#it's a metaphor for something i'm sure but i just. fucking love them.
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lol im almost in tears at work thinking about handers. specifically mage hawke and anders. two mages, happily in love and free from the circle. especially older mage hawke and older anders with grey in their hair, (with. KIDS. ?!), and the vague sense of choked awe from the (former) circle mages they meet. when i was in the circle, love was only a game. it gave the templars too much power if there was something you couldn't stand to lose. no mage i know has ever dared to fall in love. this is the rule i will most cherish breaking. how many of them watched their lovers -- lovers they never held or slept with or even kissed -- turned tranquil, how many lost their lovers overnight to failed harrowings. how many mages kept their eyes shut, turned away from intimacy, out of fear it could be used against them. that they would be used against someone else, their lives ripped away for the crime of falling in love. how many heard the screams of mothers ripped away from their children just after birth. how many heard the sobbings of apprentices ripped from their families at night. and then, to see handers -- both mages, both so fiercely, unrepentantly, defiantly in love. mages who love each other, who have loved each other for years, who will always have each other, when they've never had that before. doesn't it give you hope for the future.
#sorry but handers is The ship. possibly of all time. just. the idea of other mages looking at them and seeing how much they love each other#and the defiance in that love when the entire world is telling them it's WRONG because they're mages#it's a metaphor for something i'm sure but i just. fucking love them.#(they're definitely both a bit freaky but that's like. when you know them. i'm talking about random mages seeing the small intimacies#between them. how they share a cup of coffee. hawke quietly piling more food onto anders' plate. anders absently holding hawke's hand while#he's explaining something. etc etc. and just. the defiance in these small unthinking moments that are UNIMAGINABLE for mages to have#but here they are! having it! they have it! this life is SO possible even for you! ok fuck me up i guess)#handers
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I am an adult, I have responsibilities, I can log off at any time, it is beneath me to get involved in or vaguepost about petty fandom disagreements- sees a post ah.
#this is about the duck should get human rights thing btw if you care#duck#ahiru#meta#fandom wank#I Disagree With People On The Internet. shocking I know but that's how it is#she is happy on the lake as a duck? idk. skeptical. are you sure#she can't relate to other birds and sees them as simple creatures as a human with more complex desires#she just has fakir and that's not enough she can't live like that she deserves more than that#and who are you to accuse me of “not knowing the show is about self acceptance”#I have made multiple separate tag rants on the topic. I know about it I just disagree. we exist#I know what the show is about. I just don't think that it was written in a convincing or satisfying enough way#for me to fully agree with it#like from here it just looks like a character who is placed in an unstable and miserable situation#purely because it's what she naturally is. even though she displays few behaviors typical to that. and thinks “it sucks”#and she has to accept that because? it's not convincing and is frankly circular#if you want a narrative like that then DON'T FUCKING LAST UNICORN IT.#don't place an ant on a circuit board give it for a brief moment the capacity to comprehend the circuit board#and then tear that knowledge away and leave it an ant again and expect it to be fine with that and keep on trucking like normal because#“oh well this wasn't meant for my eyes let me just forget about it”#no!!!#pick Anything else to use as your metaphor. I'm begging you.#when your self acceptance metaphor is a textbook fucking cosmic horror story you are *doing something wrong*#and I'm saying this because I love this show#unrelated but the cosmic horror angle here is kinda interesting actually. hmm.#mysterious and transmutable
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Party Animal
Steve hated parties. And who could blame him? The infamous Halloween party of 1984 left more scars on his heart than he carried from all his other misadventures. Alcohol made people say thinks they buried deep inside, but then instead of owning up to them, they'd say "I was drunk", as if that was any excuse. So yes, Steve and parties didn't go together anymore.
And yet he stupidly decided to throw one anyway.
Look, they deserved it. All of them did - Eddie, Nancy, Robin, even Jonathan and Argyle, they all earned acting like actual teenagers for one evening. Steve wanted to see Eddie, now miraculously his boyfriend, just have fun, laugh, be silly. So a party it was.
It all went great - dancing, drinking, nibbling on mountains of Argyle's homemade pizza - but eventually they all got drunk. Not Steve, he just sipped one beer and kept an eye on everyone. Jonathan and Argyle were smoking outside, Nancy and Robin flirted in the most embarrassing way possible and Eddie...
Steve heard sniffling from the bathroom and his heart sank.
He didn't want to go there. He didn't want to be told that this was all a misunderstanding, that he pressured Eddie with his flirting, didn't want to hear he's bullshit again.
But no matter how terrified he was, he could never abandon Eddie. So he went in.
Eddie was leaning over the sink, wiping at his face and trying to control his breathing. "Shit..." he muttered and turned away from Steve. "Sorry, I...uh. I'll be there in a sec."
"Eddie..." It came out as a whisper. "Are...are you okay? Did I do something?"
Eddie just chuckled and pulled hair in front of his face. "Sure did," he mumbled.
And it made horrible sense to Steve. Of course he was the reason Eddie was crying. He couldn't help fucking up, he'd tried so hard to change but apparently it was 1984 all over again. So he took a deep breath and waited for the final blow.
"You're just perfect, Stevie."
Oh.
That wasn't what being broken up with sounded like. In fact, Eddie didn't seem angry at him at all. "...sorry?"
Eddie laughed, wet and high in his throat. "Like, you...you are too good to be true, you know? You throw a party for us and then you even don't drink so we're all cared for if anything happens? You...you give your best friend a green light to date your ex who shredded your heart to pieces? You invite the guy that your ex cheated on you with and his friend? You're just so good about it. And you're funny and so bitchy that I want to kiss you all the time. And I just...I love you so much, you know? And I've never felt that way about anyone and it's fucking scary, man."
Steve's racing thoughts came to a screching halt. Where he was too busy panicking and praying he'd still have time to fix whatever he did, now his brain settled on maybe I'm not getting broken up with? "So, uh..." he muttered as he watched Eddie try fix his eyeliner, "...there's, like, nothing wrong? Or maybe...do you want me to go slower? I know I can be a lot."
His boyfriend gave an incredulous laugh. There was no salvaging the eyeliner now, it was getting caught in Eddie's early crow feet, and Steve had never seen a more beautiful sight. "No, Steve. You're not a lot. In fact, you're just enough in every single way, but knowing that you're it for me, that good things can happen...it makes me terrified. I've never put all my drugs in a single lunchbox, or whatever metaphor you want to use for it, but with you I'm just throwing all the caution into the wind. And for the first time, I..." he stopped, chewing on his lip, "...I don't want to run away when I mess up. I want to stay, face the music and fix it. You're re-writing the Munson doctrine again and again and I just...I don't want you to settle for me, Steve. You are the whole package and I'm still cleaning all my messes. I guess today showed me that and I...yeah. Sorry about all this," he pointed at his tear-streaked face.
Eddie suddenly seemed so small, so insecure, and that wouldn't do. It woke Steve up from his frozen state and he took a step forward, cradling Eddie's face in his palms. "I'm not. Settling for you, that is." He was probably smudging the black even more, but Eddie would have been beautiful to him even fully covered in grime, and there were more important things to focus on. "Eddie, you keep talking about the Munson doctrine and being work in progress, but you don't see how you've thrown all the stuff I used to do out of the window, and I'm better for it. With you, I don't feel rushed, I don't have to perform or pretend. I can just live in the moment."
As he continued his speech, something strange started happening. Seeing people cry normally had a guaranteed effect on Steve - just one tear, quiet sob and he pushed his emotions down to be dealt with later or possibly never, someone needed him, and that was the priority. But now, staring at Eddie's wet eyes and shaky hands? He felt his own face crumbling and what better place to hide it than in Eddie's Metallica t-shirt. It smelled of cigarettes, pizza and the cheap laundry detergent that had come to mean home to Steve. "Sorry," he choked out. "Shit. I was...sorry, I'm supposed to be...you know. Consoling you. But I heard you crying and I thought...I..."
Eddie shook his head and tightened his grip on Steve's waist. "Oh Stevie. Whatever that pretty head of yours thought of, it's not happening. Unless it's kissing me, which duh, that's happening, if you want to of course, and staying with me to the point that you're sick of me."
Steve just whimpered into Eddie's shoulder, something that suspiciously sounded like "Now who's perfect, huh?"
His boyfriend just chuckled. "I guess that in a way, we both are. Maybe for each other?" If he'd aimed for self-deprecating tone, he failed. Instead, it was hopeful.
Steve didn't answer, but his embrace said it all.
They remained wrapped around each other for a long while, until Eddie whispered in Steve's ear: "how about we let the others celebrate on their own, hm? They won't be driving, their stuff is already in the guest bedrooms, and I hear your bed is wonderful this time of the year."
There was a muffled "yes" coming from Eddie's shoulder, and a few adjustments and "Good night!"s later, they found themselves in Steve's bedroom. Eddie managed to remove most of the rogue eyeliner, which was lucky. The time in the bathroom wasn't the last time he shed a tear that day, because as they were falling asleep, Steve said:
"You might be the first person who is dating the real me, and I'd like you to be the last one as well."
