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ugh-yoongi · 2 months

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the very last thing i decide | pjm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there’s you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is it, he thinks.

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

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

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

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

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

But you do.

And, inexplicably, Yoongi listens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m no one’s dog.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s just how it goes.

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

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

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

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

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

Someone else’s, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

But, god, he needs to know.

Needs answers.

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

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

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

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

Can’t you feel that?

He needs to know.

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

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

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

“What you said to Taehyung,” he answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there’s nothing gentle about the first time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taunting him.

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

Until now.

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

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

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

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

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

Jimin is blond when Namjoon sends you to South America.

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

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

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

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

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

“Done. Anything else?”

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

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

“Tell him he’s a bitch, then.”

“He’ll kill me if I say that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It comes out more like a plea.

—

You’re good at your job.

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

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

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

Until now.

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

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

Would Namjoon let you go if you asked?

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

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

Doesn’t matter.

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

No one spares you a second glance.

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

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

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

It’s empty.

Of course it is.

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

You know who it is, you fucking dickhead.

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

Sorry.

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

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

What kind of life is this?

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

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

It’s time for Namjoon to let you go.

—

Something is wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The second time is nothing like the first.

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

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

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

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

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

Jimin mouths at you until you forget.

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

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

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

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

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

Jimin’s hair is pink when—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re being followed.”

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

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

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

“Where’s Jimin?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know it’s a liability.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

You are wholly unprepared for the sight that greets you.

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

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

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

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

Eyes that now contain nothing.

“Jimin, what the fuck happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namjoon should’ve let you go.

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

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

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

“Destruction.”

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

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

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

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

You watch him go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve gotten sloppy.”

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

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

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

“Who?” Jimin manages to choke out.

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

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

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

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

No one talks to Namjoon that way except you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Or what, Kim Taehyung?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is a waste of your fucking time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m—that’s not—knock it off.”

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

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

Jimin’s hair isn’t dyed at all.

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

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

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

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ikigaisvt · 9 months

Text

Who's the horniest of them all?

in which your boyfriend lets you get a taste of his best friend.

pairing: jeonghan x reader x seungcheol, dom!jeonghan x sub!reader x dom!seungcheol (with a hint of dom!seungcheol x sub!jeonghan) words: 1k content: smut warnings: threesome, dirty talk, begging, slight degradation, slight praising, masturbation (m), cum play, overstimulation, kinda brat reader, brat taming, a little m x m, implied future threesome (again), crush on someone when in a relationship, reader has female parts, tipsy reader (but not drunk sex!), petnames (for reader: angel, attagirl, baby, brat, slut, sweetheart, sweet thing / for jeonghan: baby, brat) note: im sick in the head pt.2... MINORS DNI. you will be blocked. this is the second part of mirror, mirror on the wall but you can read this as a one shot! i thought about writing this part since i posted the first part and here it is,,, i hope everyone likes it!! pls don't forget to reblog and give feedbacks if you want to!

part 1

"Hannie-" you sob, more to yourself than to the two men in the room. You never thought your night would end up like this.

You knew, when you first started to fuck (literally) around with your boyfriend, that he was wild. That he was going to pull out a new side of you, a side you never knew existed- even though he likes saying you were the one to make him kinkier. Classic Yoon Jeonghan.

But what you didn't knew, what you think was never going to happen was Jeonghan inviting a third person, one of his best friends at that, into your sex life- even if it is a one-time thing.

The first time you met Seungcheol, you couldn't deny the attraction you felt for him. He is a handsome man and that is a well-known fact from his friends but also from him. He is confident and that somehow, always pull at your heart string. But no matter how attractive you found him, you could never act on it for the sake of your relationship. You were attracted, not in love, and that was enough to let go of the harmless crush. Until that one night.

Until that one night you had a little too much to drink and you were buzzing with excitement. Until that one night you were sticking up to Seungcheol's side while your boyfriend was sending you daggers from across the room. Until that one night when your boyfriend made you beg for his best friend while he was fucking you.

All of these moments led to Seungcheol, sitting in a chair in front of you, dick out and hard, oozing with cum, groaning every time you moan, your boyfriend fucking you open as you sit on his dick.

"No, no, baby, say his name." Jeonghan commands sternly, "Today's about Seungcheol, isn't it?" he says in a provoking tone.

"Jeonghan, baby- I can't-" You whine out, the shyness making you blush all the way down to your chest.

"Why feeling so shy, angel, hm?" Jeonghan teases, "You weren't shy the other night when I told you to beg for him, hm? Why shy now?" he continues as he kisses down your neck.

"I'm not shy- I just-" You lie in a stutter, trying to get out of admitting your attraction to the blonde man in front of you until the last second.

"You know liars don't get what they want, don't you?" your boyfriend asks you as he pounds into you even harder.

"I-I'm not a liar." you fight back, a moan building up in your throat as you lock eyes with Seungcheol.

"Yeah? You can't bring yourself to moan for him when he's right there, huh? That's too much for your little brain, isn't it?" he says in a chuckle.

"Fuck you, Hannie-" you fight back as you close your eyes, feeling the pleasure build in the pit of your stomach.

"Oh, I so am, baby." he answers in a smirk, "And you're loving it. You're so wet baby, fuck-" he says in a breath, "Who is it for, baby, hm? Me or him?"

"F-For both of you," you mumble in a mewl, "Fuck- I need to cum, please."

"You know you can't do that." Seungcheol answers your plea, stopping his movement on his dick as Jeonghan stops slamming into you, a hand on your hip as you whimper, "Seungcheol decides when you get to cum tonight, remember? It's all about him." Jeonghan repeats as if he is trying to rile Seungcheol up.

"Fuck- yeah, okay." you answer, knowing saying no wasn't an option right now. You wanted this night to happen maybe more than the two boys, no matter what you had to give up.

"Yeah angel, I decide tonight," Seungcheol reminds you with his deep voice as he gets up and kneels in front of you, "You okay with that, yeah?" he questions as you nod, "Speak up for me, baby, would you?"

"Y-yeah, sorry- I will," you say as Jeonghan starts moving again, making you moan out.

"That's a good girl," Seungcheol sneers, "You like what Jeonghan's doing, hm? He's treating you right?"

"Hm, hm- yeah- feels so good." you sob as Jeonghan fucks up into you harder, faster, deeper.

"Wanna cum?" Seungcheol asks you in a smirk, his hand finding your clit.

"Yes- please, let me cum, please, please-" you beg, feeling the knot in your stomach getting tighter and tighter as you feel his thick fingers rubbing you closer to the brim.

"Think you can hold it off for me, hm?" he asks, as you whine at the thought, "I think Jeonghan is gonna cum." he sneers as he locks eyes with your boyfriend, feeling Jeonghan's hand squeeze at your hips.

"N-no, I can't-" you answer, shutting your eyes tightly and resting your head on Jeonghan's shoulder, "I- need to cum with Hannie-"

"Fuck- angel, you're so good to me, aren't you?" your boyfriend asks, his moans getting louder and louder.

"You wanted me to fuck the brattiness out of her, but you're one of a pair, hm? Just two brats wanting to be treated like royalty." Seungcheol chuckles, teasing the both of you, getting you closer and closer to the edge, "Maybe next time I need to tame you." He says, looking straight into Jeonghan's eyes, "Go ahead, you can cum. Both of you." he says, looking back and forth between you two.

You feel like the wave is infinitely coming, the pleasure not stopping for a few minutes even when Jeonghan pulls out, his cum dripping out of you as he sets you on the bed. You're not even able to catch your breath that a set of hands grabs you by the hips and turns you over, ass up.

"fuck- Jeonghan came so much,” Seungcheol says in a breath, “I'm gonna fuck it back into you," you hear Seungcheol whisper, as you open your eyes and reach for your boyfriend's hands as he sits down with his back against the headboard, "Did it felt good, angel?" Seungcheol asks from behind you as you moan out an affirmation, "I'm gonna fuck that pretty pussy so hard."

"Yeah- please-" you sob as you buck your hips up towards him.

"Our slut wants more, Jeonghan." Seungcheol sneers, his hands holding your hips down.

"Then give her more," Jeonghan says, your eyes locking as he smirks, "Hold on tight, attagirl."

“And I’d better hear that pretty mouth moan my name, got it, sweet thing?” Seungcheol says as he thrusts into you.

thank you for reading! i hope you liked it xx don't forget to reblog, please!

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wosoluver · 26 days

Text

You always know what to say and do.

Andrea Medina x reader

-> got this idea while watching her tiktok, where they're playing the marshmallow game, so if you want some good context to it, pls look it up. Once again this is fictional, and don't necessarily reflect the reality, although Andrea has been open about her ADHD and hyperactivity.

TW: angst, anxiety attack (sort of), mentions of hyperactivity and feelings of anxiety.

You and your girlfriend were almost never apart. You thrive in each-others presence. Always a safe place to joke around, talk, sing, cry or sometimes just sit around in comfortable silence. And by silence it actually meant you were relaxing quietly while Andrea walked around talking nonstop.

It never bothered her because she knew you were paying attention to her every move and words, and it made her feel like someone was actually listening to her. And you, you loved those moments more than anything. It didn't bother you either, to you, her voice was the most relaxing sound, you could listen to her jokes all day. You loved that despite knowing you had a way lower energy level, she could always still be one hundred percent herself, even if it meant enduring her hyperactive self. It was indeed very comforting having someone so opposite to you that yet complemented you perfectly deep down inside.

So when she called you up at 3 AM crying, your heart broke. It was hard enough being away from each other, when she was away with the sub 20 national team. This time they were away for a game against Germany, and the call was unexpected to say the least. Even though you would spend hours on facetime, she usually slept like a baby through the night, especially after training for hours. That's one of the only things that would really drain some energy out of her.

Andrea was the type of person to never break down in front of others, so when she called you in the middle of the night, you knew it was bad.

"What happened amor? Why are you crying?" - you asked desperately.

You could barely make up the words she was saying through the phone.

"Breathe okay? I'm here, cry all you need and then talk to me amor" -

It took around ten minutes for her cries to die down.

"Everyone hates me!" - "They think I am annoying and they don't want me around!" -

"Did someone say that to you?"-

She shook her head while she spoke - "No, but I know it, I can tell"-

"Baby, tell me what happened okay? Is Ornella with you?" -

"No, we're not sharing rooms this week." - I nodded to her, reassuring her to continue - "We were at Martina's room and I had an idea for a tiktok, you know the one marshmallow two marshmallow game?"

"Yes I saw you posted it earlier. But what happened?" -

"While we were filming, it felt like everyone was so annoyed at me, like they were tired and that I was taking up space you know? I know not a lot of people can deal with the way I am, but I don't know, I just thought we were all good friends, and that it would be fun..."-

"Cariño, I wish I could hold you right now." - you say sadly - "But we've talked about this. You can't live worrying if others might be bothered by it. It's who you are! You don't have to feel bad for the ones around you! I hate that you felt that way today, I just wish I could be there with you."

"I love the girls and I just sometimes forget how overbearing I can be. It's kind of hard, when I'm back home with you, Lola, Cris, Wifi and the team I don't even think about it, I don't worry. I forget how much support I have and I'm so thankful. And I love you amor. So much." -

By now you were tearing up. For the last year and a half, you've seen her through it all, and you knew her pain. You knew how hard it was for her to say it out loud, even more to anyone that was not the reflection in her mirror. She keeps her smile up even when she feels the saddest. Your guess was that she kept that fake smile and jokes, kept it up until she was finally alone in the hotel room. And then just exploded from her feelings. And you guessed it right.

She only decided to call you when she realized she couldn't calm down by herself. That was, after hours of crying.

"Was Ornella there?" - you ask already knowing the answer as she shook her head no. You knew if she was, this most likely wouldn't have happened.

"How about you take hot a shower? I'll stay on the call, and when you're done we can go to sleep?" - She easily gave in to your idea, knowing that's exactly what she needed right now, besides the cuddle that she wouldn't be getting till next monday.

After taking a rather quick shower not wanting to be away from the call too long, she put on the hoodie she brought along that smelled like you. The piece of clothing was her own, but it acquired the smell from how much you wore it around the apartment.

Laying back down on the bed and going under the covers, she focused once again on the phone screen.

"Better?" she only nodded quickly - "I love you, Andrea, so much. And I know that if Ornella was there you would've felt seen and safer. But you can't depend on having one of us by your side, to feel like you deserve to be who you are. I know Lola and I talk about it a lot, but it's true. You can't be careful around others at the expense of your own feelings. It's not healthy. They can remove themselves if they'd like. By now we know that some people don't have much patience unfortunately. They have no idea the gem they're missing on, my love." -

"Gracias bebé, for knowing what to say and do. I know I need to work on fighting these feelings off. And promise tomorrow I'll follow the drill and try to stay close to Ornella. Even though that's the opposite of what you just said." - seemly as on queue she let's out an yawn.

"Okay baby. I'll leave you to get some sleep then."

She immediately protested -"Please stay until one of us falls a sleep?" -

You couldn't say no to her.

Took a little bit of my own personal experience to write this one and hope it also helps anyone in need of some comfort and reassuring words. 🩷

Also my first time writing, so I'd love to hear your thoughts and advice. This feels like it needs some improvement.

#espwnt #woso #womens football #atletico madrid femenino #andrea medina #woso x reader #andrea medina x reader

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bella-rose29 · 5 months

Text

Pretty

Anthony Lockwood x gn!reader

requested by anon: Saw your post about Lockwood ideas so here's one! Reader and Lockwood have an extremely close call on a case and in the heat of the moment, Lockwood ends up kissing the reader.

Made this one gn since no gender was specified! hopefully I haven't messed up anywhere with that (pls let me know tho)

I am also so so sorry about how long this took anon 😭 I have nobody to blame but myself for that I won't lie

lockwood has his tea like Cameron and I'm convinced it's a fact

Word count: 3.4k

Warnings: swearing, they fight some visitors

Tag list: @anathemaloren, @augustisintheair, @avdiobliss, @dangelnleif, @el-de-phi, @ell0ra-br3kk3r, @informedimagining, @karensirkobabes, @mischivana, @mitskiswift99, @mrsklockwood, @mrsyixingunicorn10, @ran23sblog, @superpositvecloudshipper, @t2sh0, @taygrls, @tournesol77, @wandamaximoffbae, @whenselenefallsinlove, @wordsarelife

As always, let me know here if you'd like to be added to/removed from my Lockwood and Co tag list, or send me a message! <3

(not my image, also I'm fully aware of how many times I use this one)

"Hey, I've just put the kettle on, d'you want tea?" Lucy chirped as Y/n entered the kitchen, paperwork in hand. They nodded gratefully, shoving the papers onto the table and flopping in a chair. "What's all that for?" Lucy asked, gesturing to the multiple files now scattered in front of Y/n.

"The case tonight. Lockwood's refusing to help me with the research, the little shit. Says he's got 'important business' to go on, whatever that means." They frowned, remembering how he'd been essentially ignoring them all day. "Did I do something to upset him?" they asked Lucy, looking up at the girl.

"Don't think so. Why?"

"Don't know. Just, he hasn't talked to me all day, so I-" Y/n was cut off by Lucy's snort of laughter, and their frown deepened. "What?! Why are you laughing?!"

"He hasn't talked to you all day? God, just tell him you like him already!"

Y/n flushed at her words, and threw a scrunched up piece of paper at Lucy. "Shut up," they mumbled, crossing their arms and slouching in their chair. Lucy only laughed more, handing over a cup of tea and sitting down next to her friend as she started to rifle through the papers. "What are you doing?"

"Helping you out, silly. If Lockwood won't do it, I will. You'll be so unprepared otherwise, and I can't have my best friend dying yet."

"Thanks, Luce."

"Sure," she shrugged, studying a news article. "Dunno why you like him though. He can be a monumental tw-"

"Hi Lucy, Y/n," Lockwood said, stepping through the door with carrier bags in his hands. He looked at them, wondering why they were suddenly quiet when he'd heard the two of them talking before he walked in, but when he saw the kettle boiled on the side that was ready for him to make his tea to his liking he forgot all about it. Dumping the bags, he moved to the cupboards and reached for the honey, pouring the right amount into the mug. Lockwood heard the scrape of a chair and a whispered protest as he added the white sugar (one teaspoon), and turning around he found Lucy getting up to leave and Y/n tugging on her arm and begging her to stay. Lucy had a wicked grin, though, and in one swift movement she'd unhanded herself from Y/n and skipped out of the door, and a moment later her footsteps could be heard on the stairs.

Y/n was glaring at the door, as if it would bring Lucy back to the kitchen, but when Lockwood sat down next to them with his cup of tea in one hand and the deft fingers of his other picking up a pile of papers, their expression immediately softened.

"Glad you finally felt you could grace the plebs with your presence, my lord," they joked, hoping he would apologise for being absent all day. He cracked a smile, shaking his head as he chuckled.

"Can't be around all the time, can I? You'll boost my ego too much."

"I would argue we reign your ego in. Honestly, I'm suffocating on it right now." Their eyes were wide in mock frankness, making Lockwood laugh more. "Seriously though," Y/n said when he'd calmed down a little. "Where were you?" They tried to not sound too hurt, but Lockwood picked up on it like he always did.

"I told you, I had important business-"

"What 'important business', Lockwood? Because I've had to do this research on my own, and there's way too much of it!" He at least had the good grace to look sheepish, scratching the back of his neck and mumbling something into his tea. George entered the kitchen then, pausing whatever conversation Y/n and Lockwood had been having. He stood in the doorway, picking up on the strange atmosphere but not knowing what to do about it, and shook his head as he went to make a sandwich. None of them talked, and George kept casting the two of them weird looks as he moved around the kitchen, looking like he wanted to say something but never getting that far, until eventually he finished making his lunch and left, closing the door with a soft click (and a loud protest from the hinges) behind him. Y/n had turned back to their papers, attempting to read over the documents and figure out the history of the building before they headed out for the evening. "Are you at least gonna help me now?" they sighed, looking back up at him. He nodded, washing out the mug of tea that he'd downed in the last few minutes.

They sat in silence for a while after that, only talking when one of them found something interesting or worth making note of. Lockwood stopped rifling through papers at one point, file limp in his hand while he studied his coworker. "I'm sorry," he said, and although his voice was quiet it startled Y/n. "I just- I know I'm difficult sometimes- okay, fine, a lot of the time," he amended at Y/n's raised eyebrows. "But I really did have important business to attend to. I was stocking up on equipment for tonight. Not much, just a couple of flares."

"And that took you the whole day? George has only just come down for lunch and it's three in the afternoon."

"I was also..." he sighed through his nose, irritation flitting across his face. "I was also getting this," he said, rushing the words as he yanked something out of his jacket pocket. How he'd ever got the item in there in the first place Y/n had no clue, since they weren't aware of Lockwood having pockets that large.

"What is it?" they asked, skeptical of the rectangular object they now held. It had been expertly wrapped, with a nice little bow on the front, and when Lockwood simply gestured for them to open it they peeled the paper off, revealing the book inside. "Is this-"

"Took me ages to find a store that had it. I know how much you've been obsessing about getting it so I figured since I was out I might as well. I didn't realise how long it would take though, and I didn't exactly want to admit that to you either."

"Lockwood, you really didn't have to do-"

"Shush, or I'll return it." That shut them up, making them clutch the book close to their chest as if to prevent him from taking it away. "Come on. We've got work to do."

~~~

Half an hour later Lockwood was making another cup of tea for both of them, laughing as Y/n complained about some of the details (or lack thereof) in the building plans.

"I mean, there's an entire room that just... doesn't exist on the floor plans, even though we went to the house! How does that happen? It's not even an extension- oh, thank you," they were interrupted when Lockwood passed them their mug, hot tea warming Y/n's hands as they gripped the beverage. His hand lingered on the handle a moment longer than was necessary, his gaze catching on theirs, and Y/n held their breath when their fingers brushed. Lockwood seemed to snap out of whatever daze he was in, jerking his arm back, clearing his throat, and shuffling over to his own seat.

It was weird; they'd brushed past each other on the stairs and had curled up next to each other on sofas before, and held (very limited) eye contact every day (it was awkward holding it for more than a few seconds, even with Lockwood), so why was this time any different?

They spent the next few hours in more silence, the atmosphere mildly awkward as they worked, and by the time they pulled up to the house in the back of the taxi not long before sundown Y/n thought they might burst from the sheer amount of tension they could feel.

They had always been an overthinker, analysing minuscule details that, in reality, probably didn't matter, but for some reason stuck in Y/n's head for months after. It didn't help that they had feelings for Lockwood, since it made every touch or lingering glance have a stronger effect on their overthinking tendencies, and very often took them out of the real world and into their own head.

Which was unfortunate when they needed to be very much in the real world to fight Visitors.

In fairness, the man that owned the property had told them (with a shocking amount of certainty) that there were two Type Ones, one Shade and one Lurker, and while Y/n was inclined to disagree that he knew best, Lockwood was flashing a winning smile and grasping the keys, assuring the owner that Type Ones were nothing the pair of them couldn't handle.

They set up their chains and defences, did an initial reading of the whole house (the stairs came back as the coldest at nine degrees, with the upstairs family bathroom a close second at ten - worrying for the early hour), then returned to the kitchen and put the kettle on, cracking open a packet of biscuits.

"Are you sure about what he said? I mean he's what, late thirties to early forties? How reliable is he for identifying Type Ones if he won't be able to see them?"

"Look, we have no reason to distrust hi-"

"I literally just gave a reason."

"Okay, fine. No reason to distrust him yet. Everything we've seen so far from our initial readings is pointing to Type Ones, and we're Lockwood and Co. This isn't anything we can't handle." Y/n had been about to protest again, to say something about how the stairs and bathroom really shouldn't have been so cold this early on, but then he had smiled at them, one reserved purely for his friends, and they melted, all thoughts of danger gone out of their head.

Perhaps they should have fought harder against him, or perhaps they shouldn't have become too wrapped up in the moments from the kitchen earlier, but either way they didn't notice the Limbless until it had nearly pushed its misshapen body through their head.

~~~

Lockwood had shoved them out the way, their bodies rolling over each other as they tumbled down the hallway, the air shifting as the Limbless soared over them.

Lockwood ended up on top, his body shielding Y/n's, and he lifted his head up from where it had previously been in their neck, asking a desperate "Are you okay?" They nodded in response, too shaken to do much else, and then Lockwood was up, yanking their arm to pull them up beside him as he drew his rapier. Y/n did the same, hands trembling slightly as they finally registered the miasma that felt like it was suffocating them.

"Limbless, but we can handle that. You getting anything that can help?" He was referencing Y/n's Touch, but when they pressed their hand to the bannister experimentally the feeling of fear that washed over them was so strong they stumbled back, bumping into Lockwood.

"Shit, that was not fun," they said, grimacing at the headache they could already feel forming. "We can't use flares, Lockwood, it's too cramped in here. We're gonna have to draw it away if we can, then find the Source. It's got to be the stairs somehow, I just can't figure it out."

"Okay. Here's the plan," he started, but Y/n was unfocused, staring down the hallway over his shoulder.

"Lockwood?"

"You figure out where the Source is, I'll hold it off-"

"Lockwood?"

"-and then we'll be out of here and back home with a cup of tea within the hour."

"LOCKWOOD!"

"What? Why are you shou-"

Y/n grabbed his face in both of their hands, pushing him around to see what was behind him.

"Shit," he said, paling. Where there had only been a single Limbless to deal with before, the number of Visitors had gone up, with Shades and Lurkers that the owner had mentioned earlier joining the now two Limbless that were hovering at the end of the hallway. The feeling of miasma was washing over the two of them like a tidal wave, and Y/n pressed a hand to their mouth to try and stop throwing up. "We can still do this?" he said, although it sounded more like a question than an inspirational chat to his teammate.

"Lockwood, we need to just go. There's no way we can do this on our own, your pride be damned."

"Okay, okay. We'll collect as much of our kit as we can then, a lot of it is new and I don't want it being wasted. Do you think you're up for it? You look very ill," he frowned, concern for Y/n working its way into every movement of his body.

"Can't we just ditch the kit and get out?"

"As much as I'd love to, we are incredibly under equipped right now and have to pass through the kitchen anyway. We'd do well to have a few extra supplies on us, don't you think?" His voice was gentle, nothing condescending about his question, and Y/n found themselves nodding when he searched their eyes for an answer. His whole body relaxed, and then he was grabbing their hand and slowly retreating towards the kitchen, hoping not to alert the Visitors to their presence.

They were doing well, nearly past the kitchen threshold, up until Lockwood brushed his thumb over the back of Y/n's hand and they stumbled slightly, scuffing their foot on the floorboards and kicking a cabinet.

The Limbless (both of them) snapped their bloated heads to face the two agents, and Lockwood and Y/n only had a brief second to share a look when the ghosts came soaring towards them before he was tugging them into the kitchen, slamming the door behind them and rushing past the counter.

"Pick up what you can, anything to defend yourself with!" he shouted, wheeling around to grab a bag. They made a move towards the iron chains and added a ring to the circle that they'd already made, doubling up the strength of the invisible wall, then dragged in the kit they could reach and stood within the circle.

"Lockwood! Get in here!"

He made a mad dash for them, eyes wide and face flushed from the cold that was now creeping in to the kitchen. "Okay, what now? We'll be protected for a little while but we can't stay for-"

"Calm down, alright? We can sort out our kit in here, quickly, and then use the back door just there. We might have to leave some of these chains behind though, they're pretty heavy."

"Temperature's dropped significantly. That's not a good sign. Do you think there are more hauntings in here?"

"I wouldn't put it past this place. Besides, it's eleven. The others all came out quite early." They crouched down, starting to work methodically through the bags, but Lockwood stayed standing.

"What would I do without you, hey?"

Y/n tried not to flush at the compliment, remembering that the previous two times they'd been caught up in analysing everything that happened between the two of them they'd invoked danger, and continued going through the bags. "Can you help please? Instead of standing there like a lemon."

It took them five minutes to finish up, bags being zipped and thrown over shoulders, belts checked for stock and rapiers drawn. They would have to leave the chains behind, which was a shame, but necessary if they wanted to be able to move quickly. "On three?" Lockwood asked, glancing over his shoulder to check with Y/n. They nodded, bracing themselves for the run. Lockwood started counting down, and just as he said "Three" the kitchen door blew off its hinges.

~~~

"Shit! Go!" A Poltergeist, manifesting in the kitchen and manipulating the room if the many knives that were now floating in the air were anything to go by. The back door was only a couple of metres away, but the real question was whether they could outrun the blades.

They almost did, launching themselves out the exit and slamming the door shut behind them, and Lockwood breathed a sigh of relief until he saw the blood on Y/n's arm. "It's fine," they said when they caught him looking, moving away from the door. "We should get out of here."

He didn't say anything, instead sheathing his rapier and dropping the bag he was holding to grab Y/n's face and kiss them. Y/n almost dropped their own things, about to reach up and draw him in further, but he was pulling back before they could, picking up the kit and moving away from the house. "Come on! We need to find a taxi!" Y/n stood gaping at his retreating form before they heard the wailings of some of the Visitors inside and quickly followed after him.

~~~

The taxi ride home was awkward.

Lockwood wasn't looking at Y/n, and they were starting to feel increasingly uncomfortable with the amount of silence that enveloped the two of them.

"I'm sorry," Lockwood said, making Y/n jump slightly even though his voice was quiet.

"...What for?"

"For- I shouldn't have- I- For kissing you." He still wasn't looking at them, so he couldn't see the stifled smile on their face.

"It's okay, Lockwood."

"No, I should have just got us out of there instead of- I put us in danger and that was stupid of me," he turned to face them, expression earnest. "And I don't even know how you..." he trailed off, blushing.

"It wasn't... I wouldn't mind doing it again, if that's... where you're going?" Y/n was surprised at the confidence they had to admit that, given how bad they were normally at expressing their feelings for him. Lockwood blushed slightly, his cheeks tinted pink, and his eyes widened.

"Uh- okay," he said, hiding his smile behind his hand as he braced his elbow on the door. "Are you sure you're okay? You're bleeding a lot."

"I'm sure it's fine. I think it's only shallow, and most of the blood is dried now. If it'll make you feel better you can bandage me up when we get back."

"Okay. I'll put the kettle on, too. I really need a cup of tea right now."

~~~

True to his word, Lockwood put the kettle on the stove and grabbed two mugs out of the cupboard before heading to the bathroom for the medical kit. He then patched Y/n's arm up (who was right about it only being shallow, but that didn't stop Lockwood fussing over them), concentrating far more than he needed to but taking his time with the dressing in a way that made Y/n's heart flutter at his attentiveness.

Now they sat at the kitchen table with steaming mugs of tea, a plate of biscuits between them as they talked about both everything and nothing, the sun rising and casting the kitchen in a golden light. At some point Lucy appeared, making herself her own cup of tea and heading back upstairs to the attic afterwards, murmuring a sleepy 'morning' to her friends as she shut the door behind her.

Y/n shut their eyes, soaking in the freshly made cup of tea (Lucy had made a large pot for the three of them) and the small warmth that the sun pouring through the window provided. They could feel Lockwood watching them, and sure enough when Y/n cracked an eye open he was focused on them, a soft smile on his face while he sipped his tea. "What?" they asked, a smile of their own forming.

"Nothing. You just look really... really pretty."

"Pretty?" Y/n asked, and Lockwood blushed a little, spluttering as he tried to explain himself.

"I don't know how else to describe you! I can come up with something else if you'd prefer, I just thought it fit! You know, with the light on your face and you looked really peaceful and lovely and..." he trailed off into unintelligible mumbles, turning to stare at the thinking cloth instead of Y/n's face as his blush grew brighter. They laughed in response, leaning forward across the small space between them to grab Lockwood by the tie and pull him in for a kiss. It was short and sweet, but still left the two of them breathless and flushed, and the resultant smile on Lockwood's face was well worth the amount of nervous butterflies in Y/n's stomach.

"You're pretty too, Lockwood."

#lockwood and co #anthony lockwood #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood x reader #lockwood & co #anthony lockwood x you

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theladyofrosewater · 19 days

Text

Character sheets take longer than I thought (I'm drawing on my phone without a stylus help me)

notes below the cut

I am absolutely TERRIBLE at drawing guys body types so I had to stare at reference photos for like ever and I chose discus athletes as my frame of reference. It's better than my usual work but still not perfect so I'm glad I don't have to do scar/tattoo maps for all of the characters.

very common headcanon I know but I imagine all the the Ro'meaves are tall with Garroth being around 6"7-6"8. HOWEVER he and his brothers inherited their height from Zianna not Garte. With Zianna being around 7ft and Garte being around 5"11 (Which is still tall but like he's the shortest so he WOULD make everyone sit for family portraits)

I'm getting rid of the cross on Garroth's design and replacing it with a star symbol, maybe something to symbolize Irene's power or something. The "gem" in the center is actually dyed quartz as it's customary for head guard to place a false gem of glass or a cheap gemstone to mimic the look of the Jury of Nine. Guards are gifted slightly higher quality stone or hunks of metal if they are on the waitlist for the Jury as well.

I know we make fun of the fact he never changed his name but there was a period in where like 20 percent of the English population was named Mary so he can keep his name unlike Aph.

I'm basing O'khasis on specifically on places like Wales, Ireland, England and France so maybe expect some later design elements from there.

His cape is "faerie silk", which is one of the few exports from the Yggdrasill forest region and is known for its durability. It's one of the few items Zoey always keeps in stock because after the incident with Zenix, Garroth incorporated it into Phoenix Drop's guard uniform.

I keep running into problems with ages because Diaries is just inconsistent like that but I THINK 24 is a good enough age??? I'd explain but that's a whole ass post about the Ro'Meaves that isn't set in stone until I figure out how evil I'm making Zane and reworking how the lord system works.

His armor was originally way too fancy for Phoenix drop but I imagine that it fell into disrepair after the lord dies. Aphelia and Laurance get his armor fixed up for him for his birthday one year before everything goes downhill.

The scar on his face is because Zenix swung a giant-ass blade at his face and I refuse to believe he walked away from that fight unharmed physically

I know it's hard to see BUT HE HAS STUBBLE. He always attempts to grow a full beard but after like 2 weeks it gets too itchy and he just goes back to the stubble.

if you're still here pls send in a request for the last character sheet for now because Laurance has like 5 outfits and I don't want to draw all of themmmmmmmmm help.

#theladyofrosewater #art #minecraft diaries #minecraft diaries rewrite #mcd #garroth ro'meave #mcd garroth #I have a whole ass rant about the Ro'meaves and their bs #however it it held back because I can't decide on how evil I want zane to be #aphmau #aphblr

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justwearthegoddamncardigan · 9 months

Note

Hello:)

so I was looking thru ur pinned post and saw that u wrote for Harry Potter and was wondering if you would do a fic for George Weasley? ( fem reader pls) but basically, I was just kind of thinking of an introverted Gryffindor who loves books and George meets them and they both (very obvious to others) have a crush on each other? Maybe George just asks them for book recs even tho he had no interest in reading before just so he can find a way to talk to the reader? I know you have a lot of fics in the making so take ur time please<3

A HP REQUEST?? This is amazing I'm so excited to be branching out from maze runner again, and I absolutely love this request it's super cute ❤❤. Ty for being so kind and sweet as well :)

Umm :D So I wrote the above ^^^ response as soon as the request came in and now... IT'S BEEN TWO MONTHS IM SO SORRY ANON!! Hope you're still out there to read 😭

It's a love story

George Weasley x fem!reader

I am not British *thumbs up in australian* so prepare either for out-of-place non-british dialogue or cringe attempts to fit into the universe. idk which one it's gonna be so I guess we'll find out

3.1k words

Warnings: language (swearing)

You turn the corner and register a flash of red hair before colliding hard with a body.

"Shit!"

You groan as you sit up, staring around to see your books have been knocked out of your arms and onto the floor.

"Fuck, sorry, listen I've gotta-"

"Weasley!"

You turn in surprise as Filch marches down the corridor, fist raised with an expression of rage on his face.

"Shit," you whisper.

"Yeah," says the person who knocked you over, who you've now found is none other than George Weasley. Of course, the guy you've kinda sorta maybe liked for years is only talking to you after literally bowling you over.

"Here." He points his wand and charms all your books into little palm-sized rectangles, before gathering them up and stuffing them in his pockets. "We've gotta go."

"Where?" you stare around the empty corridor, unable to find a decent hiding spot.

"Follow me." George leads you over to a dusty-looking tapestry and ducks behind it.

"What the-"

"Come on!" he reaches out and grabs your hand, tugging you in.

You stumble through the gap between the tapestry and the wall, practically falling into George's chest.

"Sorry," you mutter, and you're glad it's dark because you can feel your face blushing like crazy.

"I know you're 'round 'ere, Weasley," you hear Filch snarl from outside.

You hear him muttering to himself as his footsteps eventually recede, and you let out a breath. "He's gone."

You turn to push through the tapestry to get out, only to be met with a thin slab of solid stone. "What-"

George winces. "Yeah, once you get in here it closes for about half an hour."

"Half an hour?" you repeat incredulously.

You can barely see his nod in the dark. "I mean, one of them closes for two hours once you get in, so half isn't too bad."

There's beat of silence, before, "Lumos."

The tip of George's wand lights up, illuminating the small space. "Oh, it's you," he says, seemingly on instinct the moment the light appears.

"Pardon?"

He seems to catch himself, shaking his head. "Nevermind, just- Here, sit down."

You sit down on the floor with your legs crossed, heart skipping a beat as your knee brushes against his in the cramped space.

"We're in the same Transfiguration class, aren't we?" asks George.

"I- yeah." You're pleasantly surprised by that. You tend to be pretty quiet in class, mostly keeping to yourself.

"You're always the first person to get a new transfiguration successfully. Bird to glass on the first try, right?"

"I- yeah," you say, warming at the recognition of the hard work you've always put into Transfiguration.

He nods. "Took me the whole lesson to get that one right. Hey, I never caught your name in class?"

"It's L/n," you say. "Y/n L/n."

"Good to meet ya, Y/n," he grins. "I'm George."

"I know," you can't help but say, smiling slightly.

"Oh, your books." George empties his pockets of your miniaturised books. "Engorgio." He waves his wand over them, changing them back to their normal size.

"Thanks," you say, pulling them towards you and stacking them up.

"You read a lot?"

You smile to yourself, picturing the dozens of books you go through in a term. "Just a bit."

"Sure," says George, eyeing the four novels sitting in front of you now.

Before long, you reach out and push against the tapestry, finding it to be cloth again instead of stone.

"Time to go?" George stands and pushes through, and you follow him into the corridor.

"Finally," you say, stretching before grabbing your books.

"Sorry about earlier," says George with a sheepish smile. "And for trapping you for half an hour."

You shake your head. "It's okay."

He grins at you. "Alright then, see you 'round Y/n."

You stand still, rooted to the ground as he leaves, waving behind him, and something in you clicks. Oh shit.

⭒----⭒

Any thoughts about George a put aside for the night when you settle down with your book.

The common room late at night is your happy place. Most people are sleeping in the dorms, save for a couple 6th years finishing their assignments.

You tune out their little whisperings as you sit beside the crackling fire, and you can just pretend you're alone in the common room, getting lost in your book.

Before long, you're actually alone, with the remaining people all retreating to their dorms - except for one that you haven't noticed.

George is sitting across the room, barely paying attention to the essay he's meant to be editing. Every so often, he glances up at you without you noticing.

After years of sharing the same Transfig class, something about you has piqued George's interest, though he's always tried to mark it down as pure curiosity.

He can't believe it's taken literally knocking you to the ground to get your attention, and he doesn't understand how he hadn't properly met you before earlier that day. But now, he can't seem to resist the strange pull you have on him.

Get yourself together, you've only met once, idiot. George frowns as he silently berates himself, but he can't help but watch as you repeatedly flick away a strand of hair that keeps falling into your eyes.

Fuck it. Go talk to her.

George stands abruptly, nearly knocking over a goblet in the process.

You, the oblivious centre of all his thoughts for the past few hours, are still just sitting beside the fire, reading your book.

"Hey."

You jerk slightly in surprise, grabbing your book as it starts sliding out of your lap.

"Um, hi. What's up?" you manage to say coolly.

George blanks. He hadn't exactly come in with a plan. He glances down at the assignment he'd been working on; good enough. "Did you finish that work Flitwick gave us?"

"I haven't yet," you say slowly, slightly confused as to why he's here. "I've just gotta write a conclusion and edit the rest."

"I haven't got a clue how to write the damn conclusion," says George, flopping down beside you and complaining about the rigid essay structure.

You realise as he's talking that it's strangely intimate. Earlier, you'd been sitting on the floor with your back leaning on a couch and your knees up, braced against the coffee table.

Now, you're both wedged between said couch and table, and despite the generous space between the two of you, you feel oddly close to him.

"Can I read yours?" he asks, pointing to where your assignment has been sitting since you gave up and decided to just read your book.

"Sure," you say, sliding it to him.

He leans against the couch as he skims your work, fingers tapping absent-mindedly.

"God you write like a professor, Y/n," comments George. "...the fuck are all these words- incandescence?"

"I... read a little," you say with a little smile, cheeks warming at the way your name sounds in his mouth.

He glances up at you. "This is brilliant. So you've just got the conclusion to do?"

You nod, taking back the assignment as he pushes it to you.

You end up staying up way longer than you'd intended, talking to George as the conversation topic quickly strays away from any Charms essays.

By the time you go to your dorms, you haven't even finished your conclusion.

⭒----⭒

"Mate, you're not nearly as subtle as you think you are," says Fred, elbowing his brother.

George elbows him right back. "What're you on about?"

"The staring," says Fred, grin teasing. "It's getting embarrassing. If whatever little crush you've now got starts affecting my reputation, we're gonna have to have a chat about this twin thing."

George rolls his eyes. "Git."

"So..." Fred drags out the word. "Who is it then?"

He jerks his chin towards the group of girls on the other side of the Gryffindor breakfast table, where George had been conspicuously staring at you all morning.

"The one on the left - Y/L/N, she's in our Transfig class."

"Oh!" says Fred, eyes lighting up in understanding. "Oh she's great, I did a project with her once. Quiet type, bookish. Fun, though. Pretty, too," he adds, raising an eyebrow at George.

"Shut it," retorts George. "What should I do then?"

"I don't fuckin' know Georgie, just go talk to her. Ask for book recommendations or something."

"That's... actually a decent idea."

" 'course it is," says Fred. "Anything to get you guys together as fast as possible so I don't have to deal with your lovesick horsecrap."

⭒----⭒

A Quidditch game has just finished (Gryffindor victory, of course), and you're avoiding the inevitable party in the common room. You can enjoy parties on a good day, but you're just not feeling it right now.

So you're in the library, wandering around as you wait for dinner.

"Y/n!" You turn to see George doing a weird half-run toward you, not wanting to be yelled at for running in the library.

"Oh, George. Hey."

"I figured you'd be in here," he says.

"You figured...?"

"Well," he raises an eyebrow at you. "Since you read a little."

You huff out a soft laugh, shaking your head. "So why were you looking for me?"

You try to listen as he speaks, but you're immediately distracted by just about everything about him.

His cheeks are flushed red, probably cause he just transitioned from the cold outside to the heated library, and his hair is windswept and slightly wet from melted snowflakes.

He's gotten rid of his Quidditch gear, but it's strange to see him in just the casual clothes students usually wear in the dorms and common room again.

And he's still speaking. Pay attention, Y/n.

"Anyways, I just wanted to find you, cause you know, hobbies... and literature, are really... important. And the Christmas holidays are coming up. So I just wanted to ask if you had any recommendations."

You frown slightly as you remember it's only the start of November, and he barrels on, almost seeming nervous.

"For books, I mean. To read, over the holidays. I don't, uh- come in here very often, so I don't know what's good. You seemed like a good person to ask." He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck as he speaks, giving you a hopeful smile.

"I am," you say with a smirk. You straighten up confidently, banishing any nervousness because books; books you can do.

"Great," says George. "What've you got for me, Y/L/N?"

"Well what kind of books do you like?"

His grin falters. "Um-"

"Fiction, non-fiction, stories, biographies?"

"...stories?"

"Sure." You navigate to another aisle, moving into the more fiction-y section. "Action, ooh- historical, adventure, romance?" You lift an eyebrow at the last one.

"I-" He clears his throat, and you smile slightly to yourself. "Action is good, I think," he says uncertainly.

You scan the shelf currently at your eye level, before picking out a book. "I love this one," you tell him. "Pretty fast paced, which might be good for you. Also, dragons."

"Dragons," he repeats. "Great."

"How many books are you looking for?" you ask.

"Just one, I think. I wanna... get into reading, before the holidays start."

"Sure," you say, holding the book out to him.

It's like sun breaking through, when he smiles in return. "Do you think we could meet up?" he begins. "To talk about the book once I've read it?"

"Yeah, I'd like that," you smile. "And you have to tell me what you like, so I can recommend you the next one."

"Excellent."

⭒----⭒

Ever since giving George that first book you've started seeing him almost every day.

The two of you can be found huddled together in the little nooks around the library, or behind the greenhouses, or down by the lake, talking about books and school and everything in between.

But soon the holidays arrive, and you're saying goodbye to him and the rest of your friends.

Your parents are being forced to travel a lot over Christmas for work, so the first month of the holiday flies by in a whirlwind of tea in the morning with the few remaining students in Hogwarts, long peaceful walks on the grounds, and lots and lots of reading.

You've devoured a row of books in the library by the time Christmas has passed, and you've planned to go through another row, when George materialises in the common room one day, two weeks after Christmas.

"George?" you exclaim, spotting him in the common room.

He turns as he hears your voice, and his face splits into a wide grin. Without hesitation, he runs up to you and pulls you into a hug, lifting you just slightly above the floor.

Your heart swells as his laughter rings in the air, and suddenly everything is complete.

"I missed you so much," you tell him, almost surprised at your own admission. Truth is, Hogwarts is beautiful during Christmas, but it's a little lonely with everyone else having gone home.

George's responding smile is worth the wait though, and he tosses an arm around your shoulder as he leads you out of the common room.

"C'mon, it's a Hogsmeade day. No time to waste!"

⭒----⭒

The two of you settle down at a table in the Three Broomsticks, grabbing Butterbeers as you go.

"Alright then, Weasley. Did you get through the holiday book I got you?"

He smiles. "I did. And you know what I was thinking when I read it?"

"What?"

"Y/n would hate Chaolie, and she'd love Alosia."

You blink in surprise. "I- yeah, those are my exact thoughts on the book."

George smirks. "See? I know you."

"I mean yeah, I loved every chapter Alosia was in; she's my favourite. Typical, I know, everyone likes the side characters, but god, Allo would've been so much better as a main character than fucking Chaolie. G.T.L. is brilliant- we know that, she fits insane arcs and storylines into a single book, but please,-"

George listens, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth, as you continue rambling animatedly about the book, your hands gesturing enthusiastically as you speak.

"And the cover: gorgeous. You know stories like this can have the silliest cover art if they're not done well, and the choice to go almost muggle-style with a non-moving cover is perfect."

You brush a stray piece of hair away from your face, oblivious to the way George tracks the movement, desperately wanting to reach out and tuck it behind your ear for you.

The bell on the door chimes and you look over George's shoulder to see a bunch of familiar redheads walking in.

"Ah, Y/n," says Fred, floating towards your table. "Lovely to finally see you again after having to hear so much about you over Christmas."

You giggle as George thumps his brother with his book, face turning almost as red as his hair. "Stupid- git."

"This is the Y/n?" says Ron, another one of George's brothers.

His sister joins in too. "Ah, so you're the reason we had to come back early."

"Early?" you repeat, confused.

"Enough," snaps George. "Piss off, all of you," he says, fruitlessly shoving his siblings away from your table.

He groans. "Come on Y/n, we're leaving." He tugs on your hand, and you snort as his family's antics as you down the last sip of Butterbeer and hop off your seat.

"Until we meet again, Y/n." Fred salutes you as you exit, and you laugh as you wave to the rest of the Weasleys.

"Sorry about them," says George, slightly pink in the cheeks.

"Don't worry," you laugh. "It's fine. But what did Ginny mean when- hey!"

You're cut off as George yanks off his scarf and starts wrapping it around your neck and face. "...It's cold out," he explains weakly as you give him a look.

You pin him down with your gaze, and he sighs. "Fine."

He grabs your hand and leads you away from the Three Broomsticks, brushing snow off a park bench before sitting down.

Every memory he's had with you, every moment he's spent falling for you, flashes through his head.

The shy smile you had in your first few days of meeting, which he could only describe as cute, the mischievous glint in your eye when you'd almost recommended him a romance book, your laugh that he's memorised the sound of... damn it, he better not fuck this up.

You sit down beside him, giving him a concerned look.

"Okay, here it is," he says abruptly. "I like you."

You blink, caught off guard.

"You're so- you're bright," he says. "There's this light in you, and it's so fucking bright, and people don't see it. I don't get that. But whatever, they don't matter. I just mean, I've been pretty much blinded by you since we met... well, since I knocked you over running from Filch. I- god, fuck this metaphor. The point is, every time I'm not with you, I'm just wishing that I was. Cause I like you, and I wish- I'd hoped, that maybe you like me back?"

You're still silent, your brain trying to catch up with what your ears are hearing.

But George takes the silence differently. "It- it's okay if you don't. You know, I don't want to pressure you, at all. It's completely-"

"George." You take his hand. "I like you too, so damn much. I was just... I've never done this before. I didn't know if I should ask you out, or confess, or anything."

George lets out an incredulous breath. "Oh. Well then."

He rests his forehead against yours. "Y/n, will you do me the great honour of becoming my girlfriend."

You're smiling so much it almost hurts. "I'd love to," you whisper.

⭒----⭒

It's only on your first date, that you realise; "You know, we've practically be dating this whole time."

"What do you mean?" asks George, digging into his icecream.

"Meeting up, just the two of us. We've been doing it for ages, except we thought it was just book meetings."

The spoon stills halfway to George's mouth. "...fuck."

You snort, "We're both idiots, aren't we."

"Could've saved me so much grief if I'd known we were already dating. It was well shit, overthinking everything over the holidays."

"You mean when you missed me so much you convinced your whole family to come back to school early?"

"Sod off," he replies, nudging your foot and grinning. "You thought it was cute, anyway."

"I did."

There's a beat, before; "Kissing," you say, pointing your spoon at him. "We weren't totally dating, cause we didn't kiss."

"Right," agrees George, nodding. "Speaking of..."

You let out a laugh, setting your icecream down on the table, and then you let him pull you in.

Silly details cause I can't help myself: Alosia is a music project by dodie, Chaolie is based on Chaol from tog (sorry), and GTL is the fictional author from Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell. Thank you for tolerating my self-indulgent easter eggs.

Thank you for reading, everyone! Hope you enjoyed my first fic in the HP universe <3

#harry potter #george weasley x reader #george weasley x you #george weasley #my writing

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witheringwidgetwrites · 6 months

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an mc with echolalia repeating noises/words/phrases the demon bros say (especially things in demonic language) and some of them getting Annoyed thinking its you mocking them and challenging them (lucifer, satan) or that ur making fun of them in a demeaning way (levi, mammon) and the general confusion and possible angst from hurt feels bc they dont know this is just a Thing some humans do. i think solomon would get caught in a loop with mc tho especially during nightbringer era like sol makes a Noise, mc repeats it, they go back and forth bc sol thinks its cute n understands the stimming nature it can have and everyone else is just '???? did the humans break???'

sorry if this doesnt make much sense its 3 am for me but i saw the ask abt demons not rly understanding humans and was like. lets take it up a notch with autistic (and other neurodivergent) traits and behaviors. bewilder those bitches some more. also i love ur writing its so good thank you for all youve blessed us with <3

AutismCore me me me me me relatable i love this ask sm i am stimming rN

pls send in a req for the others! if i do all in 1 post itll be soo long (also if u want a longer one send in 1 character and we can get some real angst in here)

Lucifer is one who doesn't mind very much. He's used to the Anti-Lucifer-League mocking almost everything he says, so there's not surprises there. However one evening at the dinner table, he it comes along in passing.

"Yes, I've never quite understood if you enjoy my presence or not, as you seem to mock me so often, MC."

"Wait, what are you talking about?"

"I heard you the other evening, you were speaking of what I had said to you, repeatedly. If I recall, it was, 'Don't dally with the dragons, MC'," he smiles at you, but there seems to be a little aggression behind it.

"Oh no, that's not mocking, Luci, it's called echolalia! It's a symptom of my autism." You go on to explain, and it seems like a small wave of relief washes over his eyes.

"Very well. I'm glad we got that misunderstanding cleared up."

The one who avoids you is Mammon, he's only now been caught up to by you, as you sit into the chair next to him at dinner. It's mostly quiet, until everyone has left, besides you him, and Leviathan and Beel, who are having this own conversation. You speak quietly, "have you been avoiding me, Mammon?"

"Why'd ya think that? Maybe it's you avoiding me!"

"Well, I haven't seen you almost at all in 4 days. Everytime I see you, you turn the other way. You feel the sting of fresh tears start to burn in your eyes, and Mammon can't help but feel a little guilty.

"Why'd ya even want to be around me, I heard you mocking me. You were sayin' 'mammoney' over and over."

"No, Mammon, that's not it at all!" You furrow your brow, and more tears start to come forward. This is not the first time you have been misunderstood by someone about your symptoms. You go on to explain, practically pleading with him to believe you.

"So it's just somethin' some humans do? Really? I think Levi does that sometimes," he chuckles, a small blush gracing his features.

The one who is most hurt by the misunderstanding is Leviathan. For sure. He heard you saying "Ruri-chan" over and over to yourself and assumed you were making fun of him. He hid away from you for days until you caught up to him, and asked if he'd been avoiding you. You missed your best friend dearly. "Of course I have! I heard you mocking me! I thought we were friends." His frown was evident, and you had to pry to find out what he was talking about. "Leviathan, what in the world are you talking about?"

"I heard you! You said," in his best mimicking voice he could muster, "Ruri-chan, over and over."

You were quick to stop him, trying your best to explain. He was still hurt, but he did feel a little silly.

"Oh, I guess that makes sense. I do that too sometimes, repeat things when they're f-fun to say, I mean," he seems to trail off, averting his gaze. His anger had not dissipated, and he felt silly for ever being mad.

"I-I'm, I'm sorry for misunderstanding you, MC."

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me mammon #obey me lucifer #obey me leviathan #lucifer x reader #mammon x reader #leviathan x reader #om! lucifer #om! mammon #om! levi #om! leviathan

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loreensdarling · 3 months

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so I finally finished this?? after months??

I'm no artist and drew this with my finger, have mercy on me, it's been sitting in my drafts for a while and I've worked on it for over 2 weeks now to finish it and I'm finally done and this is pure agony, idfk how actual artists do this like every day 😭😭

DISCLAIMER below the cut bc it won't fit up here

I feel like I should clarify this again. I am not an artist, I do not know anatomy, color theory or how to draw skin. I've been told the colors are off and I am aware of that. I am already working on another piece and I hope to improve with time, but for now I can only say: this was my first big project ever. I've only messed around before. This project did not turn out how I wanted it to and that is more than just okay.

I'm posting this because I spent way too much time on it to NOT post it and I eventually want to look back in a few years and see the progress I've made.

If you have any advice or criticism, please don't be rude about it, I'm very sensitive about critique and generally have a hard time taking it, so I'd appreciate it if y'all could be nice about it anyways.

(also I sacrificed almost 7h active work time on this so please have mercy on me, I'll cry)

ALSO PLS PLS PLS NOTICE THE BLUSH THEY'RE BOTH BLUSHING THIS IS SHIP ART THEY'RE GAY THEY'RE LESBIANS!!!

again, I'm not an artist, this was drawn with my finger??? I think it's shitty but I invested too much time into it to NOT post it

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cwunny · 7 days

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Of course I'm never gonna stop now, you're embracing me so warmly and openly. I love being your favorite x3 it means I'm doing a good job as a big brother! To be honest and genuine for a second,... I really appreciate that I stumbled upon this cute little blog x3 it's been so much fun writing asks for you and sitting here giddy waiting for excitement to find out what your little reactions are! I'm not honestly the biggest fan of myself? Yet, weirdly enough, it's been comforting how accepting and open you've been about my asks hehe. I know that's mostly because I'm teasing you, but I really do get the feeling you might be the little sister I for real have always dreamed of having. Naughty, cute, girly, sweet. Heck everything down to the way you describe yourself and the fact you love strawberries. You are just a wholesome and good girl and you're my favorite too! I couldn't ask for a better sibling to bond with or use~ (🌸)

ok kind of vulnerable cwunny rn instead of horny cwunny, bare with me pls!!

m so happy i’ve cultivated a lil group of people on here who like the same things i like :33 i know the shit i’m into is problematic and gross, but i feel safe being icky here, so it makes me feel really good to know ive given you the same thing i get out of tumblr, even if it’s just a little bit :)

i think it’s really validating to be seen by someone exactly how you want them to see you, and that’s what you do for me! i hope that’s maybe what i do for u too big brother <3

(ps, if u don’t have an acc where u post ur writing.. MAKE ONE!! the stuff you write is so compelling and you could really capture a broader audience if u wanted

i made this account thinking id just yap about my fantasies into the void, but like, here i am!! idk how it happened but.. ppl kinda like it! and ppl REALLY like it when you send me asks :33)

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ruhnlidiasworld · 3 months

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Ruhn x Lidia 🎡

Title: Rollercoaster

Pairing: Ruhn Danaan/Lidia Cervos

Rating: Free

Words: 2,132 (one-shot)

Summary: This is just Ruhn taking Lidia to have some fun post-hofas.

Warnings: This have small Ruhnlidia spoilers! I wrote them after their hofas ending, so pls be aware!

AO3: Link | Thanks to my ruhnlidia friends for giving me the idea 🥹

Pov-Lidia

“Drop everything you're doing. We're going on a date.” Ruhn stated, sitting on my table.

“Where are we going?” I replied without knowing if I understood his words correctly.

“A date.”

“We are in the middle of a working day!. We can’t leave Aux without superv…”

“We are going. Clean your desk.”

I cross my hands across my chest and look at him seriously, with my more menacing expression.

“You can't demand it.”

“I can.”

“You cannot.”

“I'm the Aux Commander, so I'm your boss and I'm kindly asking you to shut things down.”

Ruhn smiles. That damn charming smile, and he knows damn well that I lose the ability to argue against him when he does that.

“You can’t use the ‘I’m the commander’ card with your own mate.”

“I can't?” Ruhn says, leaning towards me until our faces are inches apart. “Who's going to stop me?”

I return the provocation with a fake smile, leaning further towards him.

“You can be the commander, Danaan” I whisper, bringing my index finger to his chin. “But I’m your mate, so I command the commander. And if I say you can't, then you can't. Am I wrong, Night?”

Lust stands out in the glance Ruhn gives me. He runs his tongue across the piercing in his bottom lip, pondering his next move.

“No. But if you refuse to go out with me to be stuck in this office on a very boring day, I will take it personally...Day.”

Appealing for my emotional side. Ruhn 1 x me 0.

“Why now?”

“Why not?” Ruhn teases.

“Where will we go?”

“That's up to you.”

I can't take it and let out a loud laugh, leaning back in the chair.

“Your plan was to come here and ask me out, but you didn’t plan where to take me?” I say, raising my eyebrows.

“ I've never taken you on a date. It would be our first, so I thought to let you choose where you wanna go.”

Even though we're having fun, I feel the weight of those words hit me. We are together. Married. We are mates. Still, Ruhn is right. We never had a date. The simple act of acting like a normal couple, developing our relationship like any other couple would, was taken away from us a long time ago. We had been trying to find a rhythm in our life as a couple, but with so much to resolve in our brief sigh of peace, marital plans ended up being shelved.

“And you're going to let me choose like this? Anything I want?”

Ruhn nodded firmly.

“I enjoyed my youth. You didn't. Anywhere you want to go on our first date, I'll take you.”

“Even if I choose a very expensive restaurant?” I tease him one more time.

Ruhn laughs scornfully.

“Money has never been a problem for me. But I doubt you want to go to dinner somewhere fancy.”

And he was right. Gods, sometimes I hated how well he could read me.

“And you're right, I wouldn't like it.” I ponder for a few seconds thinking about everything I've ever wanted to do in my life, but never had the opportunity. Fun. Freedom. And a childhood dream that I was never able to fulfill. “Anywhere, really?”

“Anywhere, Day”.

“Amusement park.”

Ruhn's confident face falters for a brief moment. Almost imperceptible to others, but to me it was visible.

“Any problems with the amusement park? I don't want to force you…”

“No way! I was just…surprised.”

I stare at my partner suspiciously. Ruhn was never the type to hide feelings and tastes, in fact, he was always like an open book that was even too open. Showing too much. Giving too much. Gods, he was on the verge of death, but he would run to save me even though he was mad at me, if the others hadn't stopped him. Of course I loved him even more for these attitudes. But I wouldn't want him to be uncomfortable because of me.

“Are you sure that's all?” I try to force it a little, checking if he will let anything slip.

“I am sure! Let's go before it gets crowded with noisy children.”

I smile at his overconfidence, but take his hand, leaving all the boring work behind.

***

The park is…noisy. Much noisier and crowded than I thought it would be. Despite our efforts, it was packed with a wide range of audiences. Children, family, teenage couples, elderly couples. It's a place for anyone, and everyone's so focused on having fun that they don't pay attention to us.

I squeeze Ruhn's hand tighter, afraid of losing him in the crowd. He squeezes my hand in response, offering a shy but welcoming smile.

“So, which attraction will it be?”

“Attraction?” I ask confused.

Ruhn laughs loudly.

“Do you even know how an amusement park works?”

“I never stopped to think about it.” I admit, shrugging my