secrets he’d never tell anyone else, he’s never been so bold with you. “That those long fingers of his would look good wrapped around my throat? Yeah, I meant that.”

Jimin’s jaw clenches at your taunt. “Don’t play games with me.”

A smirk graces your lips. “Trust me, sweetheart,” you say, voice sickly-sweet as the affection starts popping at the last seams holding him together, “if I wanted to play with you, there’s nothing you could do to stop it.”

With Jimin pressed into the wall behind you, you turn to meet his eye in the mirror. Another smile, teeth bared as you run your tongue across your lips, and this one is his undoing. Makes his cock twitch in his dress pants. Makes him bold. “Do you want to, then?” He takes a step forward—close enough to smell the gunpowder stuck to your clothes, your hair. Close enough for the sulfur and metal to sting his nostrils each time he breathes you in. “Do you want to play with me?”

You love Jimin. Maybe it’s a trauma bond or the implicit, unwavering trust the two of you have in one another, but you know you love him limitlessly. But you also know you can’t love him the way he loves you, the way he deserves to be loved by someone, which is why your mask slips as you say, “I can’t give you what you want, Jimin.”

You try to make him understand that. Really, you do—because Jimin is the smartest person you know, and you know he’s thought about every possible consequence down to the most minute detail and has decided this is worth it anyway. You want to believe in something the way Jimin believes in you, even though he’s wrong. You want something worth throwing all of this away for.

Maybe it’s Jimin, maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just been so fucking long since someone has looked at you with any gentleness in their eyes at all that when Jimin meets your gaze and says, “I don’t want anything more than you’re willing to give,” you take his hand and jump, too.

And there’s nothing gentle about the first time.

It’s all raw, urgent need, Jimin trying desperately to convince himself it’s more than it is while you convince yourself it’s less.

It’s the two of you finally giving up and giving in, letting yourselves be pulled taut by that invisible string tying you together.

It’s Jimin’s sharp intake of breath when you fully step out of your clothes, the sight rendering him immobile. Whatever plans he’d had before seeing the curves of your body, all the scars from years of working by his side, the mottled yellow-greens and purples from the bruises lining your skin—he has no plans now. Can barely think. Wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away from you with a gun to his head.

It’s the final bricks of the wall he’d built around himself—around his heart, around all those words and feelings he’d never put a voice to—crumbling into ash at his feet. Now he knows he can’t go back. Can’t return to a reality where this isn’t his truth. Where there’s no you and him, him and you. Where it’s just a physical exchange, a give-and-take, tit for tat.

And god, he knows he shouldn’t think like this; knows he’s keeping the truth buried somewhere deep behind lock and key.

…But now that he knows how it feels to move inside you, what else is he supposed to do?

You’re everywhere. Clenched around him. Your taste on his tongue. The feel of you on the pads of his fingers. The smell of you making a mockery of all logical thought. No—no, he can’t do a goddamn thing to stop the avalanche now it’s started.

“Fuck,” he whines, fingers digging into your hips. The soft skin he finds purchase in such a contrast from your hardened exterior, but Jimin knows. He knows you, knows the person behind the mask, sees straight through you each time it slips.

What stared back at him had always been just out of reach.

Taunting him.

Screaming come and get me, come make me yours, come and fucking take what you want.

Until now.

Now it’s tangible. Now it’s breathy, fractured moans that echo off tile walls. Now it’s the sound of his name thatleaves your lips like a prayer. Now it’s the sheen of sweat that covers both of you. Now it’s nails scraping down his back, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

(And Jimin won’t tell you this, but those red welts are proof that this is real, this happened, and later on when he’s alone, when his mind is working overtime, he’ll look at them and he’ll smile. Because they’re real. Because this happened.)

Now, it’s the way blue becomes his favorite color. Because he can see his reflection in the mirror as he unravels and comes to his own demise as he spills inside of you; can see the fluorescent lights reflecting off the hue of his hair.

Jimin’s hair is blue when he realizes he’s in love with you.

[34.6037° S, 58.3816° W | Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA]

Jimin is blond when Namjoon sends you to South America.

The details had been scarce: a diplomatic advisor with a rap sheet of human rights violations that have been continuously swept under the rug and his equally-corrupt lawyer. A candid photograph paperclipped to another manila folder, Namjoon a fan of all those old cliches. Likes being a little cheeky that way when he can get away with it, because god knows he can’t get away with much, doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.

It’s a simple job. You and Jimin will have it dealt with in a matter of hours. Less if you’re lucky and the universe is agreeable. But the humidity sticks to your skin, has sweat seeping into your clothes and rolling down your temples, and if there’s one thing you can’t stand it’s the heat. Makes it hard to think. And Namjoon—Namjoon, who makes sure all of his agents want for nothing—is a cheap bastard. Rarely approves nice lodging, says it’s too risky despite your arguments to the contrary, that people don’t care what you do when you have money, so you’re stuck in some shithole motel room with an aircon unit that keeps blowing out stale, warm air.

And maybe you shouldn’t, maybe you should be more cognizant of Jimin and all his feelings, but it’s fucking hot, so you peel your shirt over your head and undo the button of your pants. Sit on the edge of the bed and try to think about anything other than the temperature, how it’s starting to prick uncomfortably at your skin.

Jimin clears his throat, keeps his eyes glued to the disgusting carpet. “Got a text from Seokjin-ssi,” he says, words strained. “Looks like they’ll be solo jobs.”

You groan. Leave it to Seokjin to change the plan at the last minute. “Tell Kim Seokjin he’s a useless piece of shit.”

“Done. Anything else?”

“Tell Kim Namjoon if he ever sends us to South America in the summer again I’ll kill him myself.”

Jimin has a laugh like an anodyne. A laugh that takes all those broken, bleeding parts of you and soothes over them like a balm. “Seokjin-ssi says he’s not passing along that particular message.”

“Tell him he’s a bitch, then.”

“He’ll kill me if I say that.”

“He hasn’t done field work in years and he’s probably too vitamin D deficient to leave the basement. He couldn’t even kill a fucking rat.”

There’s another laugh. More forced, less tinkling. You recognize it right away, the sound of anxiety. Solo jobs aren’t common for the two of you. For Yoongi and Taehyung, sure, but not you and Jimin. You’re a team for a reason, and though you’re more than capable of getting this done and out of the way, it doesn’t feel right. Settles in your gut like something rotten, knowing you’ll be without Jimin.

And you know he’s thinking it, too. How he turns the burner over and over in his hands, as if there’s some combination of words he can send back to Seoul to get Seokjin and Namjoon to reconsider. Plans don’t change often; not like this, anyway. These have been declared solos for a reason, and that’s a thought you can’t linger on too long.

“Are they leaving it up to us?” Jimin nods, still not meeting your eye. “Do you have a preference?”

He shrugs, tossing the phone on the small table in the corner. Nothing else to be done. “Not really. What do you think?”

“Nah, don’t care, either. Just toss me one.”

Santiago Aguirre… 47 years old… Resides in a high-rise luxury apartment in Retiro…

Your eyes skim the file, study the black and white photograph of the lawyer. Read over the list of all his high-profile, degenerate clients and all their high-profile crimes. You read about the previous attempts on his life, the seemingly never-ending list of people who want him dead. Your eyes go back to his photograph, frowning at the smug look on his face. What stares back at you is a man who thinks he’s invincible, who thinks a penthouse apartment on the top floor and a security team in the lobby means he’s impervious to harm. A man who has made money off people just like him: dirty, corrupt, hands stained red.

“Okay?” Jimin asks, looking up from his own file.

He’s so striking. So safe. And you know what he’s done, giving you the hit he thinks is easier, willing to risk himself on a solo mission to ensure you make it out. There’s no guarantees in this line of work, in life in general, but Jimin’s brand of selfless love is certainly one.

So you just nod, knowing someone slimy like this can quickly go sideways, and decide you can do the same.

“I’m gonna get ready,” you say. “The plan is the same as all the other solo jobs. Get in, get it done, get out as quickly as possible. Lay low. Don’t come straight back here.”

Jimin rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Anything else?”

You exhale. Try to quiet the nerves roiling in your stomach. Barely resist the urge to press a lingering kiss to Jimin’s forehead before you swallow hard and say, “Yeah. Stay alive.”

It comes out more like a plea.

—

You’re good at your job.

Rarely feel much guilt over it, either, which—well, you’re not sure what that means. That something is permanently broken in your psyche, probably. Being able to take life so easily and without remorse. It’s not natural.

Kim Namjoon is a man who plays God, is the one who decides who gets to live and who has to die. His word is the only law you adhere to. And that’s… that’s something. Makes it less burdensome, takes some weight off, because Kim Namjoon wouldn’t accept a morally-ambiguous job. He wouldn’t ask you to put your life on the line for some petty bullshit.

This is how you’ve lived for the last four years. Four years of blindly following Namjoon’s word, of being a good little soldier and doing whatever is asked of you. Four years of being responsible for not only your own life, but Jimin’s as well, just as he is for yours. Four years that have served you well, all things considered.

Until now.

Something about this job hits you hard. Doesn’t settle quite as quickly as the ones that have come before. For the first time, you’d looked down at the lifeless body at your feet and couldn’t stop the trembling, could barely quell the nausea. Thought what the fuck am I doing, what kind of life is this for the first time. Thought back to that day four years ago when Kim Namjoon saved your life and offered you a job and wondered, for the first time, what would’ve happened if you’d said no.

Now, as you suck on a cigarette, legs dangling off the roof of a building looking not far from collapse, a new thought:

Would Namjoon let you go if you asked?

He’s taken care of you. For four years you’ve wanted for nothing. Have socked away more money than you’ll ever be able to spend, even if you live to a thousand. You could go anywhere, become anyone, and no one would suspect a thing. There’d just be you and a million lifetimes’ worth of transgressions, alone under the weight of all that burden; alone, except for all the ghosts that come to greet you every time you close your eyes.

Doesn’t matter. Namjoon might be willing to let you go, give you the chance to salvage something from this life in the name of normalcy, but Yoongi would gladly put a bullet in your head before he let you disappear with all his secrets.

Doesn’t matter.

You stub out the cigarette and put the butt in your pocket. Make your way down to the street. Stay under the shadows—just visible enough to redirect any suspicion shot your way. You pretend to take a call, flawless Argentinian Spanish falling from your lips as you tell the imaginary person on the other end all about your fucked up day at work. How your manager never gets off your ass, doesn’t trust you, thinks you’re too fucking stupid to run a simple executable.

No one spares you a second glance.

Not here, on this nondescript street in a nondescript Argentinian neighborhood, and not when you stumble into the tiny lobby of your shithole motel. The poor kid behind the desk doesn’t even glance up, just mutters a good evening, miss under his breath that you return in a voice far too high-pitched to be your own.

Better to be seen and be unremarkable than draw attention to yourself trying to stay invisible, you figure.

The cameras in the stairwell are broken so you take the steps two at a time. Pull the room key from its place inside your boot, happy to no longer have it digging into your skin. Pause just long enough to make sure you don’t hear anything on the other side of the door before you’re unlocking it with your free hand wrapped around the trigger of your gun.

It’s empty.

Of course it is.

Jimin stashed the burner in a place no one but you would think to look. You text one simple word to Seokjin—Hey!—and you get two in return: Who’s this?

You know who it is, you fucking dickhead.

It takes a few seconds, but the reply is a simple—

Sorry.