Tomorrow, he'd hold a funeral for the Munson doctrine. But today, he was going to wrap himself around Steve like a cuddly octopus and know that even if he doesn't manage to hold on tight the whole night, Steve would be there in the morning.
#steve harrington#eddie munson#steddie#steddie fanfiction#steddie drabble#background ronance#fluff and fluff and FLUFF#the first WIP out of a fuckton has been finished#yay#also I can't sleep who would have thought?
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something that stuck with me once, way back in middle school when i was still learning how to write - my teacher said "writing shock and tragedy is easy, it's humor that's the hardest."
i have been up and down the halls of academia. i have the fancy degree and the experience in publishing. i think i paved most of my own road with the little bricks of sorrow i had stored inside of me. i know i did it mostly with works that are blisteringly lonely. i know why we write like that. it's lifesaving.
but yeah, i mean. i also know how much people think that "sad" media is the same thing as "good" media. our human desire to connect is so hard-pressed that we immediately latch onto any broken themes. the bullied kids and the tales of inspiration. people keep saying things like "glass onion" and "everything everywhere" weren't actually good. because, you know, they're. happy. or happy-ish. happy enough. and we only value art if it's grimdark-adjacent.
do you know - people still consistently whine at me that my writing would be so good if i just capitalized things. i used to flinch. i get kind of a weird, vindictive little rush these days - i get to say thank you for the comment! i have chronic pain and this is how i conserve my hands so i can write more during the day :) grammar isn't real anyway! and now they're trapped in the room with me, you know? i get to pull out my map and show them how grammar is not the same thing as good writing.
writers have this thing. we scratch at our insides, constantly, prying our lives apart into splinters. prying the splinters apart into atoms. when we combust something into poetry, we control it. it cannot hurt us if it exists outside of us rather than burning a hole through the bottom of our lungs. it's not a wonder to me that so much of what i make comes out like a death gasp. i spent a long time at the bottom. i keep going back, too. when you're down there for so long, the only thing you can exhale is fumes.
but humor is hard. humor needs timing; which i can't promise in a paragraph. i can kind-of force it through careful spacing, but i have no idea how fast you're reading these things. humor needs a somewhat awareness of your audience, when really - anybody could be looking. humor needs us to understand what the joke is, why it's a joke, and to think - ha! that is funny. in tragedy, everyone understands the metaphor of a kicked puppy. in humor, you need to introduce them to the concept of a dog.
and forget about positivity. forget about anything not made for adults explicitly. every time i see a well-made children's media piece, i feel fucking horrible for the creators. most of the time, people see children's media as being sort of "not worth" applause, even though i'm pretty sure they have to work twice as hard. i have no idea how hard it must be to not be able to have your character just say. "well, fuck." something about a message of peace or friendship or caring - for some reason, that makes the media not for adults. like, okay. i'm pretty sure my father actually, out of all of us, could use a good book on how to control his temper and talk about his feelings.
but whatever. i write a short story about my ocd, and how it's fucking killing me. it gets an award. it gets published. i write a short story about my ocd, and how i'm overcoming it, and how my days are getting lighter and starting to flourish. i keep getting ghosted. no response. it just is lacking... something.
is this it, forever? you can be an artist, okay. but the trade off is that the things you make - if they're happy? if they're joyful? people will say it's stupid and pandering. you bite your nails off. you file your teeth. you hear something inside of you breaking.
the other day in a writing group, someone i'd thought of as a friend said: "you write so much better these days! i love what you make when you'd rather be dead."
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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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Hi! I love your recs so much! Thank you for all the work you put into them! I hope it is okay to request my own? I would love to see a list of your favorite humorous explicit fics starring our ineffable idiots. I prefer non AUs, but if you have an absolute masterpiece, I'll take it no matter what!
Only if you want to, of course! Thank you, again!!
hey, that's so sweet, thank you so much!! 💜
of course, here are some of my favourite non AU humorous explicit good omens fics:
[you can request more fic recs here.]
i made an excuse (you found another way) by orphan_account (1k)
“Angel, the restaurant’s right there.” It was. Crowley gestured to it with a definitive arm wave. The Ritz was at the corner of Piccadilly and Arlington, and they could see the hotel facade as they stepped out of the park. “We can walk there.”
“Let’s drive.”
Booty Call by emmagrant01 (2k)
“It’s called a ‘butt dial,’ Angel. A ‘booty call’ is something else.”
The Angel Line by FancyTrinkets (2k)
The one in which Aziraphale purchases and listens to a pornographic audiobook that just so happens to be narrated by Crowley.
Aziraphale cringed and covered his face. This was going to be awful, and also thrilling, and he wasn't sure what he ought to be feeling about it, but there was a definite sense of vicarious shame.
Just a Taste by summerofspock (3k)
See, it wasn’t so much the eating. It was the noises. It was the indecent look on Aziraphale’s face. It was the way he licked his fingers and wiggled in his seat.
Every little action felt specially created to undo Crowley.
And Aziraphale had no idea.
The Rake by CopperBeech (3k)
During the long estrangement of the 1800's, Aziraphale practiced a secret hobby – and it wasn’t the gavotte.
Crowley finds out in an unexpected way.
For a Good Time, Call by seashadows (3k)
Three rings. Four. Seven, and then “Hello?”
“Hello, sssssweetheart,” Crowley said. “How would you like my long, slithery tongue up your tight little –“
Then it hit him: he knew that voice.
Dear. Fucking. Satan.
(Sometime in the depths of the 1990s, Hell tasks Crowley with spreading lust. As usual, he makes as little effort as he can, but gets a heaven of a lot more than he bargained for.)
The One in Which Crowley Discovers Wanking by for_autumn_i_am (5k)
It began, like most memorable events in Crowley’s life did, with a bad decision; like most bad decisions, it involved poor impulse control and copious amounts of alcohol. The Antichrist had been born, and he put on lipstick and kitten heels to deal with it, but knew that the clock was ticking, and at times when time was slipping away, it helped to hold onto a bottle of gin.
Fine Dining by iamshame (13k)
"There was something else I was going to ask you," Aziraphale continued, unabashed. "Ah… How to put it?" He tapped his hand on his thigh for a moment, and then apparently found inspiration. "Ah! When you're…" Crowley made the mistake of making eye contact with him, and Aziraphale gave him another outrageous wink. "Dining out… What cutlery do you prefer to use?"
"I'm sorry?" Crowley said pleasantly, trying his best not to cause anything in the dining room to catch aflame in his frustration.
Aziraphale gave him a reproachful stare, as if Crowley were being very stupid. "When you're eating, Crowley. Do you favour the… The knife?" Aziraphale actually glanced conspicuously at his own crotch, and Crowley considered leaving the dining room via the nearest window. "Or the spoon?" Another raised eyebrow. "Or even, let's say, a fork?"
"What the fuck is the fork in this situation?" Crowley hissed through gritted teeth.
Aziraphale mentions that he'd like to have sex with Crowley. Crowley is completely taken-aback, and very conflicted, and very interested. Aziraphale is also trying to kill him by using elaborate food metaphors to explain the whole subject, which is not helping in the slightest.
Trial & error by fellshish (15k)
The Metatron brings in the demon Crowley to stand trial in Heaven. For tempting an angel. Uhhhh. Awkward.
Feast by Ashfae, mostlyjustgoose (15k)
Crowley's spent the whole of lockdown asleep. Aziraphale has spent the whole of lockdown baking, cooking, and becoming increasingly frustrated with his solitude. Which eventually leads him to the perfect way to solve all his problems at once…
Or, Aziraphale attempts to seduce Crowley with a truly excellent meal, and Crowley is amenable.
One Night In Bangor (And the World's Your Oyster) by Atalan (17k)
"All right, I know I'm going to regret asking this," Aziraphale says. "What exactly does this wager entail?"
Crowley grins like the cat that not only got the cream but has absconded with the entire cow. He grabs the bottle and swigs straight from it despite Aziraphale's tut of disapproval.
"The pot goes to whichever demon can get an angel into bed by the end of the evening."
AKA The Fic That Tumblr Made Me Write. Heaven and Hell share a corporate party once per millennium. This time someone's had the bright idea of issuing a challenge to the demons of Hell. Crowley has no intention of missing the opportunity; Aziraphale's just enough of a bastard to make him work for it.
Ideal Partner by summerofspock (17k)
“Would you like to explain why you’re watching pornography? In your bookshop? During business hours?”
Aziraphale flaps his hand, typically dismissive of any criticisms of his abysmal business practices. “Did you know I’ve been on this earth for nearly 6 millennia and have never engaged in intercourse before?”
Crowley grinds his teeth and feels his cheeks heat. What is he supposed to say to that?
Anything for Science by Magnolia822 (20k)
Aziraphale decides he wants to make an Effort, so he watches a lot of porn for science. And when he asks for help with more hands-on experimentation, Crowley is only more than happy to oblige.
The Loophole, or, How to Convince a Demon God Exists in Three Easy Steps by fellshish (24k)
Ah, yes. Being an Archangel is going splendidly. Aziraphale accidentally erases God from the Book of Life.
32 Questions That Lead To Love by ffonippop (32k)
”First formulated in 1997, [32] questions to fall in love is a study by psychologist Dr. Arthur Aron which took place at Stony Brook University, New York. The aim? Speeding up the creation of intimacy between two strangers.”
The Cosmopolitan
Okay, fine.
Crowley was 32-Questions-That-Lead-To-Love-ing Aziraphale. Sue him.
He had no expectations, all right? Just, an innocent curiosity.
The Grindr Logo Doesn't Even Have a 'G' In It by indieninja92 (79k)
After the Apocalypse, Aziraphale ventures into a new space in the gay milieu - Grindr. There he starts talking to a charming young man who certainly doesn't bear any resemblance at all to a certain long streak of demon, not one bit, no thank you.
Meanwhile, Aziraphale and Crowley navigate their friendship after the world failed to end. There is much drinking and silliness, but could it be that there are other feelings lurking underneath?? Of course there are, this is fanfic.
[you can find more fic rec masterposts here]
#seriously fic rec requests are always welcome!!#good omens#good omens fic rec#good omens fanfiction#aziracrow#ineffable husbands#aziracrow fanfic#crowley x aziraphale#foolish recs#go fic masterpost
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You ready for a REAL brave post? Between 2015 and 2020 or so, everyone had something to say about a common enemy, "masc for masc" gays. Now that the water has stilled (or come out clear, if my boys want a more familiar metaphor), what is there to be said about fem for masc? I'm not here to moralize, I'm really not. I actually relate, and on a purely libidinal level, god does it make sense. But on a logistical level it does not, and masc for masc has a certain integrity by comparison. I mean, they're willing to hold themselves to the same standards as their partners. There's a certain logic to it, even if we don't like the result. Conversely, remember when Christian Walker, obviously not masc himself, filmed himself asking "where are all the masculine men?" This is not even a particularly unusual complex to have. They don't see it as ironic or hypocritical they really do view themselves and the objects of their attraction implicitly as different genders. I don't think that's universally good or bad--maybe we DO want to acknowledge a diverse range of subgenders--but it comes with its own baggage.
We come to an issue at the epistemological foundations of homosexuality that were present from the moment it was first termed as a form of sexual inversion: lots of gay guys want to be fem and still fuckable, but don't want to fuck fem gays themselves. And sure, we "like our men fruity," we love a little piercing or a fagcent, but gays are frankly more permissive of these traits when they apply to muscular bodies--the ground on which the figure of subtle gender expression can be applied. Baby gays think muscle gays are all masc for masc. Nope! Many will queen out, and I'm not saying this to uniformally redeem them but to point out that they get more allowances if they maintain certain body types. Think of that one gay porn blog with "macho" in the URL that posts uncredited pics of muscular men in thongs: THAT'S how you get a safe degree of irony, without which it's just regular cross dressing.
I like the rest of you was part of the anti masc-for- masc crusade, and I don't think we were wrong for it. Maybe we did have an ax to grind! But this was easier to have a principled stance about when we developed a protective aversion to masculinity. Of course I wasn't attracted to it--I had foreclosed any possibility that a masculine man would respect me or not view my effeminate characteristics as sexually disqualifying. But picture this: a man who is masculine in demeanor without being chauvinistic, who treats you as an equal, who isn't emotionally constipated, and lets you queen out without backing away? The glimpses I've had of this are tantalizing! We can rail against heterosexuality--literal or allegorical--but its promise makes libidinal sense. If we could logic our way out of it, we would, but this "where have all the good men gone" complex is the Sisyphean burden we bear. And that's why to this day gays brunch with their straight women friends to dish about how men are the worst.
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je ne sais quoi - jaehyun
this man posted on ig and suddenly i'm here writing😅 srsly like he's sooooooooo boyf material it's making me mad hahah anyways hope you like this one.
this can be a part 2 of this scenario, someone commented for a p2 so here you go😅🤍
if you have a request or scenario you want me to do, just send me a message I'll see what I can do😊💌
For my other works you can check them out here, and for my other story series’ you can check them out here.
: a bit suggestive, fluff, whipped jaehyun
All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2023 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.
(gif not mine, credits to rightful owner)
"Babe, what's your 2024 goal?"
You hear your boyfriend ask from beside you, letting out a chuckle before answering him. Something he might not expect to hear
"Be pregnant"
It was almost comical, the way his head turned towards you in a slowmo manner like he did not just hear those words right.
"What?" you asked, blinking innocently back at him. When he kept on staring at you, you couldn't help but burst out laughing. Leaning over rest your head on his chest.
You feel him kiss the top of your head, "I mean if that's what you want, I'm sure I can make it happen"
Snickering at his words, you know he's smirking right now without even looking at him. "Is that what they mean when they say fuck around and find out"
He laughs, pulling you even closer to him. Doesn't matter the rest of the couch is vacant, he wants you always as near to him as possible. After the surprise you gave him on his birthday, the man's practically (and sometimes literally) on his knees for you. Jaehyun wasted no time to ask you to be officially his. And even though the two of you started out on a casual relationship, you were elated to finally call the fine young man your boyfriend.
And it's been a fairytale ever since. If Jaehyun was lowkey before, it definitely changed now. Any time the two of you are in public, best believe he will find a way to stick by your side the entire time. His eyes stay on you and only you.
"But like really? is that your goal for next year?"
"Why? Do you not want kids?"
"I want kids with you, that's the only correct answer for me"
His words got you folding, ready to give him all. If he said he wants to have your kids then who are you to say no.
"You can't tell me that when I have the worst baby fever, like seriously. Just imagine our kid in cute outfits this time around oh my god"
"I mean if we get to it right now I'm sure we'll have a baby by Christmas next year"
You don't know if he's being serious or just indulging you right now. But the very thought of a baby that looks just like Jaehyun is enough to make your ovaries explode metaphorically.
"Shut up, now you're just teasing me" you hit him on the chest
"Babe, you would definitely know if I'm teasing you"
"Are you like serious though, no fucking around. Do you want to have kids? maybe not now but in the future something like that" you mumble
He smiles while listening to you. It's like you have no idea how precious you are to him, you can ask him for anything and he'll always do your bidding. You can ask him for the stars, he'll map out the entire universe for you.
"Yes, and I was being serious. In the future, I want to have kids with you. I'm in it for the long run baby. I don't really see anyone else being the mother of my children"
"Children, so as in plural" you giggle
"Yea, but it's up to you. How many you want, that's how may I want to"
You look up at him, smiling so big it almost hurts. "Do you have any idea what you do to me, Jeong Jaehyun?" you whisper
"As you do, my love. I don't even understand it sometimes, all I know is you're on my mind always" he said looking straight in your eyes
He holds the back of your neck, pulling your face towards his until your lips are against his. He can feel you smile against the kiss, making him do the same. You move from sitting beside him to sitting on his lap, his other hand holding your hip in place.
The two of you get lost in each other's touch, kiss until you run out of breath. He kisses your face, down your neck until he finds the spot only he knows about. The one that makes you squirm and make all the pretty noises he's crazy about.
"At this rate, you're going to give me a child before new year comes" you breathed out. Hugging his head against you. You can feel his lips continue on doing the magic, it will definitely leave a mark you thought.
"Should I start calling you daddy now?" you rasped out, vou feel him stop what he was doing,
"Oh you're definitely getting it now" he says before standing up, lifting you along. Hands under your thigh's as he carries you towards the bedroom, your giggles echoing down the halls.
#fic#nct#story#nct imagine#nct au#nct fluff#nct boyfriend#nct jaehyun#nct reads#nct smut#jaehyun#jung jaehyun#jaehyun imagine#jaehyun au#jaehyun scenario#jaehyun boyfriend
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fierce defender | carmen berzatto
okay, so i found this request in my google docs, i believe it was from @kpopgirlbtssvt but correct me if im wrong. we'll see how this does lmao
You normally loved working at the Bear. The staff was like a big family that embraced you rather quickly, and treated you like one of their own. Because in their eyes, you were one of their own.
Except on nights like these, you didn't want to be a waitress. From the second the group of teenage boys entered the restaraunt, you knew they were trouble. Being obscenely loud with no apparent manners.
You'd gotten their food out before making your way back to run some food. And that's when it happened.
Two plates in your hand, one of the boys snickering to the other five, before sticking his foot out and making you trip on the floor with broken glass and food going everywhere lead to the entire restaraunt going silent.
The feeling of eyes on you, and trying to check all your surroundings to make sure no one stepped in the glass and, more importantly, you weren't cut by any of it was a recipe for tears stinging the corners of your eyes. Not to mention the feeling of some sort of condiment or toppings in your hair.
Carmen could hear the glass drop from his place in the kitchen, and he could practically sense the silence. All the cooks now by the small window facing the dining area, focused on something. "What is it?" He calls out to them, before dropping the knife in his hand and stomping over.
When no one answers, he asks again. "What the fuck happened?!" His voice is louder now. Richie steps in front of him. "One of the waitresses, Y/N, dropped a plate. One of the guys at table five tripped her, like on purpose." He informs.
It's like his heart stopped for a second. The entire earth feels silent for a second before he finally gets it together.
Carmen untied his apron, throwing it down and pushing open the kitchen doors, rushing over to her. The sound of laughter, watching you clean up the mess of glass with tears falling down your pretty face with strands of your hair pulled back now in your face?
Most of what happened was a blur after that. Carmen, cursing so much it could make a sailor blush, grabbing the main guy who was laughing the most (probably the one who tripped you) and both metaphorically and physically kicked him out - literally, his shoe on the guy's back and kicking him from the enterance into the street. If it wasn't for Richie grabbing Carmen's torso to prevent him from murdering them, he would have done worse.
Once he made his way back inside, making sure the other five left and barely caring about them paying at that point, he told the other staff to handle the kitchen while he walked over to you. "Hey, it's okay. Don't worry about that, come with me." He speaks softly, the tears still streaming down your cheeks as you accept the offer, standing and following him into the office.
You walk in first, with him closing the door behind you both. "I'm sorry, Carmen, I'll pay for the food and the plates I swear. I should have been more careful, it was my fault."
"Y/N, did you see the asshole's foot out?"
You pause, not sure if he's being sarcastic or not. But you decide to answer anyway: "no."
"Then it's not your fault. It's his for being a jerk. Are you okay, you're not hurt are you?" He asks, grabbing your hands in his - wanting to grin at the difference but resisting - checking all over them. You shake your head. "I'm fine, I think. I just have mashed potato and I'm pretty sure some kind of glaze in my hair." You mumble, a frown and tears painting your face.
He nods slowly, before he holds your hands, walking over to a chair and pulling you into his lap. "It's gonna be okay. I'll handle the mess, you just focus on calming down, yeah? Few deep breaths might help." He directs.
You nod, sniffling, adjusting to being in his lap. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be holding you up like this. You have important stuff to do." The tone of your voice breaks Carmen's heart.
"You're the most important thing to me, I could care less about anything else." His grip around your waist tighten just ever so slightly.
"Carmy.." You say softly. Your eyes flicker from his eyes to his lips, and like he can sense what you're asking for, your cheeks damp from your tears. He adjusts ever so slightly, swallowing hard before he speaks. "Is it okay if I kiss you?"
You nod before he even finishes the sentence, your hands on his cheeks. His lips on yours, squeezing the uniform fabric at your hips. It's soft and slow, both of you so unsure of what to do next.
And, much to his word, Carmen did clean up the mess that night. And then took you to his apartment to help clean you up.
#maeberzatto#mae writes!#mae writes: the bear#carmen berzatto x female reader#carmen berzatto x reader#carmen berzatto x gen reader#carmen berzatto x you#carmen berzatto fluff#carmy berzatto#carmy berzatto x reader#the bear hulu#the bear fx
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Well Met By Moonlight Part 1
Hi!!! So...I know I don't usually put out stories until they're a lot further into the story (side-eyes soulmate AU and Boy With a Bat), but this one is begging to escape confinement and I have fallen in love with the story so...
The title is a play on the line from Midsummer's Night's Dream, "Ill met by moonlight, Titania." In which Oberon is not pleased to see her. So I twisted it a bit to make it more romantic.
You can read the world building here!
Also if there are weird tense changes I'm so sorry!!! I tried to find all of them but I'm not sure I caught all of them!!!
*
Steve ran blindly through the trees, branches and roots raising to slow his progress to safety. He stopped for breath behind a tree, his leg aching and bleeding from the bullet wound.
"Fuck!" he cursed under his breath. He had been hearing the rumblings from the high school and beyond. He had heard that there were certain people in town picking up metaphorical pitch forks and torches against the supernatural community. He should have listened more carefully, but more than one of his pack had dismissed it as baseless rumors.
Steve closed his eyes as he fought back the tears that sprang up in the sheer agony he felt. He bit back a groan through clenched teeth. He couldn’t shift due to the silver and because of that, he couldn't heal either.
He could hear them getting closer, crashing and stumbling through the underbrush like a newborn deer. He scoffed in disdain, at least he was wounded, what was their excuse?
He tried to slow his breathing, this was no time for snarky commentary. For the first time in his life, he felt real fear. Not the jittery nerves of asking a girl out or the thrilling danger of fighting older and stronger wolves for the title of alpha. No this was true fear.
Steve opened his eyes slowly as he weighed his choices. He could either keep going and hope he made it to the pack compound, or he could make a break for the trailer park as it was closer.
He squeezed his eyes shut and ran for the tree line. He was almost there when... SNAP!
He screamed as his wounded leg got caught in a foothold trap. He tried to wrestle the trap off his leg, but the trap like the bullet was silver. A twig snapped to his left and he looked up.
He was surrounded by five men. Even in the dim light he could make out who they were. Jason Carver, Patrick McKinney, Andy Miller, Chance Nelson, and Josh Bentley. All wannabe hunters.
Jason was the worst. He had thought his pretty little girlfriend Chrissy Cunningham was human and she turned out to be a vampire. He was so disgusted he started trying to stir up the town against its supernatural population. And from the looks of it, he was succeeding.
And then his world went black.
*
When Steve came to, he could feel the pain of silver all over. His head, his neck, his wrists, and ankles. He lifted his head and realized that they were more than just five punk kids with too much free time on their hands. They were sick fuckers.
He was completely naked, his neck, hands, and feet were bound to a cross with thick silver cord and on his head he could feel the sting of silver thorns pressing into his scalp.
Andy whistled and all five of them stood up.
Jason picked up a metal baseball bat and dragged it behind him as he sauntered up to Steve. “Well, looks like the pup is finally awake. Hey little doggy, want a treat?”
The other boys laughed.
“This attempted murder, you assholes!” Steve spat, spitting blood in their faces.
Jason wiped off his face with a grimace. “No, it’s hunting. You’re monsters, all of you. The vampires and the werewolves. It’s time the humans rose up and took our town back. And we’re starting with you.”
Jason readied his bat when suddenly there was a snarling sound.
Steve could hear the flap of giant wings, but his captors could not.
Patrick screamed when something big and dark landed in front of him. In the dim light of their distant fire, they could only make out the shape.
It stood on pair of digitigrade legs, that ended in large cat-like paws. It’s giant, leathery wings were unfurled to its massive fifteen foot span. Its red eyes glittered with malice and rage. From what they could see of the hands, the ended in long claws or talons and the fingers were tipped black.
The beast in front of them roared.
Andy was the first to turn to tail. “You said werewolves! You didn’t say anything about vampires!” he screamed over his shoulder.
“Get back here!” Jason hissed. “We have silver you moron! He can’t hurt us!”
The vampire chuckled darkly and took a a step toward Jason, cocking his head to side, just before he lunged right at him.
*
Wayne smelled the blood of a wounded werewolf first. He straightened up in his comfy recliner and scented the air. Eddie, who had been preoccupied playing his guitar, stopped.
He tilted his head toward the direction Wayne was scenting.
Wayne made a face. “Silver. I told Sheriff Powell those boys would be trouble.”
Eddie nodded. Even before Wayne changed him into a vampire, he knew that Jason Carver and his ilk were bad news.
“Go!” Wayne growled. “I’ll inform the authorities.”
Eddie grinned. He was finally going to get a little payback for the bullying in high school tonight. He leaped from the trailer and had transformed before he even reached the arc of his jump. His wings extended and with two mighty beats he was airborne.
*
Now that he was in the air he could smell what Wayne had. The cloying scent of werewolf blood. It was richer and darker then human blood with a kind of spice to it, like clove or cardamon.
And it was absolutely tainted with silver.
Those idiots! Eddie snarled. Not only had the hunted a werewolf just yards away from their compound they had also hunted so close to the trailer park. It was like they were asking for hell to be brought down on their heads.
He ran his tongue over his fangs as he sought out his prey. He swooped down about one yards feet from Forest Hills and caught sight of the trap the hunters had used to capture the werewolf.
A chill ran down his spine. Those types of traps were considered inhumane to animals he couldn’t imagine someone wanting to use it on a sentient being for fuck’s sake.
Eddie quickly dismantled the trap and disposed of the pieces safely. He didn’t want anyone to get hurt on it, human or supe.
After he was done he noticed that some of the blood of the werewolf had gotten on his hands. He brought one finger to his lips for a taste and god it tasted divine.
It also told him he had a much bigger problem on his hands then a wounded werewolf on his hands.
The bastards had taken Steve. The Harrington pack alpha.
Fuck, fuck, fuck! Eddie thought as he kicked at the forest floor.
This was bad.
*
Having tasted the blood, all his senses were filled with the scent of Steve Harrington. Eddie had to stop and narrow in on one sense. His sense of smell. He blocked out everything else.
Eddie launched himself back into the air again. This time he was able to sense were they had taken him.
It led him to a small clearing with a lit fire and the scent of blood was all over the camp site and everywhere else for about one hundred yards in all directions.
Eddie had to begrudgingly give them that one. If Steve hadn’t been the alpha, that would have confused anyone trying to find him. But it seemed like these idiots didn’t realize that being the alpha came with a shit ton of perks.
Being able to change someone into a werewolf, the ability to banish people from the pack, the ability to bond with a mate (other werewolves mated, but it was more like a marriage to humans), and the ability to have the whole pack know where you are based on your scent.
Eddie wasn’t completely sure about the magics on that, but it fascinated him deeply.
And then he saw Steve and a growl was ripped from his throat against his will.
They weren’t leaving anything to chance. Either Steve died from the blood loss and not being able to heal because of all the silver or he would suffocate from being fucking crucified.
And then Eddie folded his wings and dropped to the forest floor in a dive.
*
Steve watched in utter fascination and admiration as the vampire played with and chased his prey.
Fuck.
He was in too much pain if thought it was sexy as hell. He was lightheaded and nauseous from the blood loss and the silver burning into his skin. He chest hurt and he was starting to struggle to breathe.
He lowered his head to his chest, trying to catch his breath, but he felt it rattle around his chest.
Suddenly there were flashing lights and shouts from men other then the hunters.
Steve must have blacked out again, because in front of him was a terrified Sheriff Powell and very angry Eddie Munson.
“This is the price of your inaction!” Eddie was snarling.
“They are just kids!” the sheriff hissed back.
“Not if they can do that to the alpha of the largest pack in the county,” Eddie snapped. “I will make sure that coven is made aware of this as well as the pack.”
Sheriff Powell gulped. “You wouldn’t!”
Eddie leaned into his space. “You should have thought of that before you did nothing!”
Sheriff Powell hung his head. He looked back up at Steve and then he nodded. He walked back to the other police officers and cars.
Steve suddenly felt cool hands touch his face gently.
“Hey, Stevie,” Eddie murmured. “You awake, babe?”
He lifted his head and Eddie hissed in sympathy. “They beat you good.”
Steve didn’t even feel the pain in his face not when everything else hurt as much if not worse. “I’m dying...”
Eddie cursed. “Let’s get you down from there before that can happen, okay? Just hold on, I’ve got you.”
Steve heard a crack and suddenly he was being lowered gently to the ground, face first.
“Sorry about the dirt in your face, Stevie,” Eddie murmured, “But this is the easiest way to get the silver off of you.”
Steve tuned his head and nodded the best he could.
CRACK!
The wood splintered and he felt the wood and silver band slide off his left arm. He wanted to immediately tuck it under his chest to protect it from further harm, but he was too tired to even so much as twitch his wrist.
Slowly, one by one, Eddie broke the cross around him until Steve was free.
Eddie rolled him over and pulled him into his embrace.
Steve reached up and stroked Eddie’s cheek. “Thank you.”
Eddie blushed. “You’re okay now.”
He reached down and tried to break the chain across Steve’s neck. But it sapped his super-human strength and no matter how hard he tugged, it remained firmly in place.
“Sorry,” he told Steve. “I can’t break it, but I can at least get the crown off, so it doesn’t muss your pretty hair.”
Steve laughed. “It’s okay, this isn’t the first time I’ve had a silver collar and I’m sure it won’t be the last.”
Eddie winced at that because who the fuck would do something like that to him.
Eddie tenderly propped Steve up against a tree and tore several ribbons from the bottom of his shirt and gently wrapped Steve’s neck in the soft black cotton. “I hope this will help keep it off your skin so that you can heal enough not to die before I get you to the compound.”
“How are you going to get me home?” Steve asked. “Won’t the silver sap your strength?”
Eddie chuckled. “Only if it touches my skin, but even if that wasn’t the case, I’d still be able to carry you from here to there, no problem.”
Steve threw his head back and laughed. “You been bench pressing behind everyone’s back there, Munson?”
Eddie scooped him up without effort and cradled him to his chest. “You aren’t any heavier than a drum kit, sweetheart, and I’ve hauled those plenty of times. Plus I was in stage crew in high school. Those backdrops aren’t lightweights let me tell you.”
“All right, you win,” Steve conceded.
Eddie looked down at Steve and could already tell that even with the bullet in his leg, Steve was looking better.
He walked all the way to the compound, afraid of flying because he hadn’t flown with someone before and was terrified he’d drop Steve. Steve and he murmured to each other whole trip, growing fonder with each step.
Steve felt safe again, wrapped in the arms of this metalhead vampire. When he ran from the hunters he never thought he’d feel that ever again.
In a time that was far too long and not quick enough at the same time, they arrived at the entrance the pack.
“Okay, Stevie,” Eddie said gently placing him on the ground. “If I walk in there, your pack is going to rip me to shreds.”
“I know,” Steve mumbled. “I’m grateful you got me this far. Thank you.”
“I’ll check up on you tomorrow when you’re all healed, though,” Eddie promised.
Steve cupped Eddie’s cheek again. “I look forward to it.”
Eddie blushed a dark red in the moonlight. “Get well, alpha.” And then he took off into the night as three keepers came rushing to the line of trees to help Steve.
He smiled ruefully and then set off for home.
***
Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13
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Top 5 BL KISSES of 2023!
You’re so cool! Love you! 😘
💋
Love this question, but I tend to be really really in love with the like smaller kisses in shows some times cause of the #tenderness and #domesticity, but since there are so many good kisses and you think I'm cool, I'll give you 5 big and 5 small kisses 😘
5 Big Kisses
The Ultimate Winner- Yai and Jom, I Feel You Linger in the Air, Ep 7
What a phenomenal way to break the tension. Bright and Nonkul cycled through so many emotions in this entire scene fleeing the party, and I remember how well done this kiss was not only for the kiss itself but because everyone I knew was tense as hell seeing these boys kissing out in the open where anyone might see them.
Ray and Sand, Only Friends, Ep 2
Again, love or hate Only Friends does not matter to me, but I was absolutely obsessed with this kiss for quite awhile because I love the visual metaphor of things heating up between Sand and Ray by having smoke pour out of their mouths around the kiss. Like they were literally smoking hot, and I thought that was cool as fuck.
Yamato and Kakeru, I Can't Reach You, Ep 8
So many chances to lock lips, so many interruptions, and finally, fucking FINALLY that curtain came around both of them and the possible interruptions didn't matter any more. If you are going to save any kissing until the very last episode, this is how it should be done.
Lom and Nuea, Wedding Plan, Ep 6
I'm just going to leave this here. I really loved their sex scene in this episode. The Me Mind Y boys have some killer sex scene game.
King and Uea, Bed Friend, Ep. 9
gif by @gunsatthaphan
There are a near infinite number of KingUea kisses that I love with my entire being, but I think what takes the cake for me with this kiss in the bathroom in Episode 9 is the teasing, begging, and nuzzling. Like it just feels so familiar, domestic, and still full of desire and I appreciate that these boys getting together did not decrease their sex drive over time like a lot of BLs tend to do.
5 Small Kisses
King and Uea, Bed Friend, Ep. 4, 6, & 9
gif by @gunsatthaphan
I love boys that simp for their boyfriends, and though King and Uea are not officially boyfriends yet, these little moments, the little kisses and stuff really make King's interest in Uea feel real, and it's cute as fuck. I also love that Uea mirrors this kiss near the end of the show.
I also love the forehead kiss that Uea gives King during the pet play scene in Episode 6. I don't know why but it just feels almost sacred in a way, similarly to the Ep 4 kiss, the smaller quick kisses feel like something beyond just a casual hook up or friends with benefits situation. Now, we should know King has been interested in Uea for year, but he really starts leaning in to that around the time that I'm pretty sure Uea's feelings for King really start to solidify, and coming out of that pet play scene, these two are ready to be boyfriends. So I just love that little moment
And Ep 9 I love the forehead kiss that King plants on Uea after his stepfather is arrested. I just love Uea resting his head on King's shoulder, and King running his thumb across Uea's knee to comfort him, it feels domestic.
Han Baram and Im Han Tae, Sing My Crush, Ep.
gif by @wanderlust-in-my-soul
IM HAN TAE DOES NOT EVEN REALIZE THAT HE HAS ROMANTIC FEELINGS FOR HAN BARAM HERE. IM HAN TAE IS FULLY JUST ACCIDENTALLY TORTURING THIS POOR, SAD GAY BOY! But I love this kiss so much, it's so sweet, it's so much fun, and you know what Han Baram deserves little kisses like this.
Phaya and Tharn, The Sign, Ep. 3
gif by @crispywizardtale
These two are so obsessed with each other it's disgusting. It's also the first real kiss they've had in 5 episodes and I found it very fun and sweet. Phaya said "oh you seem to be struggling to actually tell me you like me, let's kiss about it" and honestly, love that for him.
Tinn and Charn, Laws of Attraction, Ep 7
gif by @spicyvampire
Okay so this is technically not a kiss, but it is one of my favorite TinnCharn moments so I am counting it. Thank you for older gays, and also thank you for having fun and being playful with each other after sex. I love when people do stupid shit like this, and Tinn is just the biggest loser and he deserves to bite Charn as a little treat.
Shin Ki Tae and Lee Wan, Our Dating Sim, Ep 6
gif by @hanjiwoos
THE GIGGLES
THE GIGGLES HE GIGGLED
This scene was so sweet and I really really need to rewatch this show.
ASK ME MY TOP 5 OF ANYTHING BL 2023
#best of bl 2023#ask game#i feel you linger in the air#ifylita#only friends the series#i can't reach you#wedding plan the series#bed friend#sing my crush#the sign the series#laws of attraction#our dating sim
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For a moment, my world is a single concussive blast, shattering my skull and sending my soul straight to hell. Direct flight. Short enough, there's no single serving refreshments to match the minty white hot incineration of my mouth.
When I open my eyes, cavern the size of Kansas blown through my last good cheek, the afterimage light of the bullet inflicted on the world — it's with the distinct sense that I fucked up.
I had told Marla, I wasn't killing myself. I was killing Tyler. But doesn't anyone with a gun in their mouth want to die?
I try speaking, and it works about as well as one would expect. I wave them away. Even Marla. Strangely enough, they listen. Or maybe they go to find a paramedic. No one ever told them to staunch the massive source of blood flow first. That's alright.
This is time to think. Solo reflection before group therapy.
I am alone, and Tyler is nowhere in sight.
Maybe it really was a murder suicide. Both victims, Tyler Durden. Cause of death, his stupid, stupid creator stopped wanting him. I realize this puts me in the stance of God, and I shudder. Tyler is not one of millions axeing themselves because daddy dearest and holy didn't love them enough.
And yet, I'm standing in his paraffin iconography. His pointless tomb.
Tyler says, "That's not quite nice, you know."
Tyler.
Cortisol receptors, burnt, back on fire.
Houston, we have a problem.
Tyler.
Tyler says, "Did you really think that would work? Tied it up in your head with a little bow, metaphorical gravestone marked with my name?"
Tyler says, "Didn't think you had it in you, psycho boy."
I stumble. I fall onto the ground and my head should ricochet and get scrambled like hens who've just met the fox. I fall on the ground, and my head falls into Tyler's lap. He looms over me, eyes crinkled like when he kissed me and introduced me to lye.
Tyler.
He cards his fingers through my hair. Supports my head with his palm. Turns it this way and that, tsking, humming.
Tyler says, "You did quite the number on yourself, psycho boy."
It feels like he could crack my skull open, pour out the contents like it's egg drop soup. There is sweetness to how he handles me.
"I told you," he says. "We won't really die."
Did Tyler move the tip of the gun? Did Tyler save my life?
"No. You fucked up killing yourself all on your own," Tyler says.
I wasn't trying to kill myself. I wanted to kill Tyler.
"Same thing," Tyler says, and my eyes water.
He lets his fingers slip close to the mangled chops of my cheeks. It is something that should probably hurt, but when he sticks his fingers in my face, I feel nothing. I can't tell if it's because it's not real and I don't have the energy for Tyler to use my hands, or if it's because my pain has become the ultimate white ball of healing light.
Two of his fingers slip into the gash of my old scar. It's been open since I learned about Patrick Madden. He fingers my mouth, traces the bitten chunk of my tongue. Tyler chides me. How could I ever expect fight club to release me from myself, now? It loves us too much.
"Not just Tyler Durden," he says.
Tyler says, "You might be my shadow, but they love you, too. They see you."
Be still my beating heart.
Why paraffin, Tyler?
Why not blow up the building. Doesn't this mean anything?
I thought it was my secret will to live. Tyler had come to me, perfectly handsome and an angel in his everything-blond way. My will to live tried to commit suicide, sure, but maybe he didn't. Did Tyler add the paraffin, just like how he tipped the gun?
"I told you," Tyler says. "I didn't tip the gun."
I didn't though. I wanted to die.
Why paraffin?
Tyler says, "Look at what you are now. What you've come to accept. In the best operas, the best stories, you don't really die. You learn a lesson. You up the stakes."
He pulls at my newest wound, stretching the skin tight. It gushes blood direct into my throat. Tyler opens me like a chip bag, and now I have no corners to my mouth but the ones all the way back at my ears. I've got four nice chops, ready to be pared.
Dragon of avarice.
Rough cut of beef. Pork. Good enough for stew, maybe.
I can hear the police helicopters, closer, closer. The impending doom of my discovered resurrection.
Tyler says, "You've been here since the start. I wouldn't be here in the first place if you didn't want me."
Trying to kill myself would never kill Tyler. I love him too much. It's the experience of being me I want to let go of. I stopped wanting to wake up.
That means I'm the hallucination.
Tyler says, "Think of it as metamorphosis."
Tyler is a sculptor. Carver. He is slicing the unneeded and unwanted parts of me away. This is just the largest cut of his knife. I think of little soap bears made by Boy Scouts. I am his self portrait.
Tyler says, "This is only the first step."
The helicopters land. There's stitches on every single officer.
#fight club#my writing#inspired by lalikeslichto's lovely art of all the holes in his face!!!#and sort of the ask and response i did from earlier
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Understanding Lennon McCartney Rewatch Part 2.3
Yoko, you're hilarious. Sirens going off in her brain. “Alert! They're into childhood bedroom crush confessions territory. Redirect! Redirect!”
But also I find them so ridiculous. All the men in this. Is it just a case of men always assuming women are talking more than they are? Because I am definitely not hearing Yoko talking for John here. Or is this a rare case?
Paul’s scouse getting progressively thicker as the argument intensifies. Trying to finish his point as John's interrupting him. “But. Bot! Boot!! I do think –”Ugh it's so sexy. Sorry, anyway.
Paul's pep talk to John is super cute, but what does he mean, exactly? “we would actually all have dug to see you kick that telephone box in.” What is this metaphor? What does he want John to break? Or does he just mean John should act out more?
Okay but in this interview, she's definitely doing 90% of the talking even when the interviewer specifically asks just John. So if that's how they are in meetings or whatever then okay I could see that being frustrating.
Ow. Fuck. Hate that moment.
John: another Lennon/McCartney original entitled “All I Want is You”. Paul: Allan Wanna Too . . . Al Aronovitz. John: Al Aronovitz if you'll Aronovitz. We'll both Aronovitz together. Ugh sometimes you can just hear the voices in their heads being like “no don't tell him you like his song, that's pathetic! God, you're such a loser for even thinking it.” And sometimes . . . It's this. There's no in between.
John knows if Paul's singing “Darling” he's talking to him. Look at his expression as he's watching Paul sing “stand by me Darling, Darling.”
“Dig it” is actually insane. Paul: if you want it, you can get it. You can get it if you can dig it up. John: I can hardly keep my hands still. John: if you want it all you gotta do is ask for it. Paul: (intermittent with John, starts a crescendo of “yeah. Yeah! Yeah! YEAH!” and “want it. Want it. Want it. Want it.”) John continues: Nicely. Say pretty please and you're gonna get it. You're gonna get it alright, you're gonna get it. This time you're gonna get it good!
The looks as they're making fun of something important to him. Poor George.
See and here's the thing. If George knows basically what happened in India (which from this quote that's what I'm deducing) then Paul knows. You know?
Okay you know the “I love you, blue” moment from Get Back? I was feeling so devastated for John that there was no response to that and someone very smart pointed out in the tags that this moment could be interpreted as Paul's coded reply which I think is a lovely idea. And seems legit especially since John responds with song lyrics.
Paul: no that's good, that one. John: okay, tick it. Paul: I Love that one. John: thank you. Paul: I really do. John: I enjoy it too sometimes.
Peter Jackson why didn't you include these bits in your film? Huh? Huh? Was it because it was too homosexuality for you?
John's voice singing “you can imitate anyone you know” over teeny clips of Paul doing about fifty different impressions. It's so phenomenal.
John's “pleeeeeheeeease” actually makes me want to cry. He's begging with everything he's got. It's like he's a baby, really truly, and it physically hurts. If I was the one he was talking to in that song, I don't know if I could survive.
But Paul is sure. They're stuck. He can't give John what he wants.
Yoko tries to give John a kiss and he's so harsh. “Stop it!” If my boy ever talked to me like that . . . Let's just say I wouldn't be sitting with him at work anymore.
And then he's laying with his head in her lap, laughing madly with Paul. See what I mean? If Paul would just let John lay in his lap, I guarantee Yoko would not be there.
A coded exchange PJ left out. You can tell when they start to talk in code just by their tone. Suddenly they're a bit more even-keeled, a bit slower, clearer in their speech. Paul: achieve something every day. It may in theory sound silly, but . . . John: in practice . . . Paul: it's even sillier. But in practice, it's all there is. John: this is where it's at. Paul: this is where it's at unless that is where it's at. John: this is where it's at now. Paul: teamwork. A good defense. John: you play ball with me and I'll play ball with you. Paul: could be learning something instead of this you know.
There's a reason Let it Be is played at funerals, folks.
Is it just me or has Paul literally never looked uglier? Linda's a babe, though. John and Yoko both look cool and hot ASF.
Again, the song choices. “Goodbye (Paul's Version. From the Vault.)” Played over the double wedding footage? Okay. Goodbye, my love.
#paul mccartney#the beatles#john lennon#mclennon#ringo starr#george harrison#yoko ono#linda eastman#understanding lennon mccartney#ulm
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I want to overanalyze everything Arle says and how others interact with her. 4.1 spoilers ahead
(meanwhile Fontaine is the nation of human trafficking, actual slums exist and the law doesn't really apply to the wealthy)
She's very good at being unsettling. Half of what she says is a double-bind, she states things and the opposite of them at the same time. It's not even lies, she just rules out any possibility of truth. A conversation strategy the only goal of which is to throw people off balance.
This creates a feeling that she might stab you right now in broad daylight or maybe give you a poisoned piece of cake.
A truly lovely woman.
Also an interesting parallel:
(first meeting with Furina and Arle's farewell to us)
Similar words but we understand what she meant each time, right? She's good. One has to constantly guess with her. It's your fault if you guessed incorrectly.
Demanding too much before she voices her actual request. The classics of bargaining. Again, she's good.
Traveler: "he would not fucking say that"
Personally, I think she's bullshiting to check our reaction. One of the best ways of getting information out of someone is to say a thing that is obviously untrue.
As a side note: interesting how hoyo are keeping the story suitable for all headcanons. Haters and indifferent people "know" that he had no chance of learning what food the traveler likes (their character doesn't interact with the boy that much). Shippers can "know" that we share Childe's love for spicy seafood and honey roast, not cake. Shippers who like cake can assume that she reads his letters. I also don't think he knows anything about Arle's taste in desserts, he's too self-centered for that.
Anyway, lovely.
Alternative: it's a metaphor. This is obviously not a tea party, it's a battlefield. Childe would totally say *that*. But that's too subtle for most players, I doubt hoyo would do it.
Everyone who had read Tartaglia's actual letters to home stifled a laugh there. Anyone who has *seen* our dear boy really.
He doesn't write about what he contemplates or feels, only about actions. Here's a headache medicine for our dear father. Please tell Anton that people in Liyue don't eat stones, it would be ridiculous. I'll take the first boat home once I've finished making a bloodbath out of this lovely city.
(a reminder in case anyone forgot)
So. Bullshiting again. Is she trying to check how close we are? Or to demonstrate that she doesn't, in fact, read his letters (even if she does)? I'm not considering the option that she's actually clueless, she's the Fatui spymaster after all.
(if she's trying to learn from us how to mimic his style to get to his family it would mean she's clueless and it would be bad writing)
Also I know that a lot of people are shouting "have you forgotten about the Vision??? stupid traveler, you have a proof that he's alive" and honestly I'm surprised.
Why would we want to share *any* information with her? The traveler was visibly upset when Paimon blurted what she blurted. Also, yeah, let's tell a totalitarian country military official that her colleague recently gave one of his favorite weapons to an enemy of the state. Surely it will go swimmingly.
That was intentional.
And then her farewell and her thanking us for helping the twins. Her unhingedness is suddenly gone. She might not be genuine but there's no double bind at least. She starts to say things that could be true or untrue.
Also this:
Not even a guess that the Gnosis could be used to power the Oratrice? After the Akasha terminal plot it's a pretty obvious option to anyone, would she really miss something like that?
Is she trying to push us to do something? It's hard for me to believe that she genuinely doesn't understand. But also she shares that info about a curse.
Meh. I don't understand what's happening here.
#батя#arlecchino#childe#tartaglia#chilumi#lumine#aether#genshin lore#fontaine spoilers#genshin impact#fontaine tea party#fontaine#fatui#fatui harbingers
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time for the obligatory post about what episodes I want to see in the upcoming leverage season(s)
(for reference, I made this similar post in 2020 after the reboot was announced. I'm pasting some from that post bc I still want them to happen lol)
new ideas:
I mentioned a date night episode in the last post (apollo really did bless me with foresight for the date night job on that one) but for considerment: ot3 date night. possibly their first date night after they all get together. breanna and sophie know it's happening (harry is, like, peripherally aware) and some crime hijinks are going down and the three of them are frantically trying to stop bad things from happening that are going to interfere with the date. I want to see them going through it behind the metaphorical curtain. I want to see breanna fighting for her life trying to out-hack the hacker that is going to ruin their ten-part itineraried date. harry has to get in a fistfight and eliot is so proud about it when he finds out after everything is over
tree law episode. harry has been frothing at the mouth about it since it was made. his life has been moving him towards this penultimate moment. breanna thinks it's HILARIOUS and cheers him on 100% of the way. she is VERY enthusiastic about this con
I'm not going to mention certain things because I've seen jrogers posting on bluesky social and I know he might be already writing some of those plots
con that the food trucks have plot-relevance. like, one of his food truck stations is being harassed /victimized by, like, a local gang or something that takes advantage of food truck/cart workers and the team steps in. the actual (veteran) food truck workers get involved in the con. leverage international might just have gained a few retainer members
quinn should come back for an episode. I know the actor is friends with ckane. they should make it happen because it would be iconic and I said so
on a similar note, ckane is friends with jensen ackles and. guys. wouldn't it- wouldn't it be extremely funny if a flame from eliot's past named sean sylvester who is a rugged drifter with a questionable past
episode where tara or maggie (or BOTH, can you imagine how powerful that would be???) come back and there is slight flirting with sophie possibly??? that or very obvious chemistry from a past tryst. sophie has slept with both of them, I know it in my heart of hearts. bonus points if tara and maggie fall in love (I think it would be funny. maggie's taste in men is canonically atrocious, I think she deserves someone like tara at this point)
I just want a lot of side characters to come back, okay? sue me I miss them
gonna put the rest under the cut since this post has become obscenely long
not episode-specific, but I want more mentions of the korean leverage team. and all the other teams too! we know that in canon there is the south korean one, the nigerian one, and one in london (I think that's it for mentions so far, but correct me if I'm wrong!)
episodes addressing issues with american imperialism and its effects on minorities and marginalized communities, specifically within this country (there aren't a lot of episodes where they are actively out of country)
dear fucking god take a more abolitionist stance on policing I'm begging. would it KILL you to not be weird about cops? pls just punch some more cops. take down white supremacist cops, I'm sure you can scrounge something up bffrrn
women's rights episodes. I know it's kind of recent, but episodes about accessibility of stuff like birth control, abortion access, etc. y'all are capable of making excellent episodes on that I know it
more climate crisis-related episodes. god knows you're feeling it in the deep south
taking down a corrupt megachurch pastor (although lbr, there is no ethical megachurch anything and you can fight me on this)
something to do with ace rights bc I think it would be really cool to see the team advocate for that stuff, especially since breanna is canon ace
helping a polycule that is being victimized by X organization/entity (maybe a housing association or medical or something???). breanna is bombastic side-eyeing the ot3 the entire time. it is making hardison sweat. sophie thinks it's hilarious
taking down 'writers' that use ai and self-publish AND/OR people that take original/fan works off of like ao3 and wattpad and publish them for personal profits without the author's consent. breanna would have a field day with this (god herself could try to convince me that girl does not read/write fanfic and I wouldn't believe it)
episode about underfunded public schools. we saw corrupt private schools in the fairy godparents job but I want an episode that would make abbot elementary writers proud
episode addressing native/indigenous. eliot is from oklahoma, I'm sure he is well aware of the health/job/economic/etc disparities on reservations. I will email jrogers about it myself if I have to- it anyone can get people going about native rights through a tv show it would be leverage.
I sent an ask to wil wheaton once asking if he was open to returning to leverage and I think he said he would be down for it. but chaos either has to be a reluctant ally to leverage international and is being handled by quinn as a hitter OR he is just. in jail. bc he sucks.
bpas and/or pfas episode. breanna has mentioned microplastics before but I want more
the team tears the shit out of conversion therapy camp owners and plants the seeds for legislation that will punish parents that try to send their kids to those hellscapes
while we're at it, I'd love to see an ep where they tackle the trans bathroom issue. god knows the news doesn't talk about it nearly enough
something to do with foster care. they end up starting some sort of foster care network that past clients/allies can take part in. maybe a mentorship program for kids that want to do what they do one day (they are very reluctant to encourage kids to participate in crime BUT if that is the avenue that they are going to inevitably go towards, they guide them in the right direction). nana makes an appearance (*insert 'everybody liked that' meme*)
prison industrial complex episode. I KNOW we had the jailhouse job BUT we really need this in our year of 2024
another episode on corrupt influencers. maybe influencer parents? dear god pls take them down a notch
ep where there is an underlying message that tells you how to avoid becoming victim to scams or something, or like is a tutorial for how to identify scams you might fall victim to (sorry, I just have to say this after two separate people tried to pig butcher me in less than two (2) weeks))
not to say I want them to do an ep calling out cop city, but it would feel really good to watch the leverage team rip that concept to SHREDS
the minimum wage job. need I say more? we deserve the catharsis
pls go after goodwill execs, esp the ones in the pnw that have their sector as for-profit and have become millionaires+ because of it while paying their staff (especially disabled staff) fucking pennies
while we're on the topic, pls call out salvation army (the corporation)
I can probably go on for like five hours so I'll stop here
ep that we get to see harry and his daughter bond :)
job where they get to lower the price of insulin (and other drugs)
actually, you know what? an episode where the crew annihilates big pharma and terrible insurance companies
I think that breanna should be able to go off about mass/over consumption as a treat. I 100% believe she has Thoughts about it. like, she will absolutely call out the corporations that are responsible for these trends, but also she should be allowed to mention our tendency for overconsumption as a society. obviously there are a few corporations that are doing most of the world's pollution/ecological damage, but we should be doing our part too and I KNOW it would be in-character for her to go off on it
I bet she has a LOT to say about influencers, tbh. obviously not all influencers are bad, but there are sooooo many problematic ones and problems within the influencer industry
sizing discrimination in the modeling/clothing industry. let eliot talk about how there are no perfect bodies. also while I'm on the subject, can we PLS have more body-diverse background actors on the show? I know this is nitpicky but I'd really love to see some more people that look like me, even if they are just in the background
a thinly veiled writers' rights episode (I'm looking at you media execs and the stupid amount of time it took for you to comply to the WGA demands)
something to do with media companies making entire movies/tv shows and then fucking cancelling them/not releasing them and using them as tax write-offs. every time it happens it baffles me. that is cartoonishly stupid villain shit. I can't imagine lovingly working on a project for a year plus and then the company just going, nah, we aren't going to release it because you suck and it's a good business move
ai art and ai in general. please. let it BURN
okay now I'm done
ideas from the previous post that I still want:
comicon job. I said it before and I will say it again- we deserve it!!! come on, it's the age of the geek after all!!! (in the last post I also said a ren faire ep, but I will let the card game job count for that)
summer camp ep? I saw a tumblr fic about it and I think it could be cute. it could kinda be like the fairy godparents job- eliot in charge of some type of sports (archery, fencing, etc), hardison would be in charge of arts and crafts (this boy might be a genius with tech and in general tbh, but the show did such a good job of showing that he’s also very talented with the arts- sculpting the statue for the miracle job, forging the old diary in the king george job, etc), parker would LOVE to be in charge of a high ropes course. breanna would totally be down for some sort of nerdy kid robotics or simple, traditional camp games (can't go wrong with the classics. everyone loves making bracelets!) I feel like it's too stereotypical to have sophie have kids put on a play but we all know that's exactly what she would do. idk for harry? I think he has the same traditional camp activities vibe as breanna. he's in it for the nostalgia. OR something to do with videogames
please, please, please, please, please make an episode where they take down a cult, im begging. that would be such a good episode. definitely a mindfuck episode like the experimental job (4x11). I’ve seen a few posts about a job dealing with a cult (here’s one) and I think it would be really interesting
MORE STERLING being DONE with leverage shenanigans!!! give me feral!sterling like in the frame-up job (5x10)!!! give me sterling that protests every step of the way but conveniently looks away and “whoops, the team just disappeared, I have no idea how that happened!!! diddly dang darn it, they got away again!!! sorry guys!!!” bonus points if mcsweeten is there too and also participates in intervening hijinks
the team takes down a circus that is still using and abusing wild animals!!! because first I’d LOVE to see acrobat!parker swinging up in the air like a pro and being in her element, but also because those places are the fucking worst and need to Go Down. give me eliot having to pose as an animal trainer with deep sympathy for the animals being abused, quietly talking soothing words to them when he thinks no one is around (correction: hardison is, in fact, around, and filming his boyfriend’s softness to save for later). give me charismatic hardison playing the role of ringmaster, running and flaunting about and being passive-aggressive to the circus master. give me eliot freeing the animals from their chains when they are finally able to shut the place down and relocate the animals to sanctuaries (his hands shaking just a little as twists the key in the lock, because he too was once an abused, caged animal in his own right and he knows how liberating it is to finally be free).
#i have SO much to say about native rights and I'd give a kidney to be able to have it shown for all on a wide reaching show#for the love of god it's the least we can do#sorry yall im just. really passionate about native rights. I made myself a nuisance to all of my hs history professors talking about it#every chance i got. if the textbooks won't talk about it i will make my presentation about it and educate my peers my goddam self if i have#to#anyway. i will get off the soap box now. but yeah educate yourself on native/indigenous rights (based off where you live too)#episode ideas#leverage redemption#leverage redemption s3#speculation#mine#parker#alec hardison#eliot spencer#leverage ot3#parker x hardison x eliot#sophie devereaux#harry wilson#breanna casey#mr quinn#quinn#side characters#leverage international#tara cole#maggie collins#jim sterling#recurring characters#sophie x maggie#sophie x tara#maggie x tara
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So, I just discovered something interesting.
This is a bit of a long one, so bear with me. It's important. Seriously.
I just woke up a few hours ago. My meds are starting to kick in. I was having a very serious and genuine, deep conversation (in-head) and it was... beautiful. It wasn't happy, but it was beautiful. Not the point.
Point is:
I had not had a single fucking intrusive thought today until someone made a noise in the other room.
I am so fucking PISSED OFF
Why my brain refuses to realize that intrusive thoughts CAUSED the good feeling to go away, I have no fucking idea. I've known that for almost a year now, yet my stupid fucking subconscious refuses to change anything it's doing
Before I snap my fucking android phone in half and yeet somebody's face into neptune, I thought I'd share the discovery!!!!
Basically:
MY INTRUSIVE THOUGHTS DID NOT START UNTIL SOMETHING STARTLED ME OUT OF FOCUS
AS I TYPE THIS, I REALIZE THAT INTRUSIVE THOUGHTS -AT LEAST FOR ADHDERS- ARE A SURVIVAL TACTIC.
Elaborating:
When you fall asleep and your heart slows too much, your body does the falling thing to make sure you're still alive.
It's not that intrusive thoughts are *Just* because your brain gets too quiet, It's because your life has never been completely quite before, or -like me- the few times it is quiet, something interrupts. And even if it doesn't piss you off, even if you don't jump like I do, your brain still registers it as not safe.
--
Falling asleep, heart slows a lot-
Body: *Sends adrenaline just to make sure it still actually works.*
Drowning, even mostly unconscious-
Body and brain: *Hold onto that last half-breath even if it feels like you're head is going to explode.*
Going grocery shopping or talking to someone you think is cool-
Brain: *Remembers what it felt like the first time your guardian was indifferent or mean about something that made you happy or calm.*
Things around you actually get quiet-
Brain *Sends a thought you hate just to make sure you're prepared for a sudden problem.*
TDLR 1: Your brain isn't mean on purpose, It's just paranoid and still has a will to live.
Listen. I know I'm just some random dude from a weird blog. But I'm trying to translate, to assist. Maybe somebody else needs this realization as much as I do. I apologize for the yelling earlier. I'm still just as upset, but only at my dumbass subconscious. Now some time has passed, and I have regained self-control.
(I also apologize for the above paragraph, my brain nags for me to do this, but I can't remember why. So:)
I am no psychologist. Here are my qualifications (why you should listen to me):
As my friends call it- "Disturbingly self-aware at all times."
Paranoid Schizophrenic with actual (unrelated) OCD, with years of experience dealing with it- more healthily in recent years.
Philosophy and deep thinking is simply my default. I use metaphors, but everything in this post is entirely literal, ...except the angry threat. (*begrudgingly accepts disappointment*)
I am a fiction writer. I don't know about healing people/first aid, but I know a LOT about how anatomy works, with many deep-dives on the psychology/evolution side.
People irl generally consider me a genius? Idk how to gauge that, IQ tests are irrelevant with this type of... smart?. I've been compared to both Da Vinci and Einstein. So, ...actually that's pretty fuckin' cool- (I AM NOT TRYING TO BRAG! I APOLOGIZE IF IT COMES OFF THAT WAY! I've never put it all down like this, and I'm just surprised and questioning my reputation.)
(Also, I love playing detective, so naturally I call myself Batman XD.)
Autistic; I experience the world, and every situation, from a view without any context.
ADHD: My brain automatically -As a guardian I hate describes- "Can watch three different movies at the same time, all in fast forward, and can keep up with all of them." ... Well, yes, but technically no. Idk if other ADHD people do this, but my brain "connects the dots" so quickly, I end up laughing at jokes I've never heard before the 'punchline', because I've already figured out what you're going to say next.
Now combine all that. I am kicking depression's ass and now I want to help you do the same.
I have only mentioned the relevant things. Please keep in mind that ALL of these have both advantages and disasters. Thank you for your patience and understanding. I am running on four hours of sleep. For the love of whatever, I hope this actually helps someone other than me.
Qualifications are noted because: This is all stuff (and stuff like this) that I am just always casually aware of.
TLDR2: Even if I wasn't trying to help people feel better, Apparently I was born with a nat 20 perception/insight check, so please don't argue that I truly understand what I'm talking about here.
#this is serious#serious#intrusive thoughts#adhd intrusive thoughts#especially adhd#psychology#psychological analogy#human instinct#evolutionary psychology#survival instinct#fighting depression#original content#adhd#it can be done#it can be fixed#mental health#mental illness#mental issues#actually mentally ill#mentally fucked#and still going#so i'll help where i can#and you can't stop me#hope#how to get better#get better#getting better#you're not alone#you're gonna be okay
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beautifulloblivion-blog
My mind is a wonderland.