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ok we all love Larry the cat, but also this is the Chief Mouser of the Foreign & Commonwealth Office. His name is Palmerston. Appreciate him.
#larry the cat#palmerston the cat#uk politics#yeah ik larry and palmerston have beef#that's why they gotta be equally appreciated#edit: what the fuck how does this have thousands of notes#15k
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Duolingo is NOT what it used to be.
“Duolingo is ‘sunsetting the development of the Welsh course’ (and many others)”.
I’ve used Duolingo since 2013. It used to be about genuinely learning languages and preserving endangered ones. It used to have a vibrant community and forum where users were listened to. It used to have volunteers that dedicated countless hours and even years to making the best courses they could while also trying to explain extremely nuanced and complex grammar in simple terms.
In the past two years it feels like Von Ahn let the money talk instead of focusing on the original goal.
No one truly had a humongous problem with the subscription tier for SuperDuolingo. We understood it: if you can afford to pay, help keep Duolingo free for those who couldn’t.
It started when the company went public. Volunteers were leaving courses they created because they warned of differing longterm goals compared to Duolingo’s as a company; not long after it was announced that the incubator (how volunteers were able to make courses in the first place) would be shut down. A year goes by and the forums—the voice of the users and the way people were able to share tips and explanations—is discontinued. A year or two later, Duolingo gets a completely new makeover—the Tree is gone and you don’t control what lesson you start with. With the disappearance of the Tree, all grammar notes and explanations for courses not in the Big 8 (consisting of the courses made before the incubator like Spanish/French/German/etc. and of the most popular courses like Japanese/Korean/Chinese/etc.) are removed with it. Were you learning Vietnamese and have no idea how honorifics work without the grammar notes? Shit outta luck bud. Were you learning Polish and have absolutely no clue how one of the declensions newly thrown at you functions? Suck it up. In a Reddit AMA, Von Ahn claims that the new design resulted in more users utilizing the app/site. How he claims that statistic? By counting how many people log into their Duolingo account, as if an entire app renovation wouldn’t cause an uptick in numbers to even see what the fuck just happened to the courses.
Von Ahn announces next in a Reddit AMA that no more language courses will be added from what there already is available. His reasoning? No one uses the unpopular language courses — along with how Duolingo will now be doing upkeep with the courses already in place. And here I am, currently looking on the Duolingo website how there are 1.8 million active learners for Irish, 284 thousand active learners for Navajo, and even 934 thousand active learners for fucking High Valyrian. But yea, no one uses them. Not like the entire Navajo Nation population is 399k members or anything, or like 1.8 million people isn’t 36% of the entire population of Ireland or anything.
And now this. What happened to the upkeep of current courses? Oh, Von Ahn only meant the popular ones that already have infinite resources. Got it. Duolingo used to be a serious foundational resource for languages with little resources while also adding the relief of gamification.
It pisses me off. It really does. This was not what Duolingo started out as. And yea, maybe I shouldn’t get invested in a dingy little app. But as someone who spent most of her adolescence immersed in language learning to the point where it was literally keeping me alive at one point, to the point where languages felt like my only friend as a tween, and to the point where friendships on the Duolingo forums with likeminded individuals my age and other enthusiasts who even sent me books in other languages for free because they wanted people to learn it, the evolution of Duolingo hits a bitter nerve within me.
~End rant.
#duolingo#langblr#huge language rant feel free to skip#evolution of duolingo#luis von ahn#duolingo welsh course#language learning
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The moment when their worlds collide, world peace will finally be restored.
#ro ramdin#mogul mail#ludwig#youtube commentary#theyre both so based and brutally honest in their own way#And take the typical brainless yt commentary formats and make it a think piece that leaves the viewer something to think about later#Ro does it with long extended metaphors snappy editing and what seems to be snapshots of her mind full of raw emotion#You can help but feel uncomfortable at how she displays facts and reality without an idealistic filter#While Ludwig prepares a list of tabs to present without a script hits the record button and dies it all in one take#And even though his videos may be more “comfortable” to sit through#He does not shy away from the hard hitting reality of situations#Like in the threads vid where he couldn’t willingly promote the twitter alternative when facebook has been known to scrape user data etc.#Both know the YouTube space so well and want their viewers to be aware of it too#Both have express their displeasure and discomfort around parasocial relationships and their role as “commentary youtubers”#How what they say can and will be believed by thousands and the pressures that power holds#Ro and Lud are the only youtubers I’ve seen at least to fully disclose their patreon earnings and twitch contract without ill will#Like that’s strange#Also they’re both funny as fuck#Very important note yes right that down#I just want to listen to them have a conversation#Or at least make a vague reference to each other it’s all I ask#I know this post’s audience is niche (only me) but it had to be said
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a coincidence — rockstar!yeonjun x fem!reader
cw. rockstar!yeonjun x audiencemember!reader, chubby!reader implied, fem!reader, mentions of alcohol, oral (m. receiving), sex (condoms mentioned <3), roleplaying(?), orgasm denial, lmk if there's more.
notes. this is part of @napofamoon's growing pain rock band!au collaboration :D thank you @nightlyawnzz for being a beta reader :3 and thank you angie for that one line of dialogue (didn't know if you wanted to like not be tagged lol), not super well edited, smut under cut <3
wc. 2.8K
Who is that? Yeonjun’s seen hundreds—thousands—of pretty girls at his concerts. But no one’s ever truly made an impression. Every once in a while, there’d be one that barely stuck out from the crowd, but nothing ever stuck. After a while, the crowds started getting blurry. Has performing become a bit boring for him? Maybe. There wasn’t a spark anymore. No reason to perform.
But you…you immediately caught his eye. A bright star in a sea of dull strangers—smiling, drinking, dancing to the music, having a blast. You looked fun, exciting, flirty. And he wanted—needed—to get to know you. But first, he needed to get your attention.
He’s cool, casual with his bass; he’s a natural. The way he moves with the music, pouty lips singing under his breath along with the frontman, the stage lights sparkling in his eyes—it didn’t take much focus for him to nail every song.
So he decided to have a bit of fun tonight. Moving a bit more, putting on a bit more of a show than usual, getting closer to the edge of the stage without being too obvious. All to get your attention. So why won’t you look at him? Just a bit closer and maybe…
Bingo.
You’ve locked eyes and there’s that something he’s been looking for. Something he’s been looking for for a while. That spark. That reason to put on a bit of a show.
And you could tell. You were just as into it as he was.
Watching his every move—flirting without crossing a line, giving him seductive looks, dancing in his direction. It was fun. It was thrilling. That unspoken desire between two strangers—and one of them admires the other before they’ve even met? How scandalous, hm? The tension grew and grew until—
“Thank you everyone; good night!”
But…what do you do now? How could he find you later? Oh, why didn’t he slip the security guard his number to give to you? Where are you? No, no, no, don’t leave.
There was nothing he could do; the lights were dim, the curtain was drawn, the crowd was spilling out the front door. You never left his mind, though. Not when he put his bass in its case, not when he zipped his hoodie up to leave, not when he plopped down on his hotel bed, never.
Desperately trying to get you off his mind, he heads down to the hotel bar. Oh, how pathetic is this? A world-famous rock star sitting alone at a hotel’s bar sipping a whiskey feeling sorry for himself? Over what? Some girl?
Please don’t sit there…he begs silently watching a strange figure take the seat in the bar stool next to him. Despite the need for alone time, he couldn’t help but glance over at the sound of your—
“Just a vodka soda, please.”
Oh, shit. It’s you. What does he do? Why are his hands so sweaty? When did he turn into such a loser? Getting this worked up over a girl. He needs to get your attention again, but he doesn't want to come off too pushy. You’re here alone too and maybe you wanna keep it that way.
Fuck it.
He clears his throat, cooly-maybe-not-so-cooly saying, “I saw you in the audience.” Just as you planned. Well, sort of. You didn’t mean to run into him. Glancing across the room at the hotel you were staying in to see that hot bassist sitting alone at the bar was pure luck.
But you need to keep it cool. Don’t be too…weird. Just a simple glance and gentle nod is enough.
“Did you enjoy the show?” He asks, knowing your answer. He could see your desire just as much as you could see his, but you weren’t gonna give in just yet. You nod again, adding a quiet hum. “Are you from around here or…?” Should he move a bit closer? Sure. Should he brush your knee with his fingertips? Why not? Oh, they give you goosebumps. You don’t pull away or even flinch. You’re welcoming this.
“No, I’m here on business. That’s why I’m, you know, at a hotel right now.”
“Right.” He pauses, like he has to think of the next thing to say, “I’m Yeonjun, by the way. But you already knew that.”
“And what makes you think that?”
“No reason,” he snarks. “Just that you bought a ticket to my show.”
“As if,” you roll your eyes. “I was bored and the show was right down the street.” Lie. All of this was lies. Of course you were a fan. Both of you knew that.
“So you got front-row seats from a scalper then?”
Now it’s time for some fun. Turning toward him, you introduce yourself, face inching closer and closer, his hand sneaking up higher on your thigh, your heartbeat getting faster with each millimeter. You maintain your confidence best you know how, but you must admit, he’s intimidating. Is it that way he unapologetically stares at your body? The way he’s flirting with a fan after a show? The way his lips look like they’d perfectly wrap around your—
“Do you always find fans to flirt with after the show?”
“No. Never,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “But you’re so…” he tucks some fallen hair behind your ear, eyes roaming your face, “gorgeous. I haven’t stopped thinking about you in the audience. Then boom, here you are at my hotel’s bar. Must be fate.”
“Or a coincidence.”
Both resorting to a shrug, there’s tension in the air like you’ve never felt. It’s excruciating. He’s leaning closer to you, oh, what was he about to say?
“I saw you watching me,” he whispers right against your ear—close enough to feel his breath. Fuck, he’s good. This is gonna be fun. And you’re gonna be a brat. At least for a little.
“I was watching all five of you,” you say, adding an annoying eye roll for good measure.
“Nope,” he says, sitting back and smiling like he knows a secret of yours. Which he may. “Only me.”
“So what if I was?” You narrow your eyes at him. You weren’t gonna break eye contact now. You can’t. But he doesn’t expect you to keep it. He expects you to cower and blush like everyone always does. But you don’t. And he likes that. “I’m waiting.”
“Makes me wonder what else you wanna watch me do is all.”
“Like what?”
“I dunno,” he chuckles. “You tell me. You were the one that couldn’t stop staring at me.”
That jerk. That stupid fucking jerk. Looking at him with heavy-lidded eyes, you glance down at his lips—side note: jesus fucking christ they look delicious but that’s beside the point right now—and lean in as close as you can without touching him. Parting his own lips, he tilts his head just barely and closes his eyes.
“Aw, you’re so cute.” You giggle. “You thought I was gonna kiss you?”
While you’re watching him retreat, defeated at his own game, he runs his fingers through his messy black hair.
“So you think I’m cute?”
Let’s give in now. “No.” You stand, taking a deep breath and walk behind him, sliding your hands down his chest, bending to meet his ear to whisper, “I think you’re fucking sexy.”
Goosebumps—but this time, they’re on him. Has anyone ever done this to him before? Let’s take it one step further. You bite his ear lobe gently and he sighs, your name falling out of his lips breathlessly.
“Hm?”
“Come upstairs with me,” he whispers.
Another step further. Sliding your hand up the back of his neck, you grip some of his hair, tugging it harshly, his eyes widening as he hisses.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Will you come upstairs with me? Please.”
Turning him around in his barstool, you stand between his legs, his eyes roaming up and down your body. “I thought you’d never ask.”
It was all a blur as he took you upstairs—heading straight for the elevator, pushing you against the wall to finally crash his lips into yours, hands roaming your body trying to decide what part of it to grab onto. The ding of the elevator snaps you out of it before stumbling down the hallway to his room.
When he finally gets the door open and the door slams behind you, he’s gentler, like he wants to take his time with you. But you don’t. You drag him toward the bed and push him to the mattress to straddle his hips. Wrapping his hands around your waist, his hands slip under the skirt of your dress to squeeze and squeeze and squeeze.
Lifting off him, you lift your dress over your head as he eyes your pretty white lace lingerie while he smirks to himself. Fuck, he looks hot when he bites his lip like that. And, god, you need his shirt off. Tugging at it, you rock your hips back and forth to shimmy it off while he stays laying down. Hands on bodies, breath heavy, lips on each other’s…god, this was fun.
He flips you to your back, pressing his lips to your chest, trailing kisses over your collarbone. Pushing your face to the side to access your neck, he covers it in sloppy, wet kisses.
Since when was your bra so uncomfortable? And since when was it such a cock blocker? With that out of the way, his lips find your nipples, sucking harshly, but licking them to soothe the stings. Tugging at the waistband of his joggers, you can’t stop begging him to fuck you.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” he says, mimicking your tone from earlier.
“Please, Yeonjun—” you gasp at the feeling of his finger gliding over your clit slowly—slower than anyone’s ever touched you before. But it’s amazing. “Will you please fuck me?”
“Not yet,” he whispers. Standing to pull his pants and boxers down in one motion, he looks over your body. Oh, what was he gonna do with you and everything your body has to offer? Put you on your knees so he can cum all over your full tits? Fuck you from behind so he can see your ass jiggle? Fuck you in missionary so he can see your tits and tummy jiggle while he squeezes your thighs? There’s too many options to pick from.
But before he can make the decision, you crawl over to the foot of the bed, making a big show of it before reaching for his hips. Wrapping your hands around his hips to squeeze his ass, you pull him closer, kissing the tip of his cock. You were going to be the death of him. But you haven’t even tasted him yet. Glancing up at him through your eyelashes, you finally sink down on him completely.
And fuck do you feel good.
Fingers fumbling through your hair as he tries to steady himself, his head falls back to let out the most beautiful moan you’ve ever heard from a man. He whispers your name.
“What?” You look at him, your lips forming a pout while you wait for an answer. He responds with a simple eyebrow raise. “You said my name,” you say matter-of-factly. “What is it?”
“Don’t tease me.”
“What are you gonna do about it?”
Hooking his hands behind your knees, he pulls to flip you on your back while you let out a yelp. He boxes you in with his elbows, dragging his teeth over one of your nipples while you grip his hair, back arching to meet his mouth. He covers you in kisses. You don’t think anyone’s ever kissed you this much. Nothing will ever be enough after this.
As he makes his way down, your legs fall over his shoulders, showering your thick thighs with kisses. Using his mouth to put the smallest amount of pressure on your clit over your thong, he makes you whine and involuntarily grind against his chin, trying to relieve any tension. But he’s not giving in either. Backing away, he chuckles at you. That jerk. Why does he have to be such a jerk?
“Don’t do that to me,” you say. Eyes dark, he takes the waistband of your thong between his teeth, pulling them down slowly, letting them drag over your skin. Kneeling between your thighs, he keeps that spine-tingling eye contact as he rubs his tip over your center. That sends a jolt through your body, letting your brain finally catch up with your body.
“Will you wear a condom?”
Nodding, he quickly rustles through his suitcase messily splayed across the floor. Ripping the condom open with his teeth, he starts to roll it down himself, which is a glorious sight. And he can tell the effect it has on you. You smirk, glancing up at his eyes—eyes that are sparkling back at you.
“Eyes on my cock, baby.”
Fine by you. Sliding it down so slowly, you’re entranced. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
One hand pressing on your hip, the other lining himself up with your pussy, he pushes himself inside you, your eyes rolling back and he groans in your ear. Short shallow breaths grace your skin as he thrusts fast and hard, just like you wanted.
Bodies rocking together, he stares at your tits bouncing with his movements. Your nails start dragging down his back, but he quickly pulls out to turn you over, lifting you by your hips to bring you on all fours, your ass on full display. He spanks you, hard enough that your cheek will be pink tomorrow morning.
Pressing on your lower back to deepen the arch, he thrusts into you again. With your face squished against the mattress, his hands dig into the fat of your hips to hold you in place. The fire in your stomach roars, legs trembling, muscles weak. He yanks you up by your hair—you were hoping he’d do that—to press your back to his chest, letting you feel how heavy he's breathing.
“Don’t cum yet,” he says.
“Who said I was close?”
That evil laugh makes your eyes roll. “I can feel it.” Well, you can’t really argue with that. He was right. “Don’t.”
“You really like telling me what to do, huh?”
He snakes his hand in front of you to circle your clit, turning your whines to whimpers, desperately fighting the urge to let yourself go. What would happen if you did let yourself cum, though? It might be exciting to find out, hm? But being told what to do and when is just as exciting.
Grabbing his arm, your nails dig into his skin. He releases your hair, pushing you to the mattress roughly, face pressed against the mattress. Fists full of bed sheets, his hands spread across your ass, skin spilling through his fingers.
It’s getting increasingly difficult to hold it together—the only thing letting you is knowing how good you must be making him feel if he’s making noises like that.
“Yeonjun,” you gasp, his speed increasing. “Please.” The way he grunts tells you he’s close too, but he doesn’t plan on holding back. Pull my hair again, pull my hair again, pull my hair again, you keep thinking to yourself. And, oh, did you say that out loud? Because he pulls your hair again, finding an even deeper spot inside if you, the feeling spreading to your toes.
“Please, Yeonjun—” you yelp. “Please let me cum.”
He groans again, your name falling out of his lips before adding, “Cum for me.”
Your loud whimpers are muffled by the pillow you’ve shoved your face into, the fire in your stomach roaring louder and louder until—
Fuck…
God, this is good. Your orgasm explodes inside you, fireworks going off in all directions, filling every nook and cranny of your body. Praising you through your orgasm, he encourages you to cum hard around him, reminding you of how good your pussy feels around his cock.
Your body relaxes, but his doesn’t. He thrusts deeper inside of you, desperate to reach his own climax.
“Fuck—” he grunts, spanking you again. He loves seeing you jiggle like that. Reaching in front of you, he massages your tits, squeezing to get a firm grip.
His breath hitches, his thrusts getting sloppy as he twitches inside you, groaning through his climax.
Collapsing on top of you, he catches his breath, chest rushing and falling against your back. Rolling off you to plop onto the mattress, he turns to look at your face while there’s a stillness in the air.
“...so you’re a fan now?”
“Haven’t I always been?”
Chuckling, his face turns to the ceiling, running his fingers through his hair, resting his arms above his head. As you make eye contact, both of you burst out laughing—
“I didn’t think you’d like the roleplaying thing as much as you did,” you giggle.
“Well, what can I say? It was hot,” he says. “Great idea, baby.” Tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear, he smiles at you, kissing your forehead. “I love bringing you on tour with us.”
“I love it too.”
#noam: growing pain#yeonjun#yeonjun smut#txt smut#yeonjun ff#yeonjun x reader#txt x reader#yeonjun x reader smut#txt x reader smut#choi yeonjun#choi yeonjun smut#kpop smut#yeonjun hard thoughts#txt hard thoughts#hp's writing🪲#hp's hard thoughts ☁#yeonjun hard hours#txt hard hours#chubby reader#yeonjun x chubby!reader
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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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Hot Take Time #2309209 (edit: actually this isn't a hot take it's lukewarm at best. it's a room temperature take) but I really don't understand the argument "mo dao and gui dao are different and therefore everything WWX does is completely fine!"
Like, yes, it's a difference that plays into the public discourse vs. real truth themes of the novel to a degree, and I of course absolutely appreciate all the explanations and meta around the nuances and differences. But like. What he actually does with it is... still not good whether it's mo dao or gui dao? And there are many very significant reasons that gui dao is still not great? (Which I won't get into here because there are other people far more qualified with cultural/genre knowledge who have written about it way better than I ever could anyway)
Like y'know. The several hundred people he tortured to death, the thousands of desecrated graves, the mini-harem of pet zombie girls he kept after the war for purely entertainment purposes...? Like, those behaviors aren't inherent to the method (well, except the method sort of uniquely facilitating the keeping of pet ghosts), but they're not... good...? (Note: 'morally good' is completely different than 'fun & sexy, having a great time torture-bonding with shidi, etc'.)
I just cannot agree that keeping a little harem of pet ghost girls nor anything that happened with the Wens is being "gentle with the dead, empathetic and respectful". Even WWX thinks his past self was kinda cringe with it and went way too far!
I do think there's meant to be a significant amount of ambiguity about what elements of his downward spiral are caused by the corrosive nature of his method vs. the trauma of the Burial Mounds and his own, internal, homebrewed mental crisis. The alcoholism, rapidly shifting moods, anger and inability to control his temper, before and after the war. How much of it is Wei Wuxian and how much of it is the impact of the resentful energy he's using, and the use/proximity of the Yin Hu Fu?
I do think there's a reason why there's just as much brutality carried out by characters using orthodox cultivation methods. But in the end, his behavior was a problem, and the novel hints that the methods were impacting his mental state, and it was overlooked because of his usefulness to the war effort, but it did significantly damage his credibility leading up to the parts where he is in the right, which is also part of the point of the story. And you know. The subject of Jiang Cheng's whole 'the flower that blooms alone' monologue in the cave.
Anyway. 'He's using gui dao not mo dao and there's a difference' is super not the same thing as 'Wei Wuxian is morally justified in every action'?
Anyway this book is a lot more fun to me when you approach it from 'look what absolutely insane things these boys will do when they go absolutely feral for each other, it's so cool' with a side of 'look how fucked up he is now, that's hot' and not, like, trying to somehow figure out how to make pet ghost girls into a moral ideal.
So much of the story, for me, is about what desperate, wild lengths a person will go to for survival and revenge when pushed, and then what do you do after? When the danger is past and the revenge is done, what then? How do you come back from that?
#mdzs thoughts#I am a wei wuxian enjoyer#but it feels like I enjoy a different wei wuxian than these people#which is fine... I guess...#people on the internet out here just. having different opinions than me. ugh.#mostly joking but I just find it weird because to me these takes also significantly ruin the cool factor
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RECOGNISING AI GENERATED IMAGES
(Disclaimer: This is not a foolproof guide as these softwares are constantly changing, but it is intended to help you learn things to possibly look out for.)
We've all heard "count the fingers, count the teeth" for AI generated images of people, but more and more frequently I see people sharing images of objects and scenery that are AI generated without realising it. These people are often vocally anti-AI but still get caught out. This post is not intended to shame or make anyone feel bad for not recognising AI imagery. Usually, AI images posted on platforms like tumblr are not tagged as AI; the OP is often fully intending to trick you just to gain some quick numbers, so it's not your fault that their tactics work. They're designed to be pretty at a glance and betting on you not looking any closer.
So, that out of the way: How can I spot and avoid AI Generated images?
Here's some things I've learned to pick up on, and now I can spot them pretty much on sight.
Full guide under the cut. Contains AI images as examples.
1. Source
Your first easy step is to check if there's a source. Remember when everything on tumblr was just credited to weheartit?? This is the new worse version of that. If the image has no source in the description describing an artist, photographer, brand, location etc... check the original post.
If there's nothing in the tags to indicate that it is art or a piece of photography or an advertisement, it could be AI. Sometimes the caption is just something generic or aesthetic like ~witchy cottage life~ etc. The tags above for the image below of the room with the tree are largely nonsense.
Important note: A watermark does not always indicate a photographer or artist: if you think it might be AI but it has a watermark, that will most likely lead you to the socials for the person who created the image using AI.
2. Visual Soup
Zoom. In. It sucks to feel like you have to get into the habit of pausing and closely checking the details of images on platforms designed for infinite scroll and quick engagement, but if you get into the habit of this, soon you'll be learning to spot AI at a quick scroll glance.
Generally, when you zoom in on a photograph, the details and divisions of where one object ends and another begins still stays the same, just out of focus. Zooming in on an AI image, the details become... soup. Why is that plant morphing into the countertops? Why is the tap floating? Why are there five thousand burner dials???
The same applies to art. Zooming in on art reveals things like brush strokes, pencil lines, pixels, imperfections and intentional small details. If zooming in reveals soupy details that don't look like intentional stylistic choices it could be AI.
3. Interior Design Disasters
One thing AI doesn't seem to be good at is separating the depth and layers of rooms full of furniture, and making things sit properly in their 3D space. Window frames are wonky. Chairs and tables are fused to each other, or to walls. Bookcases get narrower at one end when they really shouldn't. A little wonkiness is fine and expected in artwork, but when the whole thing isn't sitting right, it could be AI.
(Compare the white image on the right to these real photographs of a similar house, and notice how messy and nonsensical the AI image seems).