Then you toss aside the phone and float in the darkness of the room. There’s nothing to do but wait, because you don’t dare to do anything alone. There’s sweat and blood and fuck knows what else stuck to your skin, your hair, but you can’t risk taking a shower. Can’t risk the water dampening your senses. Can’t risk being cornered in a moldy bathroom, only one way out. Can’t risk doing anything alone. Can’t take a fucking shower.

It’s this thought, more than anything else, that has your body flushing with rage.

What kind of life is this?

Namjoon had never mentioned repaying your debt. He’d never insinuated you owed him anything at all for saving your life, but you know something like that never comes for free. Namjoon doesn’t do anything just because. Has no goodness in his heart to do anything in the name of it. Watching Jimin nearly die in front of him had been the exception to his usual nature; a rare slip-up by an otherwise detached, uncaring man.

Still, whatever you owe him has surely been repaid by now. Tenfold, if the bloodstains along your collar are anything to go by.

It’s time for Namjoon to let you go.

—

Something is wrong.

Two hours have ticked by and there’s no word from Jimin. No word from Namjoon or Seokjin, either, which is the only reason you’re still in this nauseating motel room and not out on the streets searching for him. Solo jobs don’t go like this. The two of you are always in and out, tragically efficient. Back to where you started and then back on a plane, nothing left behind except a singular bullet hole and another fragmented piece of your conscience.

You’ve had a lot of jobs go wrong, but never two hours.

You’re about three minutes from coming out of your skin. Sick to your stomach with worry, anxiety weighing you down like an anchor. You wouldn’t be able to go out searching for Jimin like this even if you could, and there’s no point in dwelling on that, examining it further. All you can do is wait.

It’s another hour before you hear the click of the lock. You’re nearly on your knees in relief, but you stay rooted to the flimsy mattress. Try not to think about how you’ll have to sleep on it, even though you’ll be up half the night with residual worry. All those lingering ghosts.

Jimin doesn’t say anything, so neither do you.

[55.6761° N, 12.5683° E | Copenhagen, DENMARK]

Jimin’s hair is orange when you go to Copenhagen.

Not for a job, just to breathe. You wanted to see the city at Christmastime; Jimin’s never been.

You crack a joke. Point out buildings of similar color, have him stand in front of one as you take a picture. Everyone smiles when they pass the two of you on the street, Jimin’s eyes fond even though he rolls them as you pose him how you want. Still stands against an apricot-colored wall and flashes a smile and a peace sign, cheeks pink from the cold. Does a good job of pretending the two of you aren’t here just for fun, that this is something more.

It’s not.

The two of you fucked in a hotel room in Reykjavik and haven’t spoken a word of it since.

You nearly lost your mind over him in Buenos Aires and haven’t spoken a word of that, either.

Instead, his hand finds yours as the two of you walk around Tivoli Gardens. You marvel at the lights and Jimin marvels at you. You share mulled wine and spiced doughnuts. Jimin tries to drag you on the swings but you plant your feet and refuse, laughing through your refusals. As dangerous as your lives are, motion sickness might be the most. He gets his revenge and poses you in front of a giant nutcracker, then again in front of one of the endless Christmas trees.

Jimin pays for the two of you to decorate honey cakes. You’re surrounded by families with shrieking children and palpable adoration, and it’s all you can do not to wonder if anyone you’ve taken out had ever had something like this. Something that makes your soul warm; something that still lingers in your bones years later.

The two of you take a selfie when it starts to snow. It stings when you have no one to send it to, so it just lives in your phone. Maybe it’s enough.

On another day, Jimin holds your hand through Torvehallerne. This time you marvel at him while he marvels at all the food, eyes wide each time he turns to ask if he should buy something. You always say yes and he always shares, and it’s all you can do not to think about why you don’t have to budget yourselves. Why you’re able to walk through the market and buy whatever you want; how you could buy every item for sale and it wouldn’t make a dent.

(You pick up small trinkets for Taehyung and Jungkook. Not because you want to, but because it feels nicer than remembering that you have no one to buy gifts for. Not really. Not anymore.)

Jimin wants to ice skate, so you do. He holds your hand then, too. More out of necessity than anything else, and he has none of his usual grace. Someone hands you a free cup of hot chocolate, just because. Jimin pouts and then it’s his hot chocolate. It’s all you can do not to kiss away the whipped cream on the corner of his mouth.

Back in your lavish hotel, after countless days have blurred together and Jimin’s fresh from a shower, skin flushed, you finally ask yourself if it’s worth putting up such a fight. If it’s really all that bad to care for Jimin and be cared for in return. If it’s all that bad to be someone else, just for a little while: someone with a normal life who makes a normal living and has a normal capability to love. Someone who isn’t damaged beyond repair.

That will never be you. Not fully, and certainly not in this lifetime, but maybe it could be, a little.

“Jimin,” you say, because you need to try. Jimin loves you in ways you’ll never understand, and you want to be better for him. “We should talk.”

Your voice is small and hesitant, and Jimin hates it. Sees trouble where there’s only vulnerability, so he misreads. Shakes his head. Takes a risk and stands between your legs at the edge of the bed—yours, because there’s two—as he tilts your head back, thumbs pressing into the contours of your cheeks. The scar still sits in the hollow of your throat, and that version of you feels so far away. That life feels so far away.

There’s no violence here. There’s no blood, no fugues. There’s just you and Jimin, whose voice is small like yours when he shakes his head and says, “You should kiss me instead.”

The second time is nothing like the first.

Jimin moves delicately. Feels like silk lace, tastes like spun sugar. Moves both his mouth and his body fluidly, no hesitation, yet he still takes his time. Still pauses to look at you with endless devotion; with awed reverence. Makes a map of your body and marks all his favorite places with his lips.

“Tell me what you want,” he says. Speaks the words against the skin just beneath your ear. “Anything. I’ll give you whatever you want, just have to ask.”

What you want isn’t tangible, isn’t possible, so you stay quiet. Thread your fingers through Jimin’s hair, gasp when he mouths along the column of your throat. Jimin reserves all his softness for you. Bathes you in it. Would kill anyone to keep it that way.

So you say, “Want your mouth,” and let slip a quiet moan when he gives you what you’ve asked for. When he situates himself between your thighs and sucks and licks until you’re writhing, making a mess, grasping fruitlessly at the sheets, his hair, his shoulders, only calming when his hands find yours and your fingers interlock.

Jimin mouths at you until you’re trembling. Until you’re needy and desperate, hips moving on their own, fucking yourself against his face. Until nothing exists except the heat in your belly, the stars behind your eyelids, the heady, fucked-out sound of Jimin’s voice as he talks you through it, murmurs praise against your cunt.

Jimin mouths at you until you forget.

This isn’t your life. This is not something you can have.

But, in the grand scheme of things, what does it matter? You’ve made peace with death, and there’s only one of two ways it’s going to come for you in the end: by Namjoon’s hand or someone else’s. So what does it matter?

This time, Jimin fucks you slow. Kisses you with your taste still in his mouth. Thumbs over a hardened nipple just to see what earns him a reaction, and what you truly want is more time—something else that’s impossible.

Jimin’s hair is orange when you think you might be in love with him.

[ 48.8566° N, 2.3522° E | Paris, FRANCE ]

Jimin’s hair is pink when—

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the toilet.

Soaks a washcloth in warm water. Wrings it out. Stands in front of you, and there’s water dripping onto the floor and Jimin doesn’t care, doesn’t seem to see anything in this moment except for you, your hands covered in someone else’s blood, and he reaches out, gently grabs your wrist. Palm up. Someone else’s blood. Everything smells like copper and iron. Looks too surreal beneath the fluorescent lights of this hotel bathroom for your mind to make sense of it.

There is care in the way Jimin cleans your hands. There is tenderness in the way he both refuses to see what you really are and the way he’s the only one to ever see you so entirely, when you look down at the blood he’s washing away and all you can see is stigmata. When all you see is sin.

“I know you don’t love me,” he says, and there is a conviction in his words that stuns you into silence. “Not the way I love you, anyway.”

That tenderness is still there as he says this. As he presses the wet fabric into the meat of your palm, wipes the stains away, and the warmth is as calming as it is undeserved. It feels like something forbidden. It feels like salvation and condemnation all at once, like whatever sick depravity permeates you is contagious, will take over Jimin, too, just from touching you.

Jimin is close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough to see the violence that he exists in alongside you: the rips in his clothes, the scars that decorate his skin. Close enough to know he smells sickly-sweet, just like death. Your hand shakes as it reaches for him and never follows through. Doesn’t want to contaminate him.

“I do,” you finally say. Whatever is in your voice is not conviction. “I can’t.” You suck in a breath, try to steady your breathing. This is where it all comes crashing down, you think, because in all the years you’ve done Namjoon’s bidding, you’ve never cried. You can take life so freely and without thought, but you cannot love Jimin. “Someone like me isn’t capable of it.”

Jimin pauses, the washcloth stuck in the space between your ring and middle fingers. “And who is someone like you?”

Water is still dripping to the floor. Serosanguineous: blood tainting something untouched. Not something one thing or another but both, watery-pink. Looks like Jimin’s hair. “I’ve killed a lot of people,” you answer. “More than I can count. More than I can name. More than the ones that come to haunt me at night.” Your free hand moves to your chest, covers your heart. “There’s nothing here, Jimin. I’m not sure there ever was.”

The washcloth drops to the floor, and all that blood belonging to a man whose name you never bothered to learn before you put a bullet between his eyes finds a new place to rest. “I think,” he begins, clasping your unclean hand in his own, voice dropping to a whisper, “you forget, sometimes.” You gasp as he places your palm to his cheek, drags it across his face, smears a stranger’s blood across his skin. “That we’re the same.”

Jimin is always overwhelming, but the love he has for you is even more so. It consumes you entirely, embeds itself beneath your skin, makes a home, would tear you apart, body and soul, to return to him.

[ 47.4979° N, 19.0402° E | Budapest, HUNGARY ]

Jimin’s hair is lavender when it all goes to shit.

“You’re being followed.”

Seokjin’s voice is garbled through the earpiece, tinny and metallic, and you roll your eyes. Some things don’t need to be said, because you’ve known someone was following you for the last three blocks. Average height, black peacoat, close-cropped haircut. Not the kind of person that’d stand out here, and that’s exactly why you’d sent Jimin in the other direction.

“No shit,” you respond in Hungarian, because you already know the man following you doesn’t speak or understand it. “Give me somewhere to go.”

It takes Seokjin a few moments to run the translation. “There’s a side street up on your right,” he answers. “It’s tight, but there’s an alleyway at the end. You can buy some time if you’re quick.”

“Where’s Jimin?”

You pass a vendor selling lángos and duck into the street behind the stall. Just as Seokjin had said, there’s a small alleyway up on the left, and your footfall is near-silent as you break into a sprint to reach it. “Safe,” is all Seokjin says.

You take a second to steady your breathing, knowing you’re good on time—the man following you was close enough to know where you’d turned, but, if you’re lucky, not much after that. That plays on a loop: if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky. What is luck, what does it look like, in a life left entirely to chance? In a life with no guarantees?

You tuck yourself away, focus on Seokjin’s metallic breaths. Think about his basement in Seoul, why he’s in it. Ask, “What happened in Addis Ababa?” because it feels important to know.

There’s not much you know about Seokjin’s life. Whatever happened in Ethiopia had been before your time, reduced to hushed whispers and gossip fodder after your arrival. No one spoke of it, Seokjin especially, but every now and then something would slip in the same way weeds grow in sidewalk cracks.

A job gone wrong. A bombing at the consulate with Seokjin inside.

His reply is simple, words spoken carefully: “I loved someone once, too.”

He can’t see it, but you nod nonetheless; an answer that doesn’t require a response, because you know. It’s enough to fill in the rest. What Seokjin’s trauma looks like. Why he doesn’t do field work anymore. Why he prefers the solitude of the basement, rarely a sound beyond the electric thrum of the server racks.

Who had gone in to retrieve him, and why Yoongi has the scar over his eye.

“You loved someone,” you conclude, “and he would’ve been willing to die for you.”

“Yes,” Seokjin says, and it’s like the word’s been punched out of him. Sounds like something repressed, something left to rot in the darkest corner of the world.

Love, to Seokjin, looks and sounds the same as death.

“I think most people spend their entire lives searching for a love like that,” he continues, and if you could see him you think he might look dazed, off-kilter. You think he might be an avatar. Seokjin is prying his ribcage apart, unwrapping the barbed wire from his heart, saying I once was in love and this is all I know of it. “But, to me, in this life, it’s a prison. Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? How do you—I kissed that skin. I worshiped it. I pressed my lips to it with whatever softness was left in me. How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled?” He exhales, all tremor. “You can’t. You can’t.”

You know this all too well. You know what it feels like to look at Jimin and know, intrinsically and subconsciously, that you wouldn’t even hesitate. You’d take and give life to keep him alive and safe. You know that when you exit this world at someone else’s hand his face is the last thing you want to see.

You know it’s a liability.

You know it’s a target painted on your back. Between your eyes.

You know there’s nothing left to say, that this particular conversation has run its course. The two of you sit in an amicable silence, and you hope Seokjin can hear the life that surrounds you, however mundane. Hope he can hear the lángos vendor trying to hawk his goods; hope he can hear a city 8,000 kilometers away; hope he can hear these regular, everyday people going about their lives and remember there’s hope beyond his four walls.

I think you’d like it here, you think, but you don’t dare to say it aloud.

Time passes in a meaningless blur. Could be minutes, could be hours. No one’s come to kill you, so you reckon you’ve long since been in the clear. And maybe it speaks to Seokjin’s idea that love is a prison, because you know something’s happened to Jimin long before Seokjin speaks it into existence.

You’re up and out of the alleyway before you’re told to move. Have no idea where you’re going, but you’re racing through the streets of Budapest with a panic you haven’t ever felt in your life. Feels like quicksand; feels like molasses; feels like you have to wade through all the blood you’ve spilled, now congealed, to get to him.

“Where am I going?” you demand. Your lungs are on fire. In the split-second of silence it becomes a desperate scream. “Seokjin, tell me where the fuck I’m going!”

“The—fuck, the wa-warehouse up on your right.” You can’t think about why he’s crying. “I don’t—I don’t know wha-what’s there, you need to be careful. Please, you have to—”

Twenty seconds and you’ll be there, you’ll be with Jimin, you just need to keep running. You need to keep your head on straight. Remember your training. Remember you’ve built a life in a viper pit.

A man in a uniform is unloading a shipment around the back of the building. Faces away from you, bent at the waist. Takes very little effort to smash his head into the stone exterior and knock him unconscious, pocket his badge. You can’t get stupid now. Tell Seokjin to make sure all the cameras are cut, ask what floor when you shut yourself inside the freight elevator, unwilling to take the stairs and run into anyone who might be waiting. All the way to the top, he says, so all the way to the top you go.

—

Over the course of your life, you’ve made peace with death. Have stared it in the eye more times than you can count. Have dealt it out, evaded it, shook its hand.

You are wholly unprepared for the sight that greets you.

Red. Everything is red—the walls, the floor, what used to be a beautiful parquet pattern in the wood. In the center of the room: two bodies, maybe three. Not much that’d be able to identify them beyond a pile of teeth, no saying whose is whose. Slaughterhouse scraps.

And this is not—Jimin doesn’t work this way. Isn’t his MO. Jimin’s kills are elegant and neat, topped with a bow. What you see before you is ultraviolence. It is unhinged, it is fury, it is a complete loss of control. It’s what love looks like to Jimin, because he sits at the very edge of a rotted chair, legs crossed. Face streaked with blood, clothes covered in it.

“Jimin,” you say, because what else is there?

He tilts his head to the side, smirks a little, looks at you beneath his lashes. Eyes that used to find you across a room and calm you. Eyes that have locked onto you in the throes of pleasure. Eyes you’ve seen yourself reflected in, bathed in love and adoration.

Eyes that now contain nothing.

“Jimin, what the fuck happened?”

He removes his gloves with his teeth and doesn’t flinch away from the taste of iron. “They said they hurt you,” he states simply, “so I did what needed to be done.”

“What—” Nausea claws at your throat; for the first time, it’s all too much. This isn’t Jimin. This isn’t your Jimin, who smiled as you posed him against apricot walls in Copenhagen, who took a bullet to the stomach to protect you and never, ever told you. This is not the Jimin who wasted the last of his goodwill on loving you. “What did you do?” you whisper.

He rises to full height and it makes you flinch. You are scared of Jimin for the first time in your life: scared of who he is in this moment, what he’s capable of. And he sees it, lets that brand of anguish overtake him. Reaches for you before he decides against it and lets his hand drop to his side. Says, “I would never hurt you,” as if the words could brand themselves into your skin so you’d never forget.

“No, you’d just—” You squeeze your eyes shut. Don’t think about how one of the men nearly embedded into the floor was the one trailing you earlier.

Instead, you think about Seokjin: Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? You think about: How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled? You think about: In this life, it’s a prison.

You drop to your knees. Let the blood seep through your clothes and into your skin, undeserving of shying away from it.

Namjoon should’ve let you go.

You think about the men in front of you. Who they were, who they loved. The grief all of this is going to leave behind, and it becomes impossible to breathe. You grasp at your throat, think about all the times you’ve been strangled and who’d been there to cut the rope. There is no limit to Jimin’s devotion, and you understand now, how it drove Yoongi to madness. How he loved someone so much he would’ve retrieved their corpse from a building and how that same person can no longer bear to look at the damage they’d caused.

“This isn’t love, Jimin,” you choke out.

He stands in front of you. Stigmata. You’re worshiping at the altar of some kind of devil. At least his hands are clean when he places his fingers beneath your chin, forces you to look up at him. “What is it, then?”

“Destruction.”

A quiet huff of cruel laughter. “See, this is the difference between me and you, darling.” He takes back his hand, runs it through his blood-streaked hair, and your chin sags to your chest without his support. “Because I already knew that. Because I have destroyed myself every single day loving you.” He squats down, eye-level, and he says, “I need you to listen to me when I say this, sweetheart: you do not love me the way I love you, because I would do worse. When it comes to you, there is nothing on this earth I would not destroy to keep you safe.”

He clears his throat. Collects whatever’s in his mouth and spits onto one of the bodies. “If this is enough to have you tucking your fucking tail between your legs, then go, because this doesn’t even scratch the fucking surface.”

You can’t bring yourself to say anything, and sometimes that says it all.

Jimin presses a kiss to the top of your head. Makes a call. Cleaners will be here soon, he says, better get going.

You watch him go.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair is black when Namjoon calls the meeting.

He takes the seat across from Namjoon’s desk because they don’t meet like this often. Assignments are usually manila folders slipped under doors, hushed whispers in hallways confirmed with a nod or a text on a burner phone. Assignments are not last-minute assemblies in conference rooms and offices.

But the way Namjoon is looking at him, with his clenched jaw and a gaze that’s meant to look barbed to anyone who doesn’t actually know him—Jimin doesn’t need to ask what this is about.

Had he bothered to look, he would’ve known by the way you stood in the far corner of the room, face obscured by the mid-afternoon shadows. Yoongi’s close to you, for some reason: dressed head to toe in black, perched on a lateral file cabinet, using a metal corner to sharpen his switchblade. Just like a harbinger of death. Some sort of fucked up omen, a warning that’s come too late.

Didn’t I tell you this would end badly, he hears Yoongi taunt in his head. This is what happens when you lay with trash.

Easy for Yoongi to say when he doesn’t know what it means to be cared for by you. Doesn’t know how it feels to give in to the freefall and plummet at your feet, stripped back and laid bare. Doesn’t know how it feels to kiss secrets into your skin like constellations, to map his tongue along every unspoken confession.

Easy for Yoongi to say, because he doesn’t have to survive the aftermath. Doesn’t have to feel the heartbreak, the agony of having you and watching as you slip through his fingers. Yoongi doesn’t have to struggle just to breathe, doesn’t have to endure the nights staring at the ceiling, watching as the daylight creeps into the corners of his vision. Doesn’t have to watch you looking so unaffected.

“Jimin.” Namjoon’s tone is flat, needlelike.

Behind him, Yoongi chuckles lowly. “What?” Jimin asks, his gaze trained on the painting behind Namjoon’s head. Looks like one he’d seen in Berlin, the time the two of you had gone just because and spent an afternoon ducking in and out of museums to escape the rain.

When he closes his eyes, he still sees the raindrops stuck to your eyelashes. The beads of water rolling off the sleeves of your leather jacket. How blinding your smile had been. The laughter in your voice as you ordered beer after beer after beer for the two of you in flawless Berlinisch. A brief, fleeting glimpse at normalcy. At the kind of life the two of you could have if you were just… different. Lived different lives. Were different people.

“You’ve gotten sloppy.”

Namjoon’s words are a cold bucket of water. Snap him back to reality, yank him back to the present where he’s forced to leave those river-lined streets behind. You’re silent and Yoongi’s still snorting laughter. “Okay,” is all Jimin can bring himself to say.

Jin had gotten sloppy once, too, and Namjoon stuck him down in the basement to work logistics. Might not be so bad, Jimin reckons. He’d be away from you, spared of this fucking misery. “So you know that’s unacceptable.”

Jimin just shrugs, resigned to his fate, whatever it may be. “I’m reassigning the both of you,” Namjoon continues. “You’ll both have new partners for your next assignments, since you clearly can no longer be trusted together.”

“Who?” Jimin manages to choke out.

Namjoon raises an eyebrow, clearly having expected an argument. “You’re being sent to Shanghai with Jungkook. You,” he says, turning his attention to you, “are going to Moscow with Taehyung.”

She’s fond of Taehyung, Jimin wants to say. But you’d been fond of him too, once upon a time, and that’d only ended in heartbreak, so who fucking cares.

They’re cruel, the tricks Jimin’s mind plays on him. How he convinces himself you look pained. How his fingers wring together at the thought of entrusting his life in the hands of someone else, someone new. At your life being just as at stake; at Taehyung being tasked with keeping you alive. Would you die for him, too, the way you’d always told Jimin you would for him? Would Taehyung take a bullet to the stomach to keep you safe the way Jimin had?

Even more cruel is the way you scoff, pushing yourself off of the wall as you fold your arms across your chest and say, “That’s bullshit, Kim Namjoon.”

No one talks to Namjoon that way except you.

Yoongi’s knife stops twirling. Just like a bird sensing a storm, senses on high-alert as he flicks his gaze over to you. “I’m sorry?” Namjoon says. “What part of Jimin losing his mind and nearly outing all of us seems like bullshit to you?”

“Hm, let me think,” you retort, a manicured finger tapping against the hollow of your cheek. “The part where you’re reassigning me for someone else’s mistake?”

Which part was the mistake? Jimin wants to ask. Needs to know how much you regret. Was sleeping with you the mistake? Falling in love with you? Getting too caught up in all these daydreams and letting reality get away from him?

“This organization is more important than Park Jimin getting his goddamn dick wet,” Namjoon snaps. “Keeping all of you safe—keeping you alive—is more—”

You scoff. Take an entire container of gasoline and pour it right on top of Namjoon’s flammable ire. “Then perhaps you’d be so kind as to explain to me why Min fucking Yoongi can fuck damn near everyone in this establishment, yet I have to sit here and listen to your goddamn mouth—”

Jimin doesn’t think Yoongi even knows his arm is moving.

There’d just been the trading of barbed words. His own name being spoken into the ether. Yoongi’s arm moving away from his body, switchblade clasped tightly between his fingers as he plunges it into your flesh.

Jimin watches it puncture your arm in slow motion. Feels the bile in his throat, the heat in his belly. Looks first at Namjoon whose jaw has gone slack, skin pale, as he stammers over words that won’t come. Then he looks at Yoongi—expects to find shock or guilt but finds only a muted disinterest and flared nostrils.

Finally, he looks at you. Watches the white cotton sleeve of your shirt slowly turn red and sticky-wet. Watches as your lips move around syllables and vowels and consonants Jimin can’t decipher.

“—fucking piece of shit, this is my favorite shirt! I’ll never get all this goddamn blood out of it—”

Jimin thinks he hears Yoongi say you deserve it. But Jimin isn’t really thinking much as he clambers out of his chair and moves in Yoongi’s direction. Doesn’t think at all as he lets instinct take over, lets adrenaline steer him headfirst into yet another bad idea.

He’s always known there’d come a day he’d be face-to-face with the sight of your blood. Had always known it’d come from someone else’s hand. Had always promised himself that hurting you would be the last thing anyone ever did.

Jimin has his fingers wrapped around Yoongi’s throat and he finally understands it—the joy Yoongi finds in taking life.

“What’s the matter, Jimin-ah?” Yoongi taunts. Jimin tightens his grip. Suddenly hates that fucking scar across Yoongi’s eye. “You’re never on clean-up duty. Always make your girlfriend do the dirty work. Finally grew some fucking balls, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Jimin says stupidly. Can’t think of anything more to say. Not that he needs to. Wrapping your hands around someone’s throat sends enough of a message, he thinks.

Namjoon’s still tongue-tied as you yank Yoongi’s blade from your arm, immediately pressing your other hand over the wound to stem the bleeding. The sight of your blood is making Jimin dizzy; the smell of the iron hanging in the air. All he wants to do is choke the life out of the man in front of him, but more than that, he just wants to hold your hand. Wants to comfort you, even though he knows you don’t need it. Not from him, not from anyone, but he still wants to. Wants to press his lips to the sweat at your brow.

And Yoongi can see it, too, because he starts laughing. It’s an odd, fractured noise. Jimin isn’t sure if he’s ever heard him laugh before, decides he also hates the way it sounds. Feels all wrong watching it leave his crooked smirk. Makes Jimin’s stomach plummet to the ground.

“Oh, you’re fucked, aren’t you?” Yoongi teases around Jimin’s slackened grip. “You weren’t just fucking her, you’re in love with her.”

Weird how Jimin is the one with his hands around someone’s neck and feels like he’s the one suffocating.

[ 31.2304° N, 121.4737° E | Shanghai, CHINA ]

Jimin watches the life drain from an innocent woman’s face and feels nothing.

Jimin watches Jungkook cut a man down and feels even less.

When it’s over, he cleans up wordlessly and doesn’t eat for three days.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair has faded to brown by the time he returns from Shanghai.

The more complicated job had gone to you and Taehyung. Jimin had tried not to take it personally. The Russian hits are always unnecessarily violent and Jungkook still isn’t fully trained. There’s still a phantom pain in Jimin’s stomach that warns him of the consequences of taking on more than he can chew. So, sure, Shanghai had gone fine, but his mind had been nearly 7,000 kilometers away the entire time.

Good thing he’d returned to Seoul unscathed, too, because he’s sure Namjoon would’ve eliminated him without a moment’s hesitation if he’d fucked up again.

But Shanghai had only served to prove the leader right. Jimin can’t work with you anymore. Can’t focus, can’t stomach the violence, can’t keep his goddamn head on straight.

He sighs as he glances at Jungkook to his right. Jimin had watched him murder two men in cold blood not even thirty-six hours ago and now he’s doe-eyed and sucking down his third banana milk of the morning. It really makes his head spin, being paired with this grown-up infant of a man now instead of you, but for all of Jungkook’s apparent shortcomings, he’d kept Jimin alive. He isn’t dead.

And then you walk in with Taehyung and he wishes he was.

Because you’re laughing and Taehyung’s got his arm slung around your shoulder and you look happy. It’s the kind of happiness that should be contagious, bloom warmth in his chest, but it doesn’t. It just takes the last frayed strand of hope he has and sets flame to it.

You don’t look like you miss Jimin at all. Don’t look like you’ve lost sleep or skipped meals.

“Didn’t take you long, did it?” Jimin says, because he’s wounded and lashing out. Not because he means it.

You must know he doesn’t, too, because you don’t react. “Watch your mouth, Park Jimin,” Taehyung warns, because he doesn’t know, and this only sets Jimin off more. You don’t need defending. Or had you, and Jimin had simply thought it wasn’t his place to provide it? That you wouldn’t want it?

“Or what, Kim Taehyung?”

Taehyung is cherubic. It’s part of his charm, one of many reasons why he’s so effective. If you’re looking to die, you look for the guy who looks like Yoongi, not the one who smiles wide and warm like Taehyung. So when he sets his jaw and pokes his tongue into his cheek and says, “Or I’ll cut your fucking head off, you stupid fuck,” your attention is finally piqued.

“I’m so sick of this,” Jungkook wails, banana milk tossed carelessly in the trash. “All of you need to get your fucking shit together!”

Taehyung rolls his eyes at the same time you pretend to inspect your nails. “Is that why you’re so temperamental, Chim?” Taehyung prods, looking every bit the pretentious, murderous angel he is. “Because you got sent to China on a babysitting mission while the grownups did real work?”

“Fuck you,” Jungkook snaps, rising to full height. “I’m not a fucking child.”

“Oh? Could’ve fooled me.” Taehyung’s words are razor-sharp and smell like kerosene. “Tell me, then: were you on babysitting duty? Had to look after our precious little Jiminie while he nursed his broken heart?”

You sigh, full of faux-exasperation, and place a gentle hand on Taehyung’s forearm. Dig your nails in just enough to be a warning, and if Jimin hadn’t been looking he’d miss it: the way Taehyung deflates instantly, anger dissipating like smoke, back in control. Just because you’d touched him. Just because you were there. Jimin knows that touch, how it feels to be under your control, and it makes his chest ache. Makes everything feel like it’s sitting wrong in his stomach, and he’s either going to be sick all over Namjoon’s overpriced fucking rug or wrap his hands around Taehyung’s throat the way he’d done to Yoongi.

He’s out of his goddamned mind; he feels untethered. Helpless. Like it was always going to end like this, and maybe Jimin knew that and had just ignored it. Maybe now he’s paying the price—maybe he’s finally found something he can’t afford.

Jungkook’s still going off, nasty gaze set on Taehyung because he’s the only one playing along. They’re exchanging words Jimin can’t make heads nor tails of. Words he doesn’t care about. Words that ring empty and hollow because they sound nothing like the way you say his name. Shapeless, unlike the way your lips move around those syllables.

“Jimin,” you say, the sound finally registering and bringing him back down to earth. All he can do is stare. “Can we talk?” Taehyung and Jungkook are still trading barbs.

Wonders how he got here. Looks around the room and wonders if each and every one of them is destined for this same fate, this madness. Wants to tell you why he forgot his vest, why he was three hours late in Argentina. Wants to grovel and beg and leave this place and never look back.

More than anything, he wants to know what it feels like to actually be human.

So he shakes his head. Tries not to be haunted by the way your face falls at the rejection.

There is a scar on his abdomen and a scar on your arm that both tell the same story. There is a man in the basement who is in love with a man above ground and is too weighed down by guilt to do anything about it. There is a man here who plays god, has soldiers to do his bidding, and there is very little here that Jimin has only for himself.

The two of you will have that conversation, but he needs to be human, first.

[ 34.6901° N, 135.1956° E | Kobe, JAPAN ]

This is a waste of your fucking time.

Whatever Namjoon had thought would be here doesn’t seem to exist. Yoongi can barely tolerate you on a good day, threatens to stick a dagger in your neck at least twice an hour, but the more time the two of you waste chasing ghosts, the closer he comes to unraveling entirely.

“Stop fucking staring at me,” he snaps, blowing the smoke of his cigarette right in your face.

You tut. “But you’re so beautiful, Yoongi, I just can’t help it.”

He digs his switchblade from his boot. Makes a show of flipping it open. “I can cut your fuckin’ eyes out of your skull,” he intones. “Maybe that’ll help.”

In your ear, Jimin’s laughter rings like crystal.

Ricochets off of all the corners of Seokjin’s basement, makes the echo sound warped through the earpiece. “Please tell Yoongi-ssi to keep an eye on the man with the shaved head. In front of him, roughly sixty degrees to his right.”

You relay the message. Watch as Yoongi transforms—sharpened gaze, rigid posture, disappears into the shadows. More apex predator than man. “And me?” you ask.

“Backup,” comes Seokjin’s voice. “We haven’t found your mark yet.”

You hum. Pick up the cigarette Yoongi left behind and stick it between your lips. Smoke it nearly to the filter. “You got it, boss,” you tease, just because it flusters him.

“I’m—that’s not—knock it off.”

Exhale. Stub out the cigarette. Butt in your pocket. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Jimin says, and his voice is soft, sounds like spun sugar. “Stay alive, all right?”

Jimin’s hair isn’t dyed at all.

if you've read this far: thank you so, so much! i am more appreciative than i can put into words. this is very different from what i typically write, but i hope you enjoyed it nonetheless.

i would love to hear your thoughts if you have any. <3

#jimin x reader #jimin smut #bts x reader #bts smut #jimin imagine #jimin scenarios #jimin fanfic #jimin x you #jimin x y/n #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts fanfic #bts x you #bts x y/n

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dorylinae-supremacy · 3 months

Text

Thinking about an AU where Techno, Wilbur and Tommy are all the harbingers of the actual entire apocalypse and Phil (just some insane guy) decides that those are in fact his kids and starts gaslighting the absolute shit out of them about it.

Rambles under cut!

I wanna try something where they're just more insidious and passive killers than anything else, theyre mostly just biding their time and watching as wherever they're lingering around gets sicker and just starts withering away.

They're a slow moving threat that just can't be stopped and for some reason (because Kristin thinks its funny) Phil just isnt affected by them.

Phil: Oh Techno's always been like that ever since he was a baby Techno: I have literally never met you a day in my life Tommy: Idk man... you have always been like that Wilbur: Oh my death he's actually getting to us

Its a mix of that combined with that "how did he know I was a gemini" meme

Phil: Wil! I brought you some salmon, I know how much you love it! Wilbur: How the fuck did you know I like salmon Phil: I'm your dad silly, of course I'd know :-)

I just think itd be super fun since Phil in this au is literally just some insane dude. He literally lies about their entire childhood but does it so consistently and so realistically that it throws them off guard.

I also have a few ideas where they start referring to Phil as their dad in the beginning as a sarcastic / mocking thing but accidentally just getting themselves even more adopted as they do it.

Phil: Wilbur put on a coat Wilbur: I don't need one! Techno: Go on, Wil. Listen to dad Wilbur: Ugh fine. Only because dad wants it, though

Stranger: Whos this? Tommy: Oh thats our dad. He kinda just tags along Stranger: Aww thats so sweet! You got his nose and everything Tommy: I- wh- no he's not actually our da- Phil: I know he did! Isn't he the cutest, spitting image isnt he? Tommy: You're not my dad! Stranger: Oh someones embarrassed! Phil: Yeah he's going through a rebellious phase right now

Just a mixture of things like that where it starts as calling him it but then accidentally actually giving him parental authority along with that.

I also wanna explore how Kristin and Phils relationship would be like. Maybe her as death being very bemused by this silly human that just decided she was his wife one day.

She literally visits him in dreams and stuff and he just acts as if they're married and have been for years. He complains about their 'rambunctious kids' and how he has to threaten them with her so that they behave sometimes. She finds it so silly and just cant help but play pretend.

Kristin: Hello, human Phil: My love! Its been so long since I've seen you Kristin: We've never met Phil: Oh don't say that! It hasnt been that long. I've just been far too occupied with our boys to visit too much Kristin: Our boys? I made them Phil: And they came out beautiful! I'm so glad Wil and Tech got your eyes. I was hoping they would.

I think that'd be a core part of this AU as well. Everyone is playing pretend but then it just fuzzies and it all becomes real for them. At first its a joke that Phil is her husband and their father but then they get lost in the fantasy and fun of it all and actually accept him as such.

Phil has no ulterior motives either, he's literally just a strange insane man that heard stories about neotrio and started thinking they were his kids one day. He genuinely believes his delusion and they end up accidentally making it a reality.

He just makes lucky guesses and plausible lies often enough that he's still shiny and new, he's still fun to play with and thats what ends up 'tricking' them all.

#dory writes #harbingers AU #dark sleepy bois inc #dark sbi

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rainybubbles · 1 year

Text

How do COD men confess to you ?

Ghost, Soap, Price, Gaz, Alejandro

If you want more context here the part 1, and 2

G H O S T :

-At the end of your shift, he was waiting for you.

-And Max.

-Because Max was a cute puppy who stole his heart, but he would never tell a soul.

So yeah every day he wasn't on mission. He knew that at 10 pm, he will be at this little pet shop.

-Because he loved how your smile was appearing when you recognized him.

-He loved how you still joked about the ropes he bought or even how when he walked you back home, you were trying to go out of your way to make this walk longer by taking him to the little restaurant.

-This little restaurant, that you chose on purpose, because it has 4 fire escapes, and a perfect view on the outside.

-You knew him.

-And you didn't step back.

-Well in fact you didn't step back when he was just a creepy man who bought ropes at 3 AM, so he -sincerely doubts about your survival instinct.

-So yeah...

-But how did he confess, you're asking me ?

-Well, he didn't.

-Ghost has too many issues to open his heart like this.

-So you decided to make a moove.

-A classic move with a little declaration and a gift.

-Yeah.

-So you bought rope.

-Yeah.

-I know this doesn't sound good.

-It sounds even like the beginning of a horror story but wait.

-You decided to send him a package.

-And in this package you will put a rope tied in a heart form with a letter.

-Telling he took you heart in hostage and you would like him to keep it.

-...

-Seems weird, but it kinda fit your meeting, so it seems like a cute idea.

-Until three months passed and you had no news.

-Not even a letter.

-You didn't panic because sometimes his job was like this, he told you.

-But the problem was you had to move out.

-And even if he had your number, Ghost changed his phone regularly to prevent from some undercover shit.

-Besides your job at the pet shop, he couldn't contact you.

-So you tried to ignore your removal.

-But at the end of the fourth month, you had to admit this relationship will never had an end.

-And you mooved out of the country.

-A bittersweet ending.

-You felt like you were reading a fluff story but forgot to read the tag "hurt/no comfort".

-Shit.

-Maybe next time you should read the tag of your fucking love life.

-Like "a rope man will steal your heart" "angst" "sad ending" "slow burn" "fucking weird story" "not a happy fidelity card guy" "maybe he was into bondage but guess what ? We will never know lol"

-Maybe you were crying when you saw a rope in a DIY shop after this.

-Or not.

-Your dignity and ego will never recover from this memory. (neither did the sales assistant who was just here trying to help you)

-So you tried watching around, maybe the destiny would help you.

-Maybe a tall masked man will appear at your door at 2 PM, under the rain saying he has always loved you and....

-And you don't open the door for your own mom because you're too scared that she could be someone pretending she's your mom so you hoped he wouldn't do this.

-Yet two months after your removal, you had a call from your previous boss.

-You usually avoid calls, but you knew he wouldn't call you if it wasn't important.

-So you answered and...

-He was telling you a package with your name was delivered to him.

-And when you asked what was in it.

-He answered.

-"A fidelity card for rope, with a yes on it."

-You never smiled that hard.

-(Ghost found your new contacts thanks to Lasswell later, to confirm you both confessed to each other.)

S O A P :

-You had kept in touch.

-Through letters and some texts, when Soap was allowed to send them, you started to have a great friendship.

-But lately in the memes that Soap sent to you, you found a lot of references to the French girls in general.

-Firstly you didn't pay attention.

-Until that night.

-When you saw Titanic again with your parents.

-And it clicked.

-The French girls scene !

-By you stopped.

-Why would Soap make implicit reference to this ?

-Then again you remembered his drawings.

-He sent you some of them in his letters.

-When you get back to your home, you gathered them, looking if maybe he had made a portrait of you or had made a joke that you didn't see.

-But it was just random sketches.

-You stared at Ghost sketch eating an ice cream when you noticed something on his mask.

-He had a "W" on it.

-You searched through the sketches and...

-"U to the mow, I go you will" you said out loud after collecting the letters and tried to figure out what he wanted to say.

-And you tried to understand it.

-But except this fucking "mow" and "will"

-You didn't find any coherence in it.

-Did he want to ask you to mow his lawn in his garden ?

-But he didn't have a garden.

-And why a "U" and then a "You".

-Why, why Soap would even do this ?

-He was not the kinda guy that do this.

-"...I think I'm too stupid to find out this shit." you admitted.

-Well maybe your French girls scenes will not be romantic.

-So you texted him saying, you understood he sent you a message.

-But you didn't find how to translate it.

-And he texted you the answer.

-"Will you go out with me ?"

-...

-"Did Price give you the idea Soap ?" you answered.

-"Wait, you didn't answer."

-"Did Price give you the idea ?"

-"You think I couldn't be a romantic, love ?"

-"I think we're both too stupid to create a thing like this, love."

-"... it was L.T"

-"he...Ghost ?"

-"Yes."

-"...did he love titanic ?"

-"he had a collection about it."

-"...wow."

-"yeah."

-"To answer, yes, I would love too. But never ask again advice from Ghost, I don't want to end on an iceberg."

-"Yes, love."

P R I C E :

-Soap and Gaz with a broken arm led to your confession.

-They were both drunk and knew their captain had a thing for you, and it was reciprocated.

-Especially after Price offered you some chocolates to make clear he was interested in you.

-But nothing was happening.

-So with some scotch, and very bad ideas, Gaz and Soap decided that their time to shine had coming.

-They were the Cupids of the base.

-And what had Cupid ?

-Wings.

-If they used their wings to bring you from your office to Price at the bar, then he would be happy and more relaxed in this context, and maybe he will confess.

-Yes.

-Except.

-They didn't have wings.

-So when they jumped out from the roof.

-Their arms broke.

-And who was the doctor at the base ?

-You.

-You didn't go out because you were busy to treat their arms.

-"Maybe we need some bows next time." Soap whispered but it was more like he shouted in Gaz's ears.

-"And some white underwears! Cupid has that. I'm sure if we wore this, it will work for sure." Gaz answered.

-"And what about not jumping from the roof and not drinking that much, hmm ?" you asked.

-"Sssshhhh, we're in a confession plan right now. You can't stop us." Gaz said trying to put his finger on your mouth but ended up to do it on the wall next to you.

-"I'm calling Price to take you back to your bed, you're both too heavy for me."

-"We could walk."

-"It's not walking the problem Soap. It's where you could go."

-"hmm."

-So you called Price.

-The problem was he asked you why.

-Why did the boys jump out from the roof ?

-You blinked.

-He would know when he would come here.

-So you decided to gather some courage and-

-"They try to make us confess by bringing me to the bar with you. But they believe they were angels and could fly."

-The silence was so loud.

-He hung up.

-You sighed.

-Well at least, you said it.

-You didn't expect a yes, but at least an answer would be the minimum.

-When later, you heard a knock, you didn't make the effort to look up.

-You heard Price taking the boys to their beds and the door closing.

-But few minutes later, you heard a knock.

-Surprised, you stood up.

-Maybe someone else has drunk too much and-

-"John." You said surprised.

-"I intend to ask you out with some roses, and tomorrow but I guess two drunk soldiers with broken arms beat me."

-"The experienced strategist beat up ?" you joked.

-"I guess so. I'm sorry it was done like this, love."

-"I don't care honestly. As long as it's you asking me."

-He smiled and took your hand slowly.

-"Well, I can't wait for our first date, then."

-"'Hope Soap and Gaz will not be there."

-He laughed.

-"I can't promise that." he smiled.

G A Z :

-A meme.

-He sent you a meme.

-To confess.

-But you never answered him.

-And when he saw you, you never talked about it.

-So...he understood he was rejected.

-And he was okay with that, hell it was normal.

-He just thought it was reciprocated because you had what seems like dates with him.

-Maybe he mixed up signals.

-So he just never talked about it again, because he didn't want to make you feel awkward.

-But one day during lunch, he heard Soap talking with you.

-"So you got a new one, uh ?" Soap asked.

-"I didn't have the choice. His ass fucking destroyed the previous one."

-Gaz stared at the floor.

-He didn't know you had someone.

-Maybe that was because you never-

-"L.T has a cake, that's for sure." Soap joked.

-Gaz suffocated.

-You-

-And Ghost-

-And Ghost's ass-

-"That's not funny Soap. He fucking destroyed my phone just by sitting on it. It's not a cake. It's a fucking breeze block at this point."

-Your...

-Oh.

-oh.

-FUCK.

-He realized.

-You didn't ignore him.

-You hadn't see his message.

-"How does it happen ?" he asked to be sure of his conclusion.

-"I just let my phone on a bench, and he sat without looking, that's it. But because his ass is apparently more solid that my relationship with my father, or even the fucking Vivelle dop gel, he broke it."

-"Fuckin' hell". Gaz said

-"You can say that again. Why are you asking, by the way ?"

-"I sent you a text and you never answer, so I was wondering why."

-"Now you know. But I will answer, I manage to transfer my data and texts on my new phone."

-Gaz didn't feel well now.

-Soap was here.

-And your phone in your hand.

-Meaning he will see your reaction in live and with a public.

-Like he was on the set of a TV show. But here he could gain your heart and not $100,000.

-But you didn't say anything, neither did open it.

-You just sit and talked with him and Soap like it was not important.

-Because of course you couldn't know what was his text.

-So he waited.

-All the day, for you to open this fucking meme.

-To see it.

-And at midnight.

-He received a Mister Worlwide saying yes.

-Never he was so happy to see this bald head

A L E J A N D R O :

-He had everything planned.

-The moment, the place.

-It was going to be a big thing.

-He talked Rudy about it and even the 1-4-1 during a mission.

-Because Soap teased him about you.

-So he explained how he was going to ask you out and-

-Laswell stopped him.

-Their communications were not over.

-She heard everything

-And when Laswell ordered you to tell the location to Price

-He understood you were on their mission as a technician, and you heard all of it.

-The only thing that could kill Alejandro is Alejandro after all, right ?

-Even when it was dying of embarrassment.

-He mumbled some insults in Spanish and tried to hold his head high.

-He had everything planned, and just a microphone ruined this ?

-No,no, no, no he refused.

-He met you because of those mics, how they dare to betray him like that ?

-He ignored this and finished the mission.

-But on the way back, he heard your voice.

-"Good job guys. By the way I would love going on a date with you, Ale. If you needed to know after...this."

-You know the smile he did, when they interrogate Valeria ?

-It was one hundred brighter right now in the car.

-Soap even wore sunglasses to protect his eyes.

-Alejandro was so fucking happy.

-Maybe he did not hate the mics.

-Even though he's persuaded that someone hacked them this particular day.

___

If you want more : here.

I'm sorry that it took so long to post this part, but when I posted another COD about how you meet Farah, Alex and Konig I had a comment saying it was shit.

And I know my English sucks, so I deleted it and hesitated to write again..

Maybe I need some readers to help me, or maybe this comment was just hateful, I don't know.

In any case, sorry for the mistakes, English is not my first language !

#call of duty x reader #ghost x reader #captain price x reader #alejandro vargas x reader #gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #soap x reader #cod x reader

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dehydration-stati0n · 1 year

Text

Luffy, Zoro, and Sanji Friendship HCs

Rules Word Count: 0.8k Spoilers: None

Luffy

Great friend but also not💀

Bro will show up uninvited to drag you into something possibly illegal

He’ll take your food too, your not safe

He will always be clinging to you in some way. Like he'll have his arms stretched around you or he'll carry you on his back.

He loves giving you gifts, but he's really bad at it

like he'll give you a box of leaves he thought were cool, or a really long worm he found in Usopp's garden

Sometimes he'll wander into your room and sleep in the room with you.

You'll wake up with him hanging off the end of your bed or snoring on the floor.

If you ever seem stressed or upset, he'll put his strawhat on your head. It's kinda his way of trying to comfort you without being pushy about what's bothering you

You'll pretend to be Zoro and he'll pretend to be Sanji and the two of you will jokingly fight with each other

He'll trade you his goldfish for your Capri Sun

Most things you do are gonna be a competition with him

The two of you tried to start your own band once but Nami said you were being too obnoxious

There's no chance he washes his hands so, for the sake of everyone else, please make sure he's somewhat hygenic

Your hype man

He'll find you before breaking into the fridge. You're the iconic duo Sanji despises

Very spontaneous friendship, it's very common for the two of you to be playing tag or hide n' seek at the worst possible moments on the worst possible islands

Zoro

He'll try to trip you when you walk by

You're one of the few people he wouldn't mind taking a nap with

Would ask if you wanted to work out with him and secretly be really happy if you agreed

He'd share his alcohol with you

You two would do drinking games with each other every other day

The crews gotta somehow separate the two of you and send you to bed cause you're both laughing wa too loud and none of them can get any sleep

I imagine his love language would be acts of service, so he might offer to help you with whatever chore you were assigned that week or just anything in general

He'd push you to be your best self physically and mentally

He would never admit it, but he loves spending time with you

Let's hope you're good with directions, cause the two of you are going to end up lost a lot. The crew eventually just appoints you to keep him from wandering.

You'll have to get a leash for him or something.

He's a very loyal friend and would never dare betray your trust in any way

Throw your trust and abandonment issues out the window cause you aren't getting rid of him anytime soon

He hates physical affection, it just makes him feel kinda uncomfortable

Although if you really needed it, he'd give you a very stiff hug and an awkward pat on the back

One time you were fishing together and you fished up a beer. Zoro now looks forward to fishing.

Sanji

Your confidence will skyrocket after hanging out with him

He'll give you the kindest and most genuine compliments you've ever received, regardless of your gender

Out of these three, he's probably the best to go to for advice

He’ll do whatever you wanna do. He loves talking to you and just spending time with you overall

You know that meme where it’s like “they asked for NO pickles”? That’s him. He’ll be defending you for absolutely everything

He’ll try to give you fashion tips, but it’s 50/50 whether it’s good or bad

Would probably cry if you gave him a gift

I feel like he’d really like watching movies with you. He just strikes me as a movie kinda guy.

He’s physically affectionate but also kinda not (?)

It’s almost as if he holds back on it cause he doesn’t wanna overwhelm you

When you’re out on the town he’ll be your self-appointed bodyguard

He’s gonna love cooking with/for you.

He’d be so excited if you wanted to learn to cook or were just a little interested in it.

Very concerned about your well-being and will constantly make sure you're doing good. He’s ready to solve all your problems even if it's completely out of his control

There’s gonna be a lot of times when the two of you are just hanging out in the kitchen as he gives you random samples of food he wants your opinion on before continuing whatever conversation you were having earlier

Your biggest supporter

You and he would team up to attack Luffy after he steals food from the kitchen

Would probably go to you for advice on how to approach Zoro women, even tho he considers him an expert

Overall, a very positive friendship :)

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jamiesfootball · 8 months

Note

📓 give me a glimpse into ur mind

Let me tell you about the Greater Richmond Pet Acquisition (aka Give Jamie Tartt a Cat)

So it starts here with Jamie, having just joined the team again in season 2, and he is struggling. He basically blew up his life and its in pieces and he's having things that definitely are maybe panic attacks

He accidentally ends up befriending Higgins.

Higgins who back in season one through poor late Cindy Clawford's collar into the curse fire. Since then they've gotten a new cat (who i had the perfect name for but i can't find it in my drafts and my tagging is shit), and just like Higgins shows Jamie pictures of ducks and the memes his kids use that he doesn't understand, he also shows Jamie pictures of their cat.

So Christmas rolls around, yeah? And Jamie fucked up secret santa, and Higgins invites Jamie to his house for the team Christmas but that doesn't feel fair to the team

(and him and his mum are still on the outs, have been for years, and one of these days he's gonna be accountable but he's not so much of an asshole he's not so much like his dad that he'd just drop in on her unannounced at Christmas)

So he spends Christmas in Richmond alone with the bottle of champagne that he got at secret santa and it's brutal and he's lonely and he sees an ad on the telly for an animal shelter and decides screw it- I'm gonna get a cat. If I'm gonna be miserable and lonely like an old cat lady then I might as well have a cat.

So he goes to the shelter and he's thinking 'yeah i'll get a nice sleek cat one of those cool posh ones with the markings' and then he finds this ginormously rotund squash faced orange fat bastard and just. laughs.

His name is Big Ben and he's a surrender. His previous family up and moved, and they decided they didn't want him anymore. He came from a house with three kids (responsible for the kinda lame name) but no one ever really gave him any attention. He was kind of a nuisance. Always underfoot. Always yowling for attention. Too needy. They were a bit relieved to have an excuse to get rid of him to be honest.

Jamie is weirdly upset by this and can't pinpoint why. He gets the cat.

He gets a bunch of cat stuff - beds and toys and a robot litterbox that cleans itself - and he takes the cat home an he's like 'wait what the fuck did I just do?' Because he's never had a cat, or a dog, or any sort of creature relying on him to keep it safe. So he looks up Youtube videos on 'what to do when you've fucked up and bought a cat' and they're like 'well start them off in one room in the house' and Big Ben hates that.

It's a horrendous first few hours for both of them, Big Ben yowling at the top of his big unhappy cat lungs while Jamie is about to lose his goddamn mind, spiraling and on the verge of a panic attack because oh god he didn't just fuck up his own life now he's hurting this big giant fluffball cat the cat is crying fucking hell what do I do I can't call Higgins it's Christmas

So he breaks. He lets the cat out of the room and Big Ben barrels into his legs and starts purring. Loud. Like the loudest a creature has ever purred in its life. And he's looking up at Jamie with it's big green cat eyes and it's making little chirpy noises.

"You wanna hang out with me, buddy?" Jamie asks, and he feels stupid, talking to a cat, and Big Ben leans against his legs and-

-tiiiiiips over. Flops right over on Jamie's socks and looks up at him with his big adoring face like Jamie's the best thing that's ever happened to him.

Jamie could get used to someone looking at him like that.

#the greater richmond pet acquisition #give jamie tartt a cat #jamie tartt #ask box is always open #ask game

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enluv · 9 months

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000: dead man’s grove – hoon’s close friends

scroll below the read more for details about the characters !

MASTERLIST OR PINKERTON FREAKS - (y/n’s intro)

SUNGHOON: (debatably) the funniest person you’ll ever meet, avid pokemon go player and insists it hasn’t died because he meets new people on it all the time! failing miserably to get through his final year of college but fuck it he’s made it this long he just needs a few more months till graduation. he’s the dude that always has his tweets go viral by accident just because people are like this is kinda controversial and I’ve always wanted to say it but didn’t wanna get canceled but now that he’s said it I can agree! read: funny loser but people love him!

JAY: touch his shit and you’re dead (figuratively he’d never kill anyone…) anyways he’s a pretty cool guy, hates that his coworker is inheriting the store he works at but whatever he’s fine it’s fine he’s not mad and didn’t want the store anyways like 🙄 also a pothead but more tolerable than our other one, has a semi decent doing youtube and tiktok where he posts guitar covers! read: wanted to inherit the record store and will bite your hand off if you touch his guitar he’s so serious.

JAKE: trust fund baby (?), but also on track to becoming a swimming star seeing as he’s the most anticipated swimmer of the season, already scouted by like ten different teams and refuses to pick one because he’s scared of them all, in turn this makes him hide more since they follow him around a lot, avid twitter user! read: rich kid swimmer jake 😻

JUNGWON: broke college student fighting for his life everytime he clocks into his job at Dunkin’ Donuts, hates working there but needs the money since he can’t get it from jake anymore (smh), he’s actually the funniest character but don’t tell any of the others that or they’ll throw a fit (his words), read: broke dunkin worker

NI-KI: runs a twitter meme account by accident - one day he just started gaining followers and now he has his own fandom called nikinators or kens (he likes to mess with barbs because he says he’s the more famous nicki), works at a grocery store and thinks it’s the best job in the world, he’s also in college but he’s a freshman so he’s just trying to get by this year! read: the actual funniest of the group and has a cult following to prove i

TGOY TAGLIST! - @odxrilove @kjrcrz @captivq @chaerybae @xiaoderrrr @mrchweeee @aerivrs @yunjinsbbg @meiinumaki @enhastolemyheart @teddywonss @enhaz1 @i-yeseo @stilesks @soobsnow @haechan-nahceah @wonhoonsluv @ice-dandan20 @rshmra @nhularin @binchanluvrr @fakeuwus @sunghoonluva @enha-cafe @maybee-may @stariszn @alanniys @yannew @ilovewonyo @moonlighthoon @mykalon @flwrshee @byunrieu @stealanity @luvistqrzzz @manooffline @malarign @haechansbbg @lemons4u @sngvhs @spilled-coffee-cup @hoonvrs - bold can’t be tagged!

— taglist is open - please send an ask or dm to be added!

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kindness-and-friends · 11 days

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//Heya. Mod here. I have good news and bad news

Good news is I'll be pretty blunt with the lore on the souls and stuff! Ask a question about it and I'll probably answer it

Bad news is this blog will be on hiatus :( ill finish the rps tho dw

To put it simply, drama and other projects I need to work on

To put it not simply (This shit is gonna be like a whole essay. Also i didnt proofread it cuz am lazy)

Reason 1: Drama- I honestly don't know what to feel. I started this blog thinking that i can interact with all the underblogs, whatever side they may be on. I kinda wanted this blog to be neutral because I was kinda inspired by underblog💛's. I enjoyed blogs like integrityvictim and such, and followed them (i went feral in some of the reblogs lol) completely aware they were against @/thehumanofjustice. Because I wanted this blog to be enjoyed and disliked by both sides. I wanted this blog to interact with both sides.

It started with incorrect pronouns. Then our small group of underblogs had a vote I wasn't involved in nor knew anything about and out of nowhere human is the 'leader' of the underblogverse. I never liked that idea and I expressed my feelings about it before. Luckily more people can join, but nobody has. I do like the concept of @/underblogmanagement, it's a way for people to interact with others and develop their blogs. But its too early. If anything it shouldn't be called that, it shouldn't have been introduced the way it was, and it shouldn't be made now. If we want to make something like this we have to make it bigger and have every single fucking underblog lend a hand.

I wanted to stop when I got the death threats. I thought that maybe, just maybe, it was a fan of the underblogs trolling, and it wasn't actual underblogs hating me. I still think it is. I also wanted to stop when the shipping got too bad. I didn't want this to be like @/undertaleolive that was known as nothing more than being Clover's 'girlfriend'. I don't get as much asks as I used to, and I know the lot of them are from thehumanofjustice or deputyclover (im not dumb.) The only time this blog can be serious is when I make it serious. I chose to let the anons kill Willow so it could be serious. I chose to let Clover kill Willow so it could be serious. I chose to give Willow those hallucinations and give Xeon a concussion so for once this blog wouldn't just be meme asks and roleplays with close friends of mine. I feel limited.

I think underblogmanagement is dumb. I think this rivalry is dumb. I think this blog is dumb. I think the creation of a whole new tag is dumb. I think the fact that only a portion of human's friends and followers is what makes up my follower count is dumb.

I wanted to be an underblog💛 with a story, not whatever the fuck I am now

Reason 2: Other projects - I'm giving the majority of my focus and motivation on this blog. Any motivation and creativity I have for art and writing gets thrown into here with no recognition. I have other things I need to place my focus on. As @/infinitrix, may know, I haven't updated my askblog in 2 months. Instead of drawing art for that blog, I'm drawing art for this one (only to get like 2 notes). Instead of writing dialogue and lore for that one, I'm writing it for this. If the only people who'll actually see what I post are my friends, I think this blog is nothing more than a waste of motivation. I need to focus on other things, and always worrying whether I have rps to finish or art to make isn't helping at all. The majority of art requests on my main are about this blog, too, and I want to work on art that isn't related to this. The only blogs whose lore I enjoy and would like to know more of are Whisper's, Winnie's, and maybe more that i don't interact with. I do think that if there's only a few people really trying to make their blog interesting while the rest is just shits and giggles, it's useless. I put together lore and relationships and art, and it hardly gets any notes. I can say the same for @/apatientwind who makes amazing art that doesn't get notes, and @/whisper-the-human (im eating your writing style ourgh. Keep up the good work :3). And yeah. Im giving up

I'll finish the last two rps I'm in and then leave. Don't try to start any new ones, I wanna make this quick

So I will finish what's unfinished, and possibly this will become a blog to ask about the lore. Maybe one day, when I figure everything out and have more motivation, I'll get back to this. But that won't be soon.

Ill be active on @goldeneclipsee if there are actually fans out there that arent my friends and moots.

Bye.

#long post #I'm staring at this like. 'Did I really do this? Is this finally the end?'#I'm scared for when human sees this doe

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lehdenlaulu · 14 days

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A "get to know you" meme, tagged by @defeateddetectives! 😊

do you make your bed? Usually, yeah, unless I'm in a hell of a hurry.

what’s your favourite number? Probably a common answer, but 7!

what is your job? I like to describe it as wandering around a mystical maze and fulfilling people's wishes. 😉

if you could go back to school would you? Honestly? Yeah. I have huge gaps in my formal education due to neuromutant/mental health nonsense, and I'd love to remedy that.

can you parallel park? Baby, I can't even drive.

a job you had that would surprise people? I worked in a biolab assembling COVID tests for hospital use for a bit, airlocks and coveralls and all.

do you think aliens are real? You know, out of all the stories about paranormal experiences and the like, alien abduction stories are always the scariest, honestly. So while space is vast and I kinda think it's arrogant to think we're alone, so to speak... the idea is a little scary if it means those stories are all true. can you drive a manual car? Again, can't drive at all.

what’s your guilty pleasure? Honestly, I don't really feel guilty about anything that isn't actually harmful to someone. Maybe eating way too unhealthily, if anything.

tattoos? One day, I hope.

favourite colour? Deep olive green.

favourite type of music? I have a really wide taste in music, ranging from jazz to metal. Good music is good music, genre is largely irrelevant to me.

do you like puzzles? It's not something I do often, but I do like them, especially assembling those huge table-size ones with friends.

any phobias? Not any crippling ones, no. Okay, I lied, I just had a panic attack when our cabin didn't have a window when crossing over from Sweden (though to be fair anything might have triggered it at that point, I was Not Having A Good Time that day). So I might say claustrophobia. Funnily enough too open spaces also make me anxious.

favourite childhood sport? Did I even have one? I don't think so. I wasn't much of a sports person.

do you talk to yourself? Hah, yes.

what movie(s) do you adore? "Adore" is a really specific word, hmmm... Before Sunrise, for one. And now that we started with the Vienna theme, The Illusionist. Pride & Prejudice (2005) would work, too,

coffee or tea? Tea. I've never, quite literally, been able to stomach coffee.

first thing you wanted to be growing up? The very first one was probably something silly in a typical kid fashion, but the first serious ones were all in the archaeology/anthropology/history field.

Tagging: @ruthvelyan @midgardian-lokidottir @cathly @eowyndy @artorielle & @if-th3n-else

#about me #tag game

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studentinpursuitofclouds · 1 month

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Heyo, Mousy! I just came by to say again that I really appreciate and love the whole Farmer/OC interactions you made with our OCs! The memes and stories you made long ago are something I still love! 🥰♥️ I still remember them!!! 😍😍 Sadly, I lost them when my blog was deleted 🥲 So, I might hunt for them again in your blog. I really need to reread the short stories 🥺👉🏼👈🏼

I'd love to come up with some silly ideas for our Farmers/OCs, too! (If we put aside their lore for this to happen, hehe). But I'm afraid of getting characters being OOC 😅 maybe if I do have some ideas, I'll share! 😁

Though I had a very, VERY silly thought (based on a friend's idea), and I have to ask you so randomly 😅 Can you imagine the idea of our Farmers all meeting and along with their spouses, too? For example, Julian's spouse is Lance, and so is Ziana's! Can you imagine the situation? TWO LANCES?! Or am I too silly/weird with this?? 😭😅 Like, they messed with magic so badly that they could visit each other's universe kinda situation but not really ruining anything 😂 We can ignore the whole seriousness with the sitiation, haha. Honestly, just... if the question is too weird, please ignore 😅😅 I just wanted to share the rambling, KASJJSJJS-

Have a good start to the day, Mousy!! ✨️✨️ (I want to run, but I'm fasting, so I'll just... walk fast from the scene 🚶🏻‍♀️💨)

😂😂

Hewwo again Nim :3

Thanks so much for the kind words, and I'm glad you and others like my OC stories! I've had a lot of fun imagining these situations myself, where our chaotic farmers start their adventures together ☺️💕

I have a links to Ziana and Aelfden's stories in the masterlist for sure, by the way (or you can find them by tags on my blog, I usually put a tag on each OC farmers).

Phah, I like your idea so much 😄 To be honest, I've been thinking about this kind of situation for a long time. But usually never voiced it, because my original idea was that Lance is only one. And the thoughts that half of our farmers would fight for Lance's attention (while the other half fights for the right to be called Isaac's simp) is a little sad. I don't want our OCs to be enemies of each other! (Even though it is very comical).

The situation with the two Lances, on the other hand.... Good alternative, everyone got their own Lance! 😃 (we'll set aside considerations of alternate reality, breaking the fourth wall and the very logical possibility of this event). Lance will definitely start to have a philosophical musing about why in all alternate realities he is always there, but Farmer is always unique? And while he's puzzling over the question, in the background a whole bunch of Isaacs will be running away from our other Farmers with flowers chasing them.

Man, this scenarios itself is so silly, and I love it! Thanks again to Nim for this one ☺️💕💕💕

#share aome more silly ideas because it's so funny and interesting!#sdv oc #sdv ocs #also sorry for a long reply 😅#tag your Farmer as one who would definitely chase Isaac with flowers 😆

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bleachbleachbleach · 8 months

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9/6 - 9/10/2023

I think my biggest accomplishment this week is definitely regrowing a decent bit of skin on my leg, and in addition to my "omg just write fanfic do not clean the kitchen it's dangerous out there" lesson I mentioned last week, I've now also learned a lot about burn care! Or not the care itself, but burn progression, and what those stages look and feel like. Also learned that Reddit won't let you view "mature content" (burn images) on your phone unless it's through the Reddit app, which is very annoying. I'm never gonna download the Reddit app. Anyway, new skin is thrilling! And while my September plans were supposed to be "work out more," the burn care thing has sort of tabled that for a bit, which has let me commit more to "omg just write fanfic" September.

I spent most of this week working on scenes that do not feel that great. Reasons for this:

My attempts to describe setting and/or stage business keep coming out in the most arcanely described and/or overwritten (or maybe underwritten?? who knows) ways. Why.

It just feels like there's a lot of Things, and why are there so many things. Like *butterfly meme* is this worldbuilding or is this an episode of Hoarders

But by the time I got to the stuff I was writing on Saturday and this morning, *I* at least feel like some of the threads are coming together. I spent a lot of Thursday feeling despair of the "but who's going to read that far" variety, but part of me is also like, well, it's fairly likely no one's going to read this either way, so maybe the concern should be proportional to that.

Right now, I'm about 1000 words into a Renji-Akon conversation that's had all the middle bits written for like, a year and a half. The middle bits were all jokes, lol, but I'm currently feeling pretty excited by the Themes and Motifs that are coming out of the full version of the scene. It's been really interesting learning about how their POVs about the Gotei and their co-workers and the NATURE OF LIFE AND DEATH mesh, or don't. I always think it's interesting thinking about like, people who've worked together(ish) for decades, and what about each other is knowable and old hat--except you're co-workers, not exactly friends, so your dataset of what's very known vs. what you know absolutely nothing about is super skewed.

To finish the chapter, I have the end of the Renji-Akon conversation to write; the end of the subsequent scene to write, which will probably be more involved than it seems because it's kinda-sorta a fight scene; and then revisions to the chapter tag, which I think will mostly be about trying to make this chapter seem less like a grab bag of things that happen to happen in sequence and more like there's some kind of narrative throughline.

I want to say I can finish the chapter by the end of the week, but unfortunately I'm out of town Thurs-Sun for a ~strategy retreat~ and am feeling very upset about having to drive myself to the airport (hell itself) at 2:30AM on Wednesday night, so I'll probably spend most of the first half of the week trying to keep all my shit together and then a lot of next week trying to get everything back together.

I'm going to boldly aim to finish this chapter, my Part 1 read-through, and Chapter 7 (to finish out Part 1) by the end of September! Which was my previously-stated goal for the end of August, lol.

Part 2 starts with Kira's chapter, which I think is the only chapter I've written absolutely none of, and which I have the least notes for (and all of those notes are about Hinamori, not Kira), but Renji and Akon just talked a lot about Kira, and I'm pretty excited for that horizon once I get there!

#stories for the sea

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walkman-cat · 4 months

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i’ve gotta know abt ur little guy orpheus alabaster whats his deal,,, i keep seeing ur little doodles and tags and feeling curriiooooosiityyyyyyyy

HI PIP!!

orpheus alabaster my BOY !! he's so silly <3 (also this is going to be a LONGGG post so it's under a cut) (he's my little guy i've got a lot to say about him)

He's like the city equivalent of a world-famous detective (one half of a detective agency working out of the attic of a curiosity/antique shop in the oldest part of the city)– he's a household name, and is known for taking on pretty much every case that he comes across (except, curiously, the biggest unsolved mystery the city has ever seen). Basically, Orph is the detective of the gentleman thief-detective dynamic and the watsonian narrator-detective dynamic (i love detectives <3)

He's observant, and will not rest until he's solved the case (to his detriment), and would risk his life if it meant saving the lives of others (to his detriment). He's got a terrible memory (so he writes everything down in one of his numerous notebooks) and he's not great with people (he's trying, somewhat. Cecil's usually the one who talks to clients). He's always down to work around the law/the watch (the city's law enforcement). He's very nosy (Cecil also is, they're perfect for each other).

He's also basically all those memes that are like "kinda gay to be a detective [etc etc]". While his partner (Cecil– they started the detective agency together!) has been pining over him since pretty much when they met (6 years before the story starts), Orpheus fell much harder and discovered this in the past year (he's having a Great Time. demiromantic king !!). They're so silly and devoted to each other (they call each other "Mr. Alabaster" and "Mr. Meyers" theyre sickening) and it's a whole Thing.

Also! Orph's the new incarnation of the forgotten/illegal/dead god of deceit and dreams (he's a detective and also the patron god of thieves and liars wbwbwb– this amuses me greatly). He's got a complicated relationship with his identity and personhood (which may have something to do with him taking on faces and personas at the drop of a hat) and isn't quite sure if he counts as something alive anymore.

Also to do with the fact that he's a kinda-not-really dead god, Orpheus isn't quite alive; he's a believable fascimile of something living, but he doesn't bleed when cut, he's cold to the touch, and sometimes Cecil can swear that he isn't breathing. He died not too long before he arrived in the city (and has the ligature marks on his neck to prove it) and came back, but even though he'd love to have come back wrong he came back exactly the same as he was before.

Here are some extra/funky facts about Orph:

he plays the piano!! he doesn't do it often for reasons he's never told Cecil but he's very good at it and has played for him in the past

he wanted to be a poet when he was younger, and still sometimes jots lines down in between all his other notes

his hands are perpetually inkstained, his fingertips are nearly all blackened from ink

the only times he's been truly excited for his clientele to be some of the city's richest are for hermes vetch heists. they're also the only times he's happy to have not solved the case (he's got a soft spot for the thief and misses him greatly)(he keeps reminiscing about heists to kit's face without knowing kit is hermes vetch and it's so funny to me)

he's mixed race (this isnt very important story wise, but it's important to me (also mixed race)) (so's kit)

he's non-binary!! (he/him enby times!!)

he's also a trans allegory for reasons i will not go into (they contain secretsssss)

he wouldn't like to say he has a favourite method of murder, but it's poisons. he likes to have an excuse to infodump and show off his knowledge of poisons

he probably would look real nice if he put any effort in to how he looks. he doesn't, so he looks like if a cat got drenched then blow-dried and rolled in ink

he hates having anything touching his neck, especially if they're wrapped around his neck. he will suffer and be cold if he has to be

the only times he'd overcome his need to put others before himself is when cecil (and to an extent kit/hermes vetch) is in danger (they're his best friends !!)

he often stares unblinkingly when thinking. it's a wee bit intimidating

his family is basically just matchsticks kelly (the guy who owns the antique shop who took him in), and cecil (later it'll also include kit), he doesn't talk about his family

he's known about cecil's sleeping habits and tendency to clamber over the rooftops for 6 years and still gets jumpscared by him clambering into his window in the dead of night

#thankyou soso much pip for giving me an excuse to ramble about one of my favourite little guys <3 #he's got such wet cat energy #I love him so so much #eidolon vetch #orpheus alabaster #answered #chimeofthecomet

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subdee · 8 months

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5 Favourite Fics I’ve written

rule: 5 favourite fics you’ve written and pass it on to 5 other writers

Tagged by @hxhhasmysoul thank you! It feels kinda dishonest to do a writing meme when I didn't write anything in uhhhh all of 2023, but I really like the idea of this one, because in my experience writers almost never like the same stories that the readers like, so it's really interesting to see what people say!

1. Pariging Coffee Shop AU - Would you guys be shocked if I said this is my actual favorite thing I've written? I had a hard time writing it because I had particular reader in mind from the outset and we fell out before I finished the first draft. But now I think it's funny, it has manic energy to match the protagonist. What I really like about it though is that the main characters, Ging and Pariston, really aren't all that similar to their canon selves but they still have workable personalities for the story. Personally I like reading AUs with quasi-original characters, but I'm always writing pretty close to canon. This one time I wrote the kind of story I like to read.

2. Treasure Hunter Yuffie Kisaragi and the case of the White Materia - this is buried as the last chapter in a 10-chapter collection of unrelated short stories I wrote for AU-gust in 2020 so no one reads it, but I like it! I've always wanted to write a mystery story and this one has a complete plot and a setting (Victorian England), even if the plot is kinda wonky in places and the setting isn't fully researched. I'm just proud of myself for finishing a mystery with an actual plot and period setting I think. I like a lot of the stories I wrote for AU-gust, actually, 2020 was a good writing year and @tofucasserole is a REALLY good beta-reader / sounding board.

3. An Honest Day's Work - It's a Jojo Part One fic? It's a pastiche on Victorian ghost stories? I was taking a class on British literature and the professor told us we could write fanfiction for the final paper? (This wasn't written for class though.) I don't know, I just like the rhythm of this one. It's moody.

4. Seven Days - Similar to the Jojo fic, this is pretty short and I spent a lot of time on the sentences. I just like the way it's written. Pretty often I'll re-read things I've written and cringe because the sentences are awkward, and I'll tell myself I'll go back to edit later, and then later never comes. This was short so it was easy to edit. I also like the way the story deals with Cloud's unreliable memory at the start of FF7. It was fun to write the different perspectives jumbled together.

5. Nevermind the Bollocks, Here's the Phantom Troupe - this one REALLY needs an edit, I contradict things I said the paragraph before when I'm not repeating what I said the paragraph before, because I wrote it in fits and starts - which is what happens when you start with "this person plays this instrument" as the premise and don't have a plot, haha. (Thanks to munen for unsticking basically every hxh fanfic I've written in the last five years!) So it's not currently my #5 favorite story, but I'm putting it on the list anyway thinking it eventually will be, because it's longer and complete, and even with the infodumping about band stuff it's less of an info-dump than Dungeon x Hunter. I like Machi and Nobu's characters in this.

Tagging... @voidcat-senket @dodici12 @rosemochi @spectroscopes @itiaskia ! I want to know !

#my fic #tag game #thanks for the tag <3 #ff7 #hxh #jojo

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blizzardstarx · 1 month

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THINKIJG. OF CASSIDY IN SERVSNT OF EVIL. AJD IN MY YARD FIRE AU UHM.

“I ran into a fair maiden with a hair of deep green. Her smile and her voice, to me, were sent from up above. Something moved in my chest; you might even call it love. / But we know all good things must come to an end, it is my queen's orders, that girl must repent. I will grant your wishes, if that's all I live for, so then tell me, my sun, just what causes these rains to pour?”

The fic I wrote of my au, had Garrett be in the placement of Micheala(the whole "plum hair" I gave him, etc etc. visiting the kingdom of the Aftons) & Banica(Gluttony side/the main part for Garrett). And in Evillious Chronicles lore, Allen (I bet) got that "love at first sight" stuff.

The base for Cassidy in Yard Fire is Allen/Nemesis (Vanessa is small half of Rillian & very much more Nemesis).

So, yeah. Ik bit weird. But ages are 👍 (Cassidy is like round 15 or smth. Same with Garrett. Evillious Chronicles has Rillian be QUEEN at 14. So like. Yeah).

Tbh I kinda make memes inside of my head about this yk? "Cassidy's crush was his rebellious stage too"(e.i: going back to the fact that Garreth (his name in the au), basically disabled William?? He ate his hand,, just the fingers but yk. <- where his whole Banica era started👍💥). Cassidy was there for the meeting between William & Garreth, and just.

For most of his years, he's believed that his father can do no harm and nothing bad. Tho, yes he was suspicious about him. But he never asked, and never thought about it again. He's always forgotten (middle child along with CC). So he doesn't think his questions are important.

If he is ever remembered by his father, he's more like a servant then a son. Which he got used to. So seeing his father being accused and then fucking BITTEN, by like. Another boy his age, HIS AGE.

Garreth about to rule his family kingdom, but his wish that he wanted to fulfill was to destroy evil by all means(and I mean that: he is like. In his Banica era- so. Yeag 👍💥).

It's not rlly like..a love at first sight or a crush now that I'm thinking of it. It's more like. Admiration, and wanting to be like Garreth yk?

He does also like. Plan the execution when William gets well (Cassidy is mad about it. Hoped his father got sick. Never Happened. He Angy). But it doesn't really happen as intended??? Garreth gets lured into the kingdom again, and just gets. Slaughtered/stabbed like Ceaser.

And then when Mike gets word of it, it's already days later of the "execution" (William still calls that an execution) of his brother (-figure. Just thought I'd say, that in Yard Fire; Mike & Garrett are related but very much see each other as siblings.. Abby was 1 when this was happening). And Vanessa already ran away, with Cassidy also running away(he ran away the moment he just did what he did. Vanessa was already planning to leave and decided to do it at the same time Garreth died so that was suspicious to Mike).

One post I did say, was on how when Mike first meets Vanessa he tries to kill her..but yk. She lives another day; cuz Mike saw himself in her. A lonely girl, with no one else (or so they thought. Cassidy is trying to find Vanessa. But like. Kinda short story; he gets mistaken for a bear (by a delusional person) when he was so close to reaching the Schmidts & Simmons (Vanessa)'s house. But. Yeah- bro gets mistaken for a bear and then just fucking. Killed)

Ough sorry for talking about this au outta the blue- and having it be. Like. So long I just. 👍 Yard Fire <3 (if you haven't seen the drawings I can tag you in it! It's also basically the 'masterpost' of Yard Fire!)

GARRETH WHAT. DID WHAT TO WILLIAM??? HOLY SHIT

And omg your Yard Fire AU is so interesting!!! I've seen a few drawings but feel free to tag me in them!!

#blizz’s nonsense #ask!!!#sotogalmo #kellie!!!#cassidy afton #garrett schmidt #william afton #vanessa shelly #vanessa afton #mike schmidt #fnaf movie #fnaf au #Yard Fire AU

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