(Edit 03/06/2023: See also this abstract furniture that still has a proper sense of depth and doesn't merge into the background)
4. Toothpaste
I don't know what else to call this but midjourney effing loves it. I most commonly see this on things like AI generated objects, outfits and garments rather than scenery. It looks like the software has applied all the details with a piping bag. Weird, greebly swirls like it's hoping you won't notice if it adds enough visual noise. Notice it. It's AI. And it looks super fucking weird.
Midjourney also loves adding weird concentric circles to everything, which can be seen in the image example for Lighting below.
5. Giblets
What is that bowl of stuff?? What is on that shelf?? What's that pile of...things?? They're giblets. This is another prominent midjourney feature and another example of visual noise. Stuff it with details, and maybe the viewer won't notice that what they're actually looking at is a lumpy pile of nonsense that definitely shouldn't exist. Spot the giblets!
6. Lighting
This one is hardest to describe and to spot, but I often find that the lighting in AI images of scenery and objects has a flat, dream-like quality. Once you study it, it begins to feel distinctly unreal.
7. Names
Lastly, some people do state that an image is AI in their descriptions or tags, but might not do so in those exact words. If you aren't already familiar, here's the names of the most prominant AI generators as of May 2023:
Midjourney
Dall-E or Dall-E 2
Stable Diffusion
Deep Dream
Artbreeder
WOMBO
NightCafe
Lensa
Stablecog
BigSleep
Brands such as Bing, Google, Shutterstock and Canva are also bringing out generators
8. Multiple Angles (added 03/06/2023)
I forgot to add this earlier, but it's another very simple tell! If the images are objects, garments or rooms... are there multiple images in the post of the same object or location from different angles? No? Then it could be AI. The shoes used as Toothpaste examples above were part of a set of lots of different shoes, but of each design there was only one image. AI is Not Good at creating the same thing twice consistently.
(See these photographs of hair pins. The post contains a source link to the photographer's flikr account, where there are multiple images of each pin in different angles and lighting, confirming that they're real.)
If I think of anything else or some new tell starts to appear, I will come back and update this post, but for now, thank you for reading. My hope for this is that people will either share AI generated images less, or if they do, at least learn to spot and tag them so that those who don't want to see them (aka me!) can filter and avoid.
#AI#AI image#AI generated#AI art#anti AI#AI generatred images#how to avoid AI#how to recognise AI#i had to look at so many ai images to make this post and i hated every second i am so brave#I hope this is educational and helpful I really do!!
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How to Fuck Your Sister’s “True Love”
Pairing: Dieter Bravo x fem!reader
Summary: After catching your sister going backwards cowgirl on your fiancée, you didn’t think the holiday season couldn’t get any worse, but it could get a thousand times better: especially if you revenge fucked your sister’s “True Love.” Dieter was all too happy to comply!
Word Count: 8.8
Warnings: Cursing, lots of fucks so NSFW, oral (female receiving), fingering, biting, butt plugs, virginial sex (p in v), creampie, unprotected sex, infidelity (but not form reader or Dieter)
Ratings: E 18+
Author’s Note: Loosely based off of one of the reddit AITA posts
Step One: To Be Fucked Over
He had always told you that he preferred to be on top. He preferred to be the same each time. He liked it quick and simple, like everything in his life. But that seemed to turn around when you walked in on your now ex-fiancé mounted by your own sister. You screamed and sobbed as you saw her ass bounce up and down against his length just as your ex laid back with his hands tied to the bedpost. His face showed blissed out euphoria even as you slammed the door behind you, not even paying attention to the yelling and cursing of your sister falling off your ex’s dick.
Even when you drove away, listening to the ringing and beeping of your phone sound off, you didn’t bother to look back at your traitorous family. You didn’t even comprehend how you got to your friend’s home or how a bottle of wine and a carton of ice cream were both emptied. The giant crack on your phone was unexplainable when you woke up wrecked and depressed the next day. A quick look at yourself in the mirror rewarded you with what you had suspected you looked like: unruly hair pointing every which way, the shine of drool in the corner of your mouth, dark circles under your eyes, and a nice stain of ice cream and wine mixed together on your shirt.
You didn’t bother to look at your phone, knowing full well it was probably blown up with gossip, exclusives, and bullshit about your breakup. News always did seem to travel fast in the entertainment industry. Soon, if not already, the world would know about a famous actress’ latest flop in her love life and all the juicy gossip of her family’s secret life! You rolled your eyes, knowing how the tabloids would spin this tale.
If only your ex could see you now, he would be begging to take you back, you joked to yourself.
Not that you would want him back, if there was one thing your remembered from the day before, other than the obvious fuck, is that it was agreed between you and your friend that you were under no circumstance going back to that cheating ass ex and betraying loveless sister. They could fuck off for all you cared about, but hopefully not each other anymore because that would hurt more. Still disheveled and disheartened from the long night, your call to your parents was less than ideal; swearing they would have a stern talk to your sister. You fully knew that it would lead up to a whole lot of nothing, as it always did.
But the disappointment led to a new idea. Over a healthy dose of over easy eggs and fried potatoes, you and your friend hatched a plan. One that required you to be completely empty of all your fucks. The two of you asked yourselves: who does your sister love? Who would she be pissed off if you fucked in bed? Who was actually an easy question to answer as you remembered your sister rambling on and on about her “One True Love.” She had each one of his movies downloaded and on dvd. Your sister had even waited long hours and nearly got run over by a car in order to get his autograph (which she never did get.) There were many moments you had caught her editing photos of him on her phone.
Your mind was made up quickly, you needed to fuck Dieter Bravo.
The plan would go as follows: Meet Dieter at the upcoming benefit gala. Introduce yourself, and convey to him the idea of you two fucking. He’ll say yes, cause Dieter is known to say yes to outlandish things, and then the two of you will have paparazzi taking pictures of your date. Then the final piece of the puzzle will be an exclusive pic of you and Dieter together, packaged away as a Christmas present to your sister.
The invite to the gala would be easy to score on short notice, your latest film was reaching high on all charts and well with many critics, the gala would beg you to attend. Convincing Dieter to join you would be easy, the man attracted gossip and the wild extravagant. Getting him alone probably wouldn’t be all too hard, lately Dieter’s popularity had de-escalated after the Cliff Beast incident. Convincing him to score pictures with the paparazzi might be hard, no one likes being followed. But with the promise of sex you were sure would convince him to overlook the exposer. It could work, you could hear your sister’s cries of disappearing and heartbreak hitting you now. Maybe it would heal your own heart from the betrayal, but it would certainly make you happy, for the time being.
Yes, no matter now or later, the idea of revenge was set, now all you had to do was to spring the agreement on one Dieter Bravo.
Step Two: Fucked In The Head
Dieter wished he was engulfed in his robe. He wished he was drowning in kit kats or snoozing in his bed. Hell, he even wished he was high and that’s something he hadn’t thought about in a long time since he went to rehab after Cliff Beasts. Anything would be better than schmoozing his way around a benefit gala. This place was full of golden stars, swirling snowflakes, and cascading holiday lights. The gala was in full holiday swing. It was even full of people he didn’t care for and people who didn’t care for him. The people to his left were all the clique comic book actors, who were all well paid and would donate well to the benefit, but were a little too serious about their roles. To his right were the Oscar chasing actors, brimming with parental issues, drug usage, and able to cry on demand. Ahead of him; producers waiting for their opportunity to gloat about their latest projects, directors running circles away from said producers, and executives jumping in to cut off the producers and directors with their own grand pyramid scheme plans. On the outskirts was Dieter, snacking on the kit kat he hid in his pockets before leaving his house.
There were so many places he would rather be, with so many different people. Although now that he thought about it, there weren’t a lot of people who wanted to be near him. Even after rehab his reputation was shit. People didn’t like the messed up, druggie disaster and they currently didn’t like the boring, old man disaster that he was now. Which is why Anita left him. She needed someone who actually had the same interests as her. His passion for art was weird. Even obsession with his homey comforts was too gross and American for her taste. But Dieter didn’t understand what was gross about lounging in robes and eating kit kats all day.
Dieter roamed his way around the crowds, scoping out drinks or appetizers that came his way. It wasn’t long into the evening that his attention was caught on one singular person who was snaking their way through the crowd straight to him. He watched one of Hollywood's top starlets waltz right up to him in one of the curviest, and sexiest little black dresses he had ever seen. You smiled a rather dopey yet heartfelt smile to him and handed him a kit kat with a definite Japanese label.
“Your agent told me you like kit kats, and I had one of these bad boys left from the last time I was in Japan.”
He looked over the Japanese packaging with awe and then looked back at you, “Thanks, babe, sorry that I have to ask, but are we…”
You waited for him to end his sentence.
“Well maybe were we…”
Your brow lifted as you continued to wait.
“Have we ever…” Dieter drew a finger between the two of you.
“Fucked? No but we should.” You said it so blatantly that Dieter coughed and nearly dropped his present. Past him would be joyful in your straight forward attitude, current Dieter is well he’s still happy about it but also trepid about your prowess to just be able to demand sex right off the bat. Then again, he’s also turned on.
“Christ honey, that’s not actually what I was asking. Normally people finish the sentence for me with whatever movie they’ve done with me. Although there have been plenty of people in the past who end the sentence with where we’ve done the deed before…now that I think of it.” Dieter mumbled to himself as he walked to a further corner of the room, you followed closely to his steps.
“Listen, I’ve got a bit of a weird question for you.”
“As if it isn’t weird already…” Dieter eyed you. “But I do like weird.”
“Then maybe you’ll like my proposal. I need you to sleep with me,” you paused as Dieter’s eyes nearly sprang out of his head. “And then I need some sort of proof that we were together.”
Dieter was frozen on the spot as his fingers fumbled to opening the kit kat. Here in front of him was one of Hollywood’s A-list actors looking for a hook-up. As well as porn for later? His mind wasn’t comprehending what was being asked of him right now, but he knew his agent wasn’t going to be happy. But there was part of Dieter’s old self that was basking in the heat of the moment…potential moment that is.
“Say that again.”
You sighed, “Let me explain from the top. I caught my sister and ex-fiancé fucking in my bed after I got home early from a photo shoot. Obviously I’m not thrilled by the news that’s roaming all the tabloids, so simply put, I want pay-back and that starts with you.
“Why me?” Dieter was intrigued now.
“She’s always said that you were her one true love, and she obviously fucked my one true love, or who I thought was my love…”
“And now you want to be fucked by her love,” Dieter nodded. “Shit, that’s petty.”
“Actually the petty part comes in the form of pictures being sent to her as a Christmas present.”
“Shit,” Dieter laughed. You were definitely fucked over and from the looks of your straining shoulders and tapping shoes, you needed to be fucked as well. The old Dieter would have jumped on this plan without a thought. But he was supposed to be better now…
“I’ve got a thought.” You leaned in as he continued, “I say yes to this fuckery, but we do this whole thing my way.”
You frowned, this was supposed to be easy. He was supposed to be easy.
“Now I don’t mean in the bedroom, I’m all for consent and communication there babe. But if I do this, I’m wining and dining you first. We do this damn thing right.”
You looked stunned at Dieter as he spoke of nice restaurants in his area that had good food and atmosphere. This wasn’t what you had expected when your friend had proposed this ridiculous idea. Actually, you expected to be running to his house by now, not talking when your schedule was open for date nights.
“So maybe on the first date, we’ll do the normal movie and restaurant? Then date two, we could do a picnic or some evening in the park shit. And last date, cause it’s the third date right? That’s when we fuck? Maybe a concert or museum? I like painting. Would you go to a couple’s painting class?”
You mumbled a “sure” to the pondering actor as he continued on and on about romantic and fun date ideas. Taking your hand and settling it on the croak of his arm, he led you around the party, introducing you to the idea of home made kit kat desserts that he wanted to try out maybe after you two had fucked. You limply nodded and followed as the man continued to befuddle you into what would be a series of actually really nice and decent first dates. You really couldn’t remember the last time you had been on a date.
Step Three: No Fucks On The First Date
It was Dieter’s idea. Plenty of photo opportunities would show up, he had said. On that he was definitely right, the day at the flea market was packed full of people. Multiple venders laid out their stalls to groups of people wandering through the thorofare. The two of you wandered down the rows past used and refurbished furniture, handmade jewelry, vinyl records, thrift clothes, and various pieces of art. Perusing past the stalls, you caught whispers of celebrity sightings from people passing by. Dieter said that the two of you would get a lot of attention, he was certainly right.
You watched as the man traded stories with vendors and swapped cash for some records. The two of you looked over refurbished mid-century furniture that he thought might complete his bedroom set. He slung his arm over your shoulders after he bought you a strawberry smoothie at one of the food trucks parked nearby. He even bought you some handmade clay earrings that matched your sundress. Under the warm dazzling sun, it didn’t take long for you to lean into Dieter. You couldn’t help but smile and giggle because you were actually enjoying this date. The man had even picked you up and gifted you a bundle of flowers as soon as you got to the market.
“It’ll look damn cute in the photos to have a bunch of tulips sticking out of your bag, but also they match your eyes,” he had told you as he grabbed one flower from the bundle and placed it behind your ear.
He was right again, the paparazzi photos would look great, but you did also hide your face when he announced that the flowers matched your eyes. Honestly you wondered if he had done this before. The grapevine had always told you that Dieter Bravo wasn’t a man you could date, he was a man that could fuck and would fuck just about anyone. Your agent had always stirred you clear from him or others like him, to say it simply, she wouldn’t be too happy that you were about to be seen with this man. The rumors would start to swirl soon enough, if not already.
You eyed the cameras from behind your sunglasses as they hid behind booths and vendors. This is just the start as your arm winded around Dieter’s waste and your hand wrapped around his hand on your shoulder. The two of you had already taken a few photos with fans and had loaded up your bags with trinkets from several stalls. Your belly was full from lunch at one of the food trucks. Even as the day was meant to be just a stunt, you were actually having a great time. And Dieter for his part, looked like he was having a good time as well.
An easy smile graced his face every time the two of you fell into a sweet embrace of sorts. He leaned an arm over your shoulders or around your waist. You settled your chin on him as you watched him sort through bins of records. His fingers would skim over your figure as he helped you try on new jackets at a clothing thrifter. He couldn’t stop grabbing you when the walkway would get crowded; holding your hand, tugging at your dress, or holding your hips as you led the way. Dieter was never too far away from you, always within reach.
It wasn’t till near the end of the evening sun, when the two of you found a quiet spot at a local restaurant for dinner, that the conversation opened up to the real reason behind the first date. You had enjoyed the conversation earlier, Dieter educated you on different local artists, while you rummaged through bins of old photographs worth $0.25 each. You told Dieter how you made up stories to the old photos, piecing them together as a puzzle. He smiled brightly as you told him about your collection of old photos that you wanted to write stories from and smiled at him when he explained the series of paintings he had created for a recent book he read.
But now after a day of getting to know each other, Dieter wanted something a bit deeper.
“So this sister of yours is a real bitch huh?”
You laughed and gasped as your drink almost went through your nose at Dieter’s comment. Composing yourself as he held back his own chuckle, you eyed the man up and down.
“You think? Or is fucking your sibling’s fiancé normal?”
“I’ve personally never done that, but I don’t have any siblings so…”
“Well I can tell you from my experience, it is not fun. Not one damn bit.”
Dieter studied you as you took a too large bite out of your food, stuffing your face as a solid crease developed on your forehead. The day had gone extremely well, in Dieter’s opinion. He had fun, you had fun, and he was sure the photos of the two of you together were circulating the socials by now. But looking over you now, Dieter was upset with himself for bringing up your sibling and ex. You looked so carefree and happy, a million times more happy than you did the night of the benefit where he first met you. Truthfully he didn’t know you well, but he didn’t want you to be mad. He truly wanted you back to that carefree vibe you had just a minute ago.
“I haven’t talked to her or him since I found them together. I’ve blocked both of them on my cell. They kept sending these stupid texts about how it wasn’t what it looked like it was.”
“Oh cause that line always works,” Dieter munched down on his own food.
“I know, I don’t know what else they would be doing completely naked with each other in my bed.”
“Did you burn the bed? I heard that burning things makes people feel better.”
“I threw it out and bought a new one.” You pushed your food around in thought, “I should have burnt it.”
“Honey, I’ll buy you a used one to burn if you want?” Dieter raised his eyebrows in question, making you laugh. “Seriously, we buy a mattress, take it to your sister's front yard, and set it on fire. Good reminder for your sister that she’s trash.”
“That’s not a horrible idea, though I like the idea of secrecy more. Something that will really get under her skin as she got under mine,” you drummed your fingers to the table as you thought back over this proposition with Dieter.
“Which is why she’s getting the best Chrsitmas present under the tree…” Dieter finished for you.
You jumped as you didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, “It can be us cuddling, or us kissing, or something simple like…” You didn’t want Dieter to think you thought less of him, that he was just a tool for revenge, if anything this first date proved to you that Dieter wasn’t what you expected.
“My dick pic!” Dieter supplied.
“Dieter no!” you laughed and swatted at him. “We don’t need to go that far.”
“You think a dick pic is too far, but we’re still fucking right?”
“Yes… well actually… I mean… we can…only if you…” you stumbled over your words as you stirred your straw in your drink.
Dieter placed his hand on yours, “It’s a good plan, I like it, we should stick with it.”
“Yeah?” you made eye contact with him.
“Yeah,” he said so quickly but then held a finger up to you, “After the third date of course. No fucking on the first date.”
“Of course,” you agreed as you took his hand and placed a kiss on his warm palm.
Step Four: A Close Call To Fucking
Dieter had felt lonely for some time. Even when he was in a relationship, he was still lonely. In all the beds he had shared, and all the drugs he had gone through, he had felt nothing but empty. The paintings he created, the stories participated in, and the events he attended; alone, in a group, or with someone on his arm; he felt abandoned and hollow.
But lately, that had all changed. Even if the circumstances weren’t ideal, Dieter felt joyful. The lonely actor actually looked forward to the days ahead. The last couple of days he was waking up and feeling quite excited and rejuvenated to work. He was working harder at his auditions and he found himself pouring more and more into his painting, a hobby that he was neglecting since he went off to rehab and quit drugs. Even his agent noticed the difference and welcomed the change in attitude, who then encouraged the actor to take you out on a second date as soon as possible. Dieter knew this whole dating scenario only made him look better in the eyes of social media and producers, while potentially making you look bad, but he had to admit to himself that he was having a lot of fun on this slippery slope.
It had been such a long time since Dieter had gone on a real date, and really, he didn't want these dates to stop. He knew they would, that was the deal. but Dieter was reconsidering this “deal.” Maybe, just maybe, the man could work just a bit harder and make this situation even better, or rather even longer than just a three date rule. He had ideas, and step one was to take you on the next date…
Which brought you two to one of Dieter’s favorite art galleries. It was owned by a friend of his, and he was promised a private night at the gallery. No strangers, no cameras, no posing. It would just be the two of you in your own little world, for a couple of hours at least until it was time to get to the dinner that he reserved for the cameras to see.
For now the two of you walked hand in and through the gallery. He was glad you didn’t flinch or put up a fight when he grabbed your hand, there wasn’t a need for the two of you to portray your relationship as you were all alone in the gallery. Yet Dieter was basking in the warm glow he felt from you by his side. He loved the gentle way your hand held his and the sweet way you looked at him. Even when he went on and on about different paintings, different mediums, or different techniques used in the art. You didn’t seem to mind his rants, just as he didn’t mind your questions. The two of you were speaking so fluently and quietly to each other, your hold on each other felt so in sync. Even the silence was lovely in the space between the two of you. There were even moments Dieter caught you staring at him as he noticed your reflection in some of the glass displays. He wondered if you noticed that he did it to you as well.
The topping of the gallery was at the end. Dieter remembered how you expressed your desire to learn how to paint or draw. Now he could easily teach you how to paint, that was his favorite medium after all. But Dieter had a better idea, one he got from one of his favorite movies.
In one of the back rooms of the gallery, you and Dieter walked up to a pair of stools and pottery wheels. Your eyes lit as you quickly jumped to the pile of clay. Dieter followed you quickly as he laughed at your squeal. Now he had only taken a few pottery classes himself but he was convinced, by himself, that he would be able to create a bowl or two. At the very least he could make something that the two of you could paint later on.
It didn’t take any time at all for the two of you to screw up bowl after bowl. Even if you followed Dieter’s advice and instructions to the letter, your clay creation always seemed to collapse. Luckily to your delight, and to Dieter’s, you always laughed the failure off. The smile on your face didn’t seem to disappear or fade as the night went on, even when you brought up the reason for your gettogether.
“Why did you say yes?” your fingers traced the lines of Dieter’s hand as you stared back at him.
Dieter had a feeling this question was coming. Through all the laughter and smiles, this was something you probably had been thinking about since the first date.
“I’ve fucked up a lot in the past. Fucked myself, fucked others.” Dieter paused as he watched the wheel spin his limping clay creation. “You can probably guess I’ve fucked people who were definitely in relationships, some were open some were definitely closed.”
You nodded, of course you had heard the gossip, that was part of why you walked up to him. There was also a part of you that almost didn’t want to be seen with him because of it, but you were desperate. Which was fine by your friend, desperate times call for desperate measures after all. But your agent was not happy with the new development in your life, cheaters don’t do right by more cheaters, she had said. And this would make you look terrible. Looking back on your agent's advice, you were sure she was right, but this wasn’t that situation.
Certainly Dieter didn’t fit the persona that you had developed through your career, but sometimes you need to step out of your own shadow. You fully knew this wasn’t the time for a lifestyle change. No this wasn’t that, not for you it seemed. This was just revenge…right? Fucking your sister over, that’s what this was all about. That’s what your friend said, that’s what you said to your agent, but that wasn’t what you were telling yourself anymore.
Your finger ran up and down the clay bowl as it swirled around and around. Dieter had restarted his bowl again, jumping back into his explanation.
“I’m an idiot on so many different levels, but I think I’ve got it in my dumbass head how shitty I was. There’s a lot of things I shouldn’t have done, and this doesn’t make up for all those mistakes but maybe it’ll help you somehow.” Dieter paused again as he ran his finger in a wave pattern into the clay. “I probably still be fucked up after this though.”
You watched the top of Dieter’s bowl swirl in uneven waves and smiled up at him as your own bowl started to flop to one side, “I like your kind of fucked up though.”
Dieter took his hand away from his clay and looked back at you, “Really? You don’t think I’m a waste or a piece of shit or an idiot?”
“We’re all idiots, Dieter. Look at myself. The first words I said to you were to fuck me. I’m the real mess in this situation. I mean who the hell does that? Loses their fiancé and sister all in the same day to just then go and begged to be fucked by a stranger.”
“I mean it’s not the first time I’ve had someone ask me for sex without anything else being said. Not so weird to me.” Dieter looked on as you smashed your clay into a pile again. “You’re not messed up, your sister and ex are, but not you.”
“This coming from Dieter Bravo, king of the tabloids.”
“King of bullshit,” Dieter chuckled. He leaned over to you and whispered, “Wanna be my queen?”
You laughed and leaned away from the wheel, “Hell yes! Only if you're fine with being with someone so emotionless and unromantic.”
Dieter’s brows furrowed as he looked you up and down, “I’ve been watching you since we started this date and you’ve been laughing and smiling this whole time. I wouldn’t call you emotionless at all.” You inhaled and looked over at Dieter as he held his clay covered hands up and studied you. A large smile grew on his face as you saw the gears turn in his head. “And for the unromantic part,” Dieter stood and walked behind you where he sat down on part of your seat. You scouted up to give him space as his arms came around you and placed his hands on yours. Together your hands melted into the clay, sculpting together.
“They did this shit in Ghost, super fucking romantic right?” Dieter whispered into your ears as his stubble ran against your cheek.
You bit your lip as you adjusted yourself on the seat, moving against Dieter causing a huff to leave his mouth.
“Yeah this works,” you mumbled to yourself as well as Dieter.
A minute went by in silence as Dieter’s hands engulfed yours to the clay. The two of you shifted in your seat every once in a while. Dieter’s thighs encasing you just as his chest settled to your back, making you want to arch back into him. Between your small movements and caught up breaths, the two of you made a decent vase. Small marks from your nails ran through the clay as well as uneven strips from Dieter’s large fingers. You stopped the wheel from turning; the pair of you looked over your creation. Not perfect, but not bad. You straightened out to look over the vase as you leaned back into Dieter’s lap, letting out a soft gasp as Dieter grabbed hold of your hands and gasped your name into your ear.
“It’s not half bad but you know I think it’s time for our reservation.”
You felt Dieter quickly rise away from you, missing his warmth instantly. But he wasn’t quick enough to cover the bulge in his pants. Your own legs shifted and jittered as you stood as well and looked back to Dieter.
“No fucking on the second date,” you mocked as you quickly gave Dieter a kiss to his lips.
Dieter grabbed your hand and held it as he tugged you to the sink to clean up “Fuck.”
Step Five: Time To Fuck
He was wearing matching pajamas.
“You look so amazing, Dieter! That’s a way better outfit than mine,” you laughed as you entered his home.
Date number three was underway, the next step of your plan was in motion, the real clincher of the entire idea of dating Dieter was happening tonight…you were excited. and so was Dieter.
He had prepped all day, cleaning his space, cleaning himself, ordering food, and new clothes. The man was nervous, to say the least. Ok yeah, he knows he’s good at fucking, but it’s been awhile and this situation is different. It’s more than a Friday night orgy or a fling in a gala event restroom. This needed to be right for you’ you deserved it to be right. He thought just for this special occasion he could forgo the old and comfy bathrobe for some itchy yet crisp pajamas. It rubbed against his balls in all the wrong ways, but he really liked the little dogs depicted on them. He wanted to be cleaned up for you, but he felt weirdly professional in the matching pjs. He was longing to wear his boxers and bathrobe.
But that wasn’t the only place Dieter touched up, his house had been decorated at his best attempt. Lights roped around the railings of the stairs, a tree was thrown up in the corner of the living room, and wreaths were pinned throughout the house. Dieter wasn’t one to decorate for holidays, but his agent was a good sport to help out. He just wanted to be a little festive for you, but felt a little confused as he eyed the Santa hat that sat upon his Oscar over the fireplace.
“I’ve got a matching set if you wanna try it on?” Dieter deadpanned as he closed the door behind you.
“What? Really?”
“Nope, just joking, this is itchy as fuck. I wouldn’t want you to go through this hell.”
You laughed as you toyed with the top button of the shirt, “Well maybe you won’t have to wear the outfit for long, although I appreciate the effort.”
Dieter held your hand and placed a kiss to your fingers, he felt all of his nervous energy lift away as he finally held your hand again.
“Later, I’ve got a gift for you.” He tugged you to the dining room, where he had plates setup with candles and a fine bouquet of flowers placed in a vase that looked vaguely familiar. Dieter pointed his hands to the vase. “It’s our vase, the one we made on our last date. My friend fired it up in the kiln and I painted it.”
You walked closely to the table and inspected the vase, realizing he had painted it in some of your favorite colors, blending together in a vibrant display. He was a much better painter than clay molder.
“I love it, Dieter. it looks so gorgeous with the flowers.”
Dieter perked up and stoped fiddling with his hands, “Yeah?”
“Yes! No one has ever given me a handmade present before. It’s wonderful.”
“Well merry early Christmas, babe.” Dieter’s hands found their way to your hips as he turned you around as he planted his lips to yours.
The kiss was soft and gentle, just like Dieter’s hands as they gently squeezed you close to him. Your own hands stayed settled on his chest, feeling him inhale deeply through his nose. You hummed as you felt his tongue swipe at your lips, and huffed in amusement as you butt hit the chair behind you. Dieter pushed you slowly but you tapped at his chin and squeezed his hip, making him jump away in a giggle.
“Now who’s getting too ahead of the schedule,” you smiled at Dieter as he gently pulled you back into his arms.
“Couldn’t help it, been thinking about this for awhile now,” he whispered as he leaned his forehead to yours.
“Well you're not the only one who has a gift to give…” you announced as you pulled a box from your purse.
Dieter undid the bow and opened the box to find rows of Japanese kit kats lining the box. A soft sigh escaped Dieter’s mouth.
“I remembered how you scarfed down that last kit kat I gave you back at the gala when we met. I thought you would want more.”
“Fuck I love it babe,” Dieter mumbled in disbelief as he thumbed through the rows looking over the flavors. He pulled out a strawberries and cream kit kat, ripping it open and dividing the kit kat with you.
“Dessert before dinner,” you nodded your head to the empty plates.
Dieter smirked, “No, I’ll be having you after dinner.” His hand ran past your hip as he walked to the kitchen, returning quickly with a bag of take out from a local restaurant.
“I'm not a cook, but I know good cooks,” Dieter smiled as you took your spot at the table.
You were all too happy with the food selection, “When you brought up the idea of a stay at home date, I was a little confused, but I’m liking the idea more and more as the date goes on.”
“Good,” Dieter sat down next to you so his leg brushed against yours. He was certain of this idea himself, but was determined to make this comfortable as possible. “I wanted this to be just us, no extras, no cameras, no bullshit.”
“I’m glad, this is nice. All the other dates I’ve been on were all so pretentious and over-thought out.”
“Also since we’re home, when we get to fucking, we’re already alone so it’ll be easier to get going…” Dieter elbowed you. You laughed and swatted at the man who grinned away at his food.
“I take back the over-thought out part.”
“There’s been a lot of thinking on my part. Especially tonight.”
“Really? Like as in second thoughts? Cause if you are uncertain, we don’t have to do this. There’s no pressure, I don’t want you to feel pushed,” you rushed out the words as your hand seeked out Dieter’s thigh and squeezed.
But Dieter interrupted you from talking yourself out of the occasion, “No. You’re not pushing me. I’m not uncertain about a damn thing when it comes to you. I want this. I want to spend the night with you, to fuck you. And it’s not because you want revenge or I’m horny. Although that is part of it. But I want to spend time with you, to have you. I want you to have a good time, because you deserve to have a damn good time. I want to have not only sex with you tonight but also many nights after this.” Dieter paused as his hand cradled your face. His eyes searched your face and you watched as his mouth wobbled to form words, “Do you want to have sex with me? And potentially a couple of more times?”
Your hand ran up his arm and held his own to your face, “Yeah Dieter, I wanna have sex with you, now and many times after.”
It didn’t even take Dieter a heart beat as he sprung forward to crash his lips with yours. The gentleness he had showed you just moments ago was gone as he was bent on devouring you. He took in all your breath as he nipped and pushed into you. His tongue passed through your opening lips and collided with your own just as he lifted you from your chair and into his lap. His arms circled around you, one wrapped around your waist and the other hand buried into your hair. But what you were aware of the most was the growing bulge that was grinding against your leg, or maybe you were grinding against him.
Your own hand was buried in his wild chestnut hair as the other centered yourself to his broad shoulders. Dieter moaned into your mouth as you pulled lightly at his hair. Becoming desperate to rearrange yourself as you felt the heat in your core building up, you raised yourself up to straddle the lap of the man under you. You both moaned in unison as you lowered yourself down, rubbing your clothed heat against his growing bulge, causing him to buck up to you.
“Fuck baby, we need to…we really should…oh fuck,” Dieter franticly mumbled out words between kisses and his own dry humping. You got the message clear as day though.
“Bed, where’s the bed?”
Dieter tucked his hands under your ass and lifted you up as you yelped.
“Yeah yeah I know where that is,” he breathlessly said the words as his mind caught up to his body, finally clicking in to move his feet to his bedroom. It probably took longer than it should have, Dieter kept banging you into the walls as he carried you away. You giggled as he struggled to keep himself away from your marked up neck, but soon enough he led you to his plush bed. Bouncing you to the center, he climbed over you and attacked your neck, marking his way down the plunging neckline to your slightly exposed chest.
His hands racked up your shirt so he could nip, kiss, and suck at your skin. Creating a trail of marks up to your now uncovered breast, Dieter leaned away from you and took each of your breasts in his hands. Squeezing them and rolling them in his hands, he looked down at you as you arched to his touch and ran your own hands up his thighs. Lightly digging your nails into his pajama pants; the scratch of starch cotton filled the air.
“You should take these off,” you said as you pinched at the fabric. Dieter smiled down at you as he rolled your nipples in his fingers.
“In a minute, I want to know how you want this.” He leaned down as he sucked at one nipple as you moaned out. “I’ve got toys. Vibrators, dildos, plugs, straps, a tail.” He raised his eyebrows a few times as he spoke and then turned his attention to your other breast. You stuttered out nonsensical words before he finally popped off your breast. “Or we can go the natural, old fashion way,” he spoke quickly as he planted his head between your breasts and licked up between them. “I’m fine with whatever you want,” he finally said as his head resurfaced to your face so he could kiss you deeply.
“Shit,” is all you could get out as he continued on kissing down your body to your stomach. The man was driving you crazy quickly and this was only starting.
“Anyway you want Dieter. You can have me however you want,” you breathed out in a sigh as he rocked your hips so he could strip your pants and underwear off. Finally bare to him, Dieter pushed your legs apart wide. He lowered himself, kissing your thighs as he went, to your heat. He smiled dumbly at you, happy to hear those words come out of your mouth.
“I need to taste you first, then we’ll figure it out from there.”
You nodded to him, unable to believe this is how it was about to go. At the start of this whole dating thing, you simply thought you two would grab some drinks then have a quickie with a photo for proof. Then move on. But nope, you were surprised by Dieter Bravo all over again. Your friend had been surprised by the news of the dates and so had your agent when the rumor mill came out that he was treating you like a queen. And now…you gasped and clutched at the sheets of his bed…Dieter Bravo was licking a strip up through your folds and wrapping his arms around your legs. Holding you down as he took another lick though your folds, digging his tongue into your cunt.
Muffled against your clit, you head Dieter say, “Fuck this pussy is dripping for me, aren’t you honey.” He then jumped back into giving quick licks to your clit till he sucked your clit between his lips.
You squirmed against him and threw your head back against the bed, letting a high moan pierce through the air. The man below you hummed into your clit, as you buried your hands into his unruly hair. You felt him flick and swirl his tongue against your clit, making you hotter and hotter under his pressure. His arms wrapped around your legs, allowing his fingers to gently probe at your entrance, dancing around your fluttering hole.
“Please Dieter, fucking please,” you begged out.
“Please what baby? I wanna hear you say it. Need you to say it.”
You huffed out a long breath and propped yourself up to look down at the large round brown eyes, “Make me cum sweet boy, please make me cum so you can taste all of me.”
Dieter groaned, specifically at you calling him baby boy, and pushed his finger into you causing you to throw your head back in a cry. His finger rounded your heat, strumming your walls just as his tongue rounded your clit. Your legs shook and pushed against Dieter’s large shoulders, unable to close and relieve the mounting pressure in you. Dieter for his part wouldn’t let up as he felt you near your climax.
It was the cry of his name, the aftershock wrecking your body, and the flood of juices in his mouth that almost made Dieter lose his own load.
“Shit.” Dieter raised himself to fall on top of your stomach as your legs laid out boneless. You patted his head and closed your eyes in bliss, and to also recenter yourself for whatever he wanted next. Dieter scruff scratched up and down your stomach as he rubbed his head to your rising and falling stomach. “Your pussy tasted so good, but you’ll feel incredible around my cock baby.”
You laughed and swirled his hair with your fingers, “Just give me a minute sweet boy.”
“Need some water?” Dieter raised his head and looked you over before getting up properly and grabbing a glass from the bathroom and handing it to you. “Always prepared for care,” he smiled and kissed your temple.
You smiled back and ran your fingers to his chin, scratching at his gray beard as you drank your water. He sat down next to you and wrapped an arm around your waist to tug you to rest against him. You happily leaned into him, basking in his warmth. As your head rested on his shoulder, you soon realized that Dieter still wore his scratchy matching pjs.
“You still have this awful thing on,” tugged at his pants in amusement.
“Got caught up with eating you out,” Dieter shrugged.
You giggled for a second and went dead serious, “Take your close off sweet boy.”
Dieter’s eyes went wide as he instantly jumped off the bed and threw off all his clothes, standing fully nude and fully erect at your attention. You smiled at the beautiful man.
“Happy now?” Dieter asks.
“I’ll be happier when you fuck me, but yes,” you laughed as you leaned over to him and kissed up his chest to his lips. Dieter took hold of your face and deepened the kiss, leaning you further back till you both collapsed back on the bed.
“Ready for more?” you questioned Dieter.
Straightening up, Dieter looked down at you, “Still up for whatever way I want it?”
You nodded, watching Dieter curse and run off to his closet. Coming back he held two objects in his hand.
“You like feeling full, so do I,” Dieter stated as he held up two butt plugs. The plugs matched but one had a purple jewel while the other had a red jewel. “I call purple.”
You nodded and grabbed the purple jeweled plug from him, applied lube to the end and lifted your brow to the gawking man before you. He smiled and kneeled on the bed with his ass up. Slowly you pushed the plug into him, watching his reaction for any discomfort but in reply you got a low throaty moan. When the plug was fully in and the purple jewel shined up to you, you patted his ass. Dieter stood and waited for you to present your ass to him. You flinched only a little as the cold of the lube and plug touched your skin. Dieter’s warm hand rubbed your ass as he slowly pushed into you. You held your breath as he twisted the plug slowly and pulled it in and out of you, until he finally seated the whole plug in. Kissing each one of your ass cheeks, Dieter smiled as the red jewel sparkled back up to him.
Surely, Dieter’s hands rolled over your ass and up to your hips and you felt the bed shift under his weight. Dieter tightly held your waist as he hovered over you, brushing his chest against your back as he kissed your shoulder. You preened under his touch and care, pushing back against him. You quickly felt his cock softly pushed against your ass as one of his hands curled around your front and grabbed ahold of your boob. The other hand grabbed hold of his cock and directed it to your entrance. You both moaned out as he swiftly entered your drenched folds.
Waiting a few seconds before pulling out and pushing back in, Dieter tried to remember himself. His mind was exploding with the fact that he had such a beautiful heat surrounding his cock, a full ass that matched your own full ass, all the while his ears were full of the loud cries and moans out of your beautiful mouth. Dieter had imagined this moment happening as soon as you walked up to him at the gala, but he still could barely wrap his head around the fact that it was real. You were so willing and happy to be with him and damn was he happy to be with you. Completely forgetting the fact that this was really revenge, he didn’t care as long as you wanted to see him again. Which by the way you were babbling, was going to happen.
“Dieter… shit… you feel so good… I feel so full...fuck…Dieter.”
“That’s it honey, tell me how it feels.”
“So damn good baby…so good…I…”
Dieter continued his movement in and out of you, “Say it.”
“More…please more…” you stated it like a question which made Dieter love your moans even more.
His hand gripping your breast ran down to your clit, swirling around it making you cry and push back on his dick. Spurred by your cry, Dieter straightened up, taking you with him so you were pressed to his chest and clinging to his hands. Throwing your head back, Dieter attacked your neck with kisses and teeth just as he continued thrust in and out of you. Rubbing harshly against your clit, you felt Dieter take you to the top of your climax again. The blinding heat ran from your core to your eyes, taking your breath away. Dieter cursed and spurred on still.
“Knew you were going to feel amazing…fucking knew you’d be perfect.”
“Yeah…cum in me then sweet boy.”
“Fill you up more… is that what you want?” Dieter asked breathlessly as he felt his own release nearing.
“Yes. Do it. It’s what you want.”
Cursing as his pace went frantic, Dieter’s lips attached to your shoulder, biting down as he finally released inside you. Holding you tight to his chest, the two of you collapsed to the bed, breathing deeply into the sheets. Minutes later, while still seated in you, Dieter’s fingers traced your side as you nestled into the crock of his arm.
“Need another glass of water.”
You nodded into the man’s arm, “But in a minute, want you here.”
Dieter smiled and buried his face into your hair.
It wasn’t till another round of fucking did the two of you remember to take the memento you had hooked up for initially.
Step Six: The Fuckery Of Christmas
You decided to skip the traditional family Christmas. You knew that your parents and sister were busy opening up presents just as you found yourself sleeping the morning away. Maybe there weren’t any presents under your tree, but wasn’t the holidays about giving rather than receiving? Making someone smile as they opened up their present, that was the meaning of Christmas. The joy of giving… well maybe this wasn’t the idea of giving that the songs had sung to you when you were a child. But gift giving did bring a smile to your face this year, that was for sure.
And smile you did as you rose to the smell of fresh coffee and burnt bacon. You cooed as Dieter presented you a freshly toasted pop tart. You laughed as the charming man showed off the pile of broken and discarded eggs in a bowl over at the stove. You hummed with delight as you felt the warm arms of this darling man encircle you as you tried to teach him how to properly make scrambled eggs. And you sighed and moaned with each kiss Dieter gave to your neck, face, and lips; fully knowing you would be getting more of these in the future. But you silently smiled to yourself as you knew that a mountain of rings and pings silently gathered on your phone.
It was the thought of your sister clutching at the gold wrapper present. She would squeal in delight as she would see your neat handwriting sign the present away to her. You had always given your sister and family the best gifts money could buy, and knew your sister would be excited to open this gift. Just as you knew she would be excited yet confused as the box would hold only a polaroid picture, flipped up for the receiver to see all its glory. Oh yes, you could hear the screams and cries of your sister as she tore apart the very photo that would curse her dreams for the rest of her life.
The copy of that very polaroid sat back at Dieter’s dresser, propped up against his mirror. Frozen and encapsulated in the picture to your and Dieter’s delight were the two of you: you laying on top of Dieter’s bare chest, clearly naked but cover by a bit of a bed sheet as the scruff of a man’s chin and lips settled against your forehead, with a relaxed and propped up arm seen behind your head. One large triangle tattoo could be seen on said arm. Dieter even wrote the words X-mas 2022 under the photo, forever set in time.
#dieter bravo#dieter bravo x you#dieter bravo x reader#dieter bravo/reader#the bubble#dieter bravo/you
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Beloved Esme @itsallaboutbl tagged me (her post so u can see it done right) :))) thank you <3
Most popular / personal favs gifsets
I have published 222 gifsets this year, which is fun and possibly a bit insane.
I've made gratuitous use of the archive feature so I've linked that on the weird chance anyone but me is interested in every set I've posted. (December link, and then scrolling down will take you back month by month)
As usual, I've done this entirely differently to how I imagine it's supposed to have been done (nobody else is doing numbers, for example), but I have no self control at all and I'm currently really fucking low so I'm concentrating on this to keep from The Thoughts :)
21 in January
Most popular: the first of my First Kanaphan as Ryu in Wake Up Ladies sets, by a bit of a landslide. This did nothing until about summertime, at which point the notes went from about 150 to 700, lmao
Personal fav: Akk (Eclipse): there's one dog that won't get to see me smile (immediately smiles) because that smile will always kill me
(Honourable mention to this Ryu set because my own tags make me laugh, and this set that nobody liked but I can still hear)
17 in February
Most popular: 2023 is the year of our Lord, Mark Pakin
Personal fav: Jimbo, AKA: Moonlight Chicken's main character and there was also this because I'm a funny fuck
13 in March
Most popular: Obnoxiously long real-to-me kiss gifset (Eclipse)
Personal fav: Honestly probably the same as above, but perhaps S101: Tall being dragged by Tiny, and also Akk's hair looks excellent in those.
14 in April
Most popular: S101: Do a barrel roll!Ayan
Personal fav: wet Khaotung but also this progression of shots that nobody else liked
(also, also this one because THE HUG ok i'm never ok about it)
10 in May (20 posts show up, but 10 of them are gifs/gifsets I sent in asks to Chiara)
Most popular: Your World, My World
Personal fav: Navigate edit because I'm still so pleased with it, though I think the 3rd gif's text should be brighter and I probably should've made the twinkling stars more obvious, and also the One Life edit for Akk I did because it's important to me and I spent so long making the text work... and I'm still not sure it does.
14 in June (16 show up for June but 2 are tutorially/gif process things)
Most popular: Bold Gays: Ayan
Personal fav: Enneagram Type 8: Sean but honestly all the Enneagrams were my favs they were fun, and I keep meaning to revisit the idea
23 in July (24 show up but one's a gif explanation)
Most popular: Ray from the Only Friends official trailer
Personal fav: Khaotung Thanawat personally coming for my throat or my continued slow breakdown over Sean or the first OFTS/SandRay edit I did with the original teaser trailer orrrrrrrrr Ayan being unable to keep his hands to himself
28 in August (hello, Only Friends and Eclipse Anniversary, lol)
Most popular: Sand being a whole mood
Personal fav: Ray mad in a car because it's still funny and also First Kanaphan's personal character arc
27 in September
Most popular: Only Friends / Bad Buddy parallel that got me the most glorious threats <3
Personal fav: I can't pick. There's Ray's naa-ing, this single gif that lives in my head forever, the Brotherhood of the Travelling Bruise, and Sand AM/PM because thiiighs
17 in October
Most popular: K H A O A L A (which is still the funniest thing I've ever said)
Personal fav: SandRay calendar because I'm fucking proud of it, even if there are a thousand things I'd change about it now, but honestly all my sets for October were personal favs I enjoy all of them immensely. I really loved my SandRay Kesha edit. Mostly the first gif, but the rest were fun and only mostly maddening to make.
16 in November
Most popular: Yok & Mond and their shared braincell
Personal fav: Boston and Meredith Brooks
22 in December
Most popular: Twins characters/tag yourself meme/still haven't figured out what my intent was behind this set but I'm glad everyone's having fun with it
Personal fav: Bold Gays: Yok even though the yellow one makes me mad and I want to redo it, and also Alan because kfdsjkhgfdh
Tagging! As ever, feel free to ignore: @raypakorn @sollucets @chinzhilla @theedorksinlove @chickenstrangers @5racha @khaotungsfirst
#this was fun#i don't think i've grown as a gifmaker but it's been fun to see what nonsense i've gotten up to#this was a nice diversion#back to fighting my own brain now#so it is decreed#fun to see the most that's changed is how i do my watermarks lmao#and i've gotten bolder with colour#nobody tell me if the math doesn't work#got tagged!#adventures in gifmaking
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genshin parents pt 2!
liyue edition, mondstadt edition here
Beidou is your friends mom that you wished were your own mom.
Spoils her kids with toys like Diluc, spoils her kids with fun like Kaeya.
She imposes her strong moral code onto her kids, which is a little tiring for you, as what Beidou calls "morally correct" or "justified" other people will simply call "illegal."
LOVES to play wrestle with her kids, although she's definitely gone a little too far sometimes. "Why are there so many holes in the wall?!"
Even though they're spoiled and a little chaotic, Beidou's children are extremely well-behaved (at least to her standards). Once they were old enough to be aware, they were old enough to beware her anger.
I 100% believe she brings orphans home like strays. "Darling, is it me, or are there fewer empty spots at the dinner table tonight?" "I couldn't just LEAVE them in the cold like that!" And that is how you became a parent to 2 more children in one evening.
Ganyu is the sweetest mom. She loves the idea of putting notes in her kid's lunch, but often forgets to actually put them in the lunchbox. Instead, she will go into her kid's room decorate their mirror with sticky notes covered in affirmations.
Despite this, it was definitely a rough adjustment. serving as the secretary of the Liyue Qixing nonstop for literally thousands of years, and then to suddenly be a parent?
She knew you needed her, though. You and her baby.
It was rough, sticking to sleeping and feeding schedules, forgetting if the baby needed 4 or 6 ounces of milk, accidentally falling asleep when it was her turn to watch the baby...
It was rough, but everyday she kept trying, and everyday she got better.
Her kid knows they're loved unconditionally, even if their mom does forget to pick them up from soccer practice from time to time.
Ningguang loves children, we already know that. But loving children and raising children are two completely different ballparks.
She loves her baby, don't get me wrong. But you don't get to be the richest person in Teyvat by being a housewife.
She has their best interests at heart. They go to the best schools, have the comfiest and nicest looking clothes, have the best tutor, and are involved in any extracurriculars they'd like. She's active, but she's not present.
She doesn't realize how not-present she's been until she feels nostalgic one day and goes through a photo album
All of these pictures at different events, showing your baby slowly grow from a baby to a toddler to a child. You're in most of these pictures, but she realizes how shockingly few she's in. In fact, she couldn't even tell you when many of the pictures are taken.
She silently walks into her kids room and sits on the foot of their bed. And then she cries.
For the first time they can remember (but definitely not the last), her kid wakes up in Ningguang's arms. They snuggle into her, savoring the moment. Ningguang vows to make up for lost time.
Xiao is so, so scared when he finds out he's going to be a father.
He's thinking of every possible thing that can go wrong with you, with your baby, he needs constant reassurance. Anything that goes wrong, no matter how minor, he blames himself. He doesn't believe he deserves to be a father.
When he first sees his baby, he is so, so happy, yet still so, so scared. The first time he sees them, his eyes glisten and you swear he's going to cry. But he doesn't.
He refuses to hold them the first few nights. He doesn't feel like it's safe. But he's next to you and the baby the whole time. When you're asleep, he's standing guard.
Eventually one day you practically shove your baby into his arms. For a second, he swears his entire world flips upside down and he's about to collapse and oh archons oh fuck-
He manages to catch his breath and stares down at his baby.
After that, he never puts them down.
Seriously. You have to fight for your baby back.
That's okay, though. Xiao doesn't need to sleep, so he just waits for you to fall asleep and he spends the entire night holding your baby, watching them sleep, feeding them and changing them if they need it...
It's adorable.
Zhongli prepares the nursery practically overnight. He tells you he's just going to set a few things up, and in the morning you're walking into a freshly painted nursery with a crib set up, and a changing station, and a play area...
The next day, he says he's going to do some shopping for the baby. That night he comes back with enough diapers to last the entire infancy, nearly a dozen different types of bottles, toys, so many cute onesies...
It's amazing, really, but you really don't want to know how he managed to pay for all of this.
"Ah, darling, I found this book that's a wonderful collection of Liyue's folklore. Do you think the baby will like it?" "I'm sure they'll enjoy listening to you read to them, love." "But do you think they will like it?"
Carries around an obnoxiously large diaper bag
Reads every parenting book available. Still can't get the baby to stop crying.
Once they start getting older, he's so excited to start passing down different traditions. Some traditions haven't been practiced in centuries.
His kid is that one kid that while they're polite and kind, they also walk around and talk like an old man.
#genshin impact#xiao x reader#zhongli x reader#beidou x reader#ningguang x reader#ganyu x reader#genshin xiao#genshin zhongli#genshin ningguang#genshin ganyu#genshin imagines#genshin beidou
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What does Sothis's dragon form look like?
Title speaks for itself. I'm here to speculate what Sothis's dragon form looks like.
These posts come from my Reddit account! I'm reposting them here. However, I'm also editing these posts with newer information. You can consider these to be the "final" versions.
Let's unpack!
Surely you can't be Sirius
In a post on reddit, I talked about how Sothis could be connected to the wolf-beasts that guard the Blue Sea Star. Why?
Sothis is the Greek version of the Egyptian goddess Sopdet, the personification of the star Sirius.
What's so special about Sirius? The Blue Sea Star is likely meant to be the star Sirius. Sothis's special in FEH is called Sirius. Seiros is an alternate name for Sirius. Rhea's theme is called Gazing at Sirius. It could not be more obvious.
There is one small issue with this: Edelgard's note in the advice box. She says that it's been calculated that the light of the Blue Sea Star would take million of years to reach the planet. MILLIONS. Sirius is like 9 light-years away from Earth. Sure, Fodlan could just be on an entirely different planet, but that's boring. Sirius isn't going to be the brightest star in the night sky on just any random planet. Not that it really matters if Fodlan is on a different planet.
So, I did a little bit of digging, and Edelgard doesn't say millions of years in the Japanese version. Instead, she says it takes the light tens of thousands of years to reach the planet. Looks like it's just a translation issue.. Moving on.
What's so special about Sirius? It's known as the dog star. A good boy, if you will. Now here is where it gets interesting. Aelfric says that the Ashen Wolves got their name from the beasts who guard the Blue Sea Star. Rhea named the house herself. This could just be Rhea making up some random bullshit, but I'm gonna take the plunge and say that she's speaking some kind of truth here.
Sothis is Sopdet, the personification of Sirius, the dog star. The Ashen Wolves get their name from the beasts who guard Sirius. Beasts that look like wolves. Dog Star. Sopdet. Sothis. You get it. Sothis is connected to these beasts in some way. She could be one of them, or she created them and then went off on a little adventure.
All of this leads me to believe that Sothis's dragon form has canine features. If you're still not convinced that Sothis is a doggo, then take a look at this:
They're the same picture
Going back to the OST for a moment. There is a track called Scales of the Goddess. SCALES! Alright alright. We're getting there. Sothis's dragon form also has scales. We've got more of an image here. The Goddess's true form has canine features and scales.
...Would her transforming in her amnesiac state result in a puppy dragon?
Oh my god. We need more information!
Your momma so fat, she created Fodlan just to sit on it.
So, how big is her dragon form? It can be anything ranging from the size of the Immaculate One:
Exhibit A: Immaculate One concept art
To the size of a meteor:
Oh man, that star is getting real close
Exhibit B: Opening cutscene flashes (Seasons of Warfare Collectors Edition)
To the size of the fucking planet:
Exhibit C: Ashen Wolves banner
So... pick one of three! Option B is the most obvious one. She's called the "Fell Star" by the Agarthans. That could mean that she's evil as in the "Fell Dragon", but it could also mean that Sothis came to Fodlan as a falling star (a fucking meteor).
Still, a planet-sized wolf-dragon sure is an image. It would put Grima to shame and adds a whole 'nother meaning to Sothis saying she cannot reveal her true form in Askr.
But what else do the Agarthans say about Sothis? Well...
DAMN, that's an ugly sonofabitch!
You might have read the book in the Shadow Library called "Romance of the World's Perdition". If you haven't, don't worry. I've got this post that translates it from Japanese: https://www.reddit.com/r/FireEmblemThreeHouses/comments/hd82ec/jpen_translation_comparison_of_the_abyss_shadow/
Here is what it says:
In the land of Thinis, where the old god(s) was/were supposed to have lived, at last the one who is not god awakens. The grotesque monstrosity resurrects to sink the world to watery depths.
The book is presumably from an Agarthan's perspective. It says that the False God is a grotesque monstrosity. Are they talking about Sothis's human form? Hell no! Have you SEEN mural Sothis? Anyone who calls her a grotesque monstrosity is in denial. 99% chance they're talking about Sothis's dragon form. Of course, you can't ignore the fact that the Agarthans are EXTREMELY biased.
One more thing to add to this. Remember how Rhea goes absolutely batshit in the ending of Silver Snow for some unknown reason? Yeah. Her dragon form is burning from the inside out and she's covered in vines. It's fucking horrifying and disgusting. But what does the game say?
"This child of the goddess, revealed in her truest form, possesses power beyond humanity's understanding."
That is Rhea's truest form.
Another piece to the puzzle! Sothis's dragon form has canine features, scales, is most likely the size of a meteor, and is grotesque to (some) onlookers.
What else?
Exteeeeeeeeeend
We've all seen the Sword of the Creator. It's made out of Sothis's bones and looks like a spine, but some speculate it's made out of the tail.
It can also extend... I guess that means Sothis can just stretch out parts of her body REALLY far? Huh, no wonder the Agarthans call her an abomination.
There is also the possibility of her being an Eastern Dragon! They do have long noodle-bodies. Personally, I think she's some weird eldritch being, but you can always come up with your own theories!
I can paint with all the colors of your wardrobe
COLORS ("COLOURS" if you prefer it that way)! What about the look?
This is where it becomes 100% speculation. There is no information here. None. She can have natural colors like her children (brown/yellow, white, grey), or look like she fell into a bucket of paint.
Obviously, I'm picking the bucket of paint option. The Immaculate One is white, right? Her Japanese name is "The White One". Is there white in Rhea's design? Yes! She ALWAYS wears white. So, the outfit might give a hint to the dragon's colors? Quick! What is Sothis's color scheme?
Purple/dark blue, black, pink, white, and gold. There is also green, but we're ignoring that because none of the Nabateans have any green in their dragon forms. All the green goes straight into their veins when they transform.
So, Sothis's dragon form has a mix of purple/dark blue, black, pink, white, and gold. I guess that makes sense? Sirius is sometimes called a rainbow star because of how it shines with different colors. All of the colors I just mentioned are colors that have been observed in Sirius.
Guess we cracked the code.
TLDR: Sothis's dragon form is wAIT
WAIT
HOLD ON, I JUST FOUND SOMETHING Y'ALL. SOTHIS'S TRUE FORM HAS CONCEPT ART! AND THEY HID IT FROM US.
I'm gonna find it. I'm gonna find it and...
Oh dear god
#fe3h#fodlan#sothis#analysis#featuring: my editing skills#the crest of flames works surprisingly well if you paste it over a wolf's head
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*taps mic*
The thing about meditation is that it’s never just meditation,
(Hey- You there! Peeps with ADHD who are sick of being told to meditate! This is for you! This is about that frustration and the problem with that advice!)
There’s hundreds of spiritual meditation traditions in the world, and thousands of ways in which you (yes, you) could hypothetically begin to meditate.
Meditation isn’t one thing. It’s not sitting in lotus pose 🧘♀️ and emptying your mind.
Meditation can be done sitting in a chair, kneeling on the floor, laying in bed, standing, walking, even dancing! (please look up whirling dervishes)
Meditation also isn’t done for just one thing. It can be done to pursue inner peace, focus your mind, leave your mind, gain greater awareness of the outer world or the inner world, and even attain a higher level of spirituality (whatever that means for you / your religion).
“Mindful” meditation is done to exercise self-awareness and reduce stress.
Christian mystics meditate in the pursuit of understanding God.
Zazen is practiced as part of the daily traditions of a monastery, a mandated period of rest after a long day of spiritual and physical labor.
Often, people will “try meditation” AKA walk into a Mindfulness guided meditation, be told to focus on their breathing and let their worries go,
Then get frustrated because the Thoughts keep coming faster than they can push them away. And then they walk away deciding this isn’t for them.
Just so we’re all clear: no. You’re not supposed to push the thoughts away.
You’re supposed to notice the thought is there, take note of it, and then let it go.
Trying to push thoughts away just creates a “don’t think of pink elephants” situation, where thinking about not thinking about it makes you think about it more.
Hey, dude with ADHD, thanks for sticking with me. I’m sure i don’t need to tell you how annoying it is to hear “you should meditate” and then you’re stuck there going “but I cant just sit down and Relax for an hour bro” and then they straight up don’t believe you.
Yeah what if we had a deeper understanding of what meditation was and someone said “you know if you feel like you can’t sit still, maybe going for a walk and Focusing on the sound of your footsteps might do something”?
Does that maybe sound a bit more appealing?
Or maybe before you go to bed, you put on some music or the sounds of rain, and let it carry your thoughts somewhere peaceful and dreamlike as you Listen Closely?
Maybe you could dance? Or chant? Sing, even?
Run your fingers over some object and ruminate on its texture?
Meditation is a huge and diverse array of practices. The only thing they all have in common is that you enter some sort of peaceful trance as you do it.
However the hell you get there.
So yeah, I think people should be specific before they suggest “meditation” to someone.
Cause I know for a fact that sitting in an uncomfortable pose and doing Nothing for an hour won’t fix me,
but I sure as fuck Feel Something when I go Deep Listening to the sound of cicadas in a forest while Twin Peaks synth hums a mysterious drone over the misty scene. Or yanno, whatever the fuck sounds I’m feeling like at the moment.
Also, walking in nature feels good. I could go for a walk every so often.
Hey y’all, it’s springtime in the northern hemisphere right now. you might find some flowers if you go walking!
Edit:
“writing a thingy about meditation for adhd folks but also making it a massive wall of text is very gabycore xD”
Added page breaks and formatting and also some colorcoding. Hope that helps with readability. I have The Tisms, ok?
#meditation#neurodiversity#adhd#autism#actually autistic#but also I want the hippie bitches to listen too#so they can go ‘oh. i see ive been doing this all wrong’#n correct the behavior. be specific. think about who youre talking to.#i wil not rant about the commonalities between meditation and stimming thats for another fucking day
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One year in the rearview mirror
On September 12th 2021 I posted my very first k-pop fic. With the encouragement and editing help of my favorite writer @worldsover “Castle of A Thousand Spiders” became the start of my official Tumblr writing career. A journey which has been an absolute blast from the start and my chance to meet lot’s of talented, like-minded k-pop fans.
Let’s take a short look back (I promise I won’t make this as long as I had planned out in my head. You all have other things to do in your lives xD)
Okay, to be honest, you now tapped the “Read more” line and I, uhm, have no clue what to do now. Like, do I just talk about my accomplishments? My development? Numbers and stats? All those amazing writers, editors, friends I met and made along the way? Do I just give big shout outs to you, the reader, who made this possible? Do I just post the BIG fic I have (almost) ready for you?
Dude, I have no idea xD I’d feel bad to leave out someone, to not mention something big and important or not praise all the amazing fics others have written over this one year span and way before that. I’m basically scrambling to find an idea. Hmmmmm.
I have something. I’ll just do a collection of Top 5′s for certain topics I like and maybe you will enjoy that. This is gonna be fanfic and k-pop focused as fuck and some lists are outdated, but whatever. Let’s get started!
Top 5 favorite K-Pop Songs of all Time
Damn, I love kpop. Of the 2079 Songs in my kpop playlist, hundred are deeply burned into my heart. Luckily, I regularly do lists to rank them and the current one is as follows.
5. Pray (I’ll Be Your Man) - BTOB
4. OPEN YOUR EYES - IZ*ONE
3. Answer - ATEEZ
2. LOVE DIVE - IVE
1. We are Bulletproof: the Eternal - BTS
I fucking LOVE all these songs! Literally my favorites ever!
Next one:
Top 5 favorite K-Pop Groups
Disclaimer: this list is old. I will redo it in the (very) near future, so take it with a big grain of salt. This ranking will definitely change, but as of... 9 months ago... this is my Top 5:
5. NCT
4. Dreamcatcher
3. TWICE
2. IZ*ONE
1. BTS
Up to the next:
Top 5 favorite K-Pop Idols
Those that know me as just the girl group smut writer, seeing BTS at No. 1 twice was probably kinda surprising. This will change now. No male idols in my Top 5! This does not make it easier to rank them... it’s impossible, I just adore them so much:
5. Kim Gaeul - IVE
4. Kwon Eunbi - IZ*ONE
3. Kim Dahyun - TWICE
2. Ahn Yujin - IVE
1. Kim Minju - IZ*ONE
(But that’s basically just two groups---yeah I don’t care lol)
Top 5 favorite Fanfics of myself
It’s kinda fun to ask myself this question and to compare how my own favorites stack up to my most popular pieces. Let’s take a look!
5. You asked for it ft. Yeojin (830 Notes! One of my most popular fics!)
4. Legendary Cookies ft. Yuri, Sakura, Eunbi, Hyewon, Minju (636 Notes! Nice!)
3. Blonde: Chapter I ft. Gaeul (female reader fluff) (155 Notes. Expected, but I really appreciate that there is people who like this :D)
2. Loathing Love: Lucky Loser ft. Eunbi, Hyewon (706 Notes! Insane!)
1. Classmating ft. Minju (689 Notes! Amazing!)
Top 5 favorite Fanfics of other writers
Yeah, no, that’s just impossible. Do not take this list as my ultimate statement on my favorite fics, I’ll just list 5 incredible fics y’all should read.
5. Crybaby by @iznsfw
4. Scoring Position by @writerpeach
3. Movie Night by @existslikepristin
2. Cherry Blossom Blooming and Aegyo Avoidance by @ggidolsmuts
1. Upper Floor Lower by @worldsover
(ey, those are six---I could’ve only put Levi here, okay?!)
Dammit, it’s after midnight. I missed my own writer birthday hard lmao.
Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this. From 0 to 3360 in 365 days with one fic over 900 Notes! That’s just unbelievable. Thank you.
No wait.
THANK YOU! <3 <3 <3
I love you all. Stay awesome.
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so i have thoughts about tumblr and this community prioritizing white, thin bodies. it’s been said that bodies who are not white and thin generally have to work a lot harder to get the same kind of notes and like, im definitely not gonna argue that. i personally work so fucking hard to put out, what i think is at least is, interesting and different content. i spend so much time editing colors and lighting - don’t get it twisted, i don’t edit my body. i try to put pictures together that make sense and flow. and it is so disheartening to see them get ignored. it’s honestly so frustrating to see white, thin “aesthetic” and usually very feminine bodies get attention for such simple posts! maybe that’s my own problem bc i put a lot of work into my content…but it fucking sucks.
but you know what is the worst? not even just seeing people reblog all the other stuff on my blog while ignoring my content…it’s people who like a photoset of mine and then immediately start following me. but…they don’t do anything with that. they’ll start going through my blog, as one does when they follow someone, and reblog all kinds of posts…except my original content that they supposedly just liked. like do y’all not realize that we can see this happening? and i’ve always said i can make exceptions for people who have sfw blogs and don’t reblog any nsfw content. but if you go through my blog and reblog other people’s nsfw content…like i notice that shit. im sure other people notice it too. it’s gotten to the point that i know when i reblog content from some people, if i try to post my own stuff, it’s gonna get ignored bc i reblogged stuff from people who are “hotter” than me. i know that notes shouldn’t be the be all, end all but why else are we posting content if not for notes? i have maintained a nsfw account for like…3 years? and i can count on one hand how many of my photosets have more than 500 notes.
and, not to mention all the performative posts about appreciating fat bodies that have thousands of notes, but yet you can’t find a single fat person on nearly half of the blogs that reblog those posts. and all the same can be said about black bodies im sure, but as i am white, i don’t have the direct experience. but just know, that everyone who doesn’t fit the nice little aesthetic you’re trying to maintain on your silly little tumblr.com blog is very much aware when you don’t interact with our stuff.
#i just really needed to rant about this#im not sure if it’s entirely coherent but i am annoyed#bottom.spm
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your cat dog person analogy is soooo true
sorry to go off rn but those m cr fans are just soooo bitter for no fucking reason. they think their morals have to align with their music tastes and find any sort of way to find any sort of dirt on other bands they don’t enjoy. example i constantly see callout posts for band guys that usually overlap with similar fans and music with m cr. look i know band guys can suck and obviously they shouldn’t be praised like saints, but these out of nowhere callouts for band dudes i see are always from m cr accounts. are you actually wanting to call out shitty behavior or do you just want points for being high and moral because youre the fan of the most unproblematic feminist anti capitalist band who’s never done anything wrong?
they always pick and choose on who’s worthy enough to even be liked on some level of m cr example i remember seeing posts about how the savior m cr were the only ones there for paramore 😫🥹 they are just so cool like that!! no other bands were there for paramore 😞
they act like they are the underdogs and how nobody understands them, but i constantly see several thousand notes about how cool the band is on my dash every so often
they will always call other bands cringe or saying they never understood the assignment with their newer stuff or how they were just never on their level of punk rock in the first place. i seen people say m cr has always made consistently good music unlike those other bands who are pop sell outs but bitch your band hasn’t put anything new out in a decade how tf do u know 💀
sorry to go off, but god damn it’s just music, stop, whatever happened to the emo trinity, you all use to love that, what happened
thank you bestie!!!! NEVER be sorry for going off i am always here for it!!! especially when it’s well thought out like this. cuz a lot of my opinions UNFORTUNATELY boil down to “mcr fans annoying” (OBVIOUSLY not including my moderate mcrtuals!!!). im putting the rest of my response under the cut cuz i also popped off but a tldr is: u are the best and i love u.
i absolutely agree with everything you had to say here tho…like why do these people act this way. like babes your guys are embarrassing sometimes too or whatever. we all saw frank having an overpriced garage sale of his trash or whatever recently. not really anti-capitalistic to me sounds like!! that’s crazy about the thing you said about paramore tho cuz it’s like. what does that even mean to be a saviour of paramore????? as if they need saving?????? that doesn’t sit right with me for SURE to imply that 😡
sooooo real about the underdogs comment cuz like. i think that mcr feels like the most popular of the “emo trinity” of times past. it’s not like i know this for a fact but i don’t know anyone else irl that is into fob that i HAVENT specifically got them into them!!! whereas i feel like i have so many friends who are into mcr but had never listened to fob until i sent them my playlists. and also another piece of info that backs it up is i’ve gone to 4 emo nights in the last year, and the reception of when they play the black parade vs like…sugar we’re going down is like a BIG difference. except for maybe the specific fob edition, the crowd i would say is duller during sugar like 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄. also like i think you can tell by the dynamics on tumblr too, i feel like there’s like 20 fob girlies and every other bitch is an mcr fan here. we’re outnumbered like CRAZY. and the amount of times i’ve seen people be like “if mcr ain’t your fave from the emo trinity = 🚩” but people NEVER say that about fob. i think i had another example but lost my train of thought bc people are talking around me LMFAO
ALSO THAT SECOND LAST PARAGRAPH LMFAOOOO GET THEIR ASS!!!!!! literally it’s not that deep, it’s music, i get spicy bc i’m frustrated with fob being treated this way from people fob fans are allegedly supposed to be “making out with” or whatever. like i know i’m insane about my four men but they are like INSAAANE about their four men and it’s not in a cute way. as i always say, mcr and fob as bands respect each other and i GUARANTEE the mcr guys wouldn’t want fob to be treated the way these crusty ass mcr mainies treat them. god.
this was rambly, i have no idea if any of this was smart or good, but my main takeaway is to say THANK YOU FOR THIS!!!!!!! and i always appreciate the support ofc bc i’m worried i’m going to be eaten alive by the mcr fans bc they have a history of eviscerating us.
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During Edward's "you'll never understand" speech in Funny Thing, the anonymous author(s) point out that Riddle would be at least slightly more understanding if Edward had brought up children.
So I had a thought. What if Edward did? And what if Riddle, out of spite and after convincing his partners to agree, pulls a Hong Bellamy and magics up an infant?
Being that they didn't tell Eddie about the relationship for years, they probably don't notify the family til the deed is done and the little one (irony demands the child be named Harry) is born. Maybe even toddling around.
How does this fuck with the family dynamics? Does Edward bluescreen at the "miracle of life" being subverted by Riddle's hands? Rosalie best aunt?
(Extra kudos to the anonymous authors of Funny Thing, btw, I've reread it three times.)
Anon is referring to A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to London, a fic co-written by two at the time anonymous authors who turned out to be @theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin and myself (glad you like it!). More specifically, anon is referencing an argument between Tom Riddle and Edward where Tom doesn't understand why Edward wants Bella to stay human, and Edward retorts that there are certain things he doesn't expect Tom will ever understand. Tom, still not understanding, notes that Edward isn't even bringing up the prospect of Bella having kids, which at least is something only humans can do. He wasn't talking about Edward himself bringing up kids.
As for the Hong Bellamy reference, that's referring to "The Seventh Seal" by The Carnivorous Muffin, in which an omnipotent and sentient but inhuman being who doesn't understand morals decides to create a hybrid child.
The problem with either Edward bringing up a child, or Tom pulling a Hong, is that neither would happen.
Edward hasn't had a chance as a vampire, even if he were to try he would have to 1. find a human child to raise, 2. actually raise the child, and even if he for god knows what reason wanted to do this, he'd know Carlisle would never allow it. The odds of him losing control and killing the child would be too high, and even if it lived, having the child grow up around a superpowered, unaging parent would mean the child couldn't meaningfully be kept ignorant of Edward's inhuman nature. The child would have to turn, which Edward would never want.
Edward's not raising a child as a vampire, and as a human he was too young to have reared any children. Even if he'd had a younger relative he took care of, his mother Elizabeth would still have been the main caretaker, making Edward an older brother but not the child-rearer.
As for Tom, he would never get Carlisle and Esme to agree to him creating a baby in a vat. Ever. He wouldn't want to try, either, even if he could theoretically do it the process of forging a new, sentient, human being with unique DNA that actually grows into a baby and not just a cluster of cancer cells would be immensely difficult and require hundreds, if not thousands of attempts. Tom is aware of his own limitations, even if those around him are not.
(Blending human and vampire DNA to make a special human vampire hybrid, at a time when no one knows such things are viable, would be so out of the question it's not worth thinking about, it would be on par with creating an elephant salmon hybrid, in no way would Tom or anybody think it was a good idea.)
Lastly, having come from an orphanage and in this timeline never escaping that kind of poverty while he was human, Tom Riddle is... likely not the person lining up first to start creating literal factory babies.
Edit: replied too quickly, can't read.
#a funny thing happened on the way to london#the seventh seal#the carnivorous muffin#the carnivorous muffin fic#my fic#fic meta#praise
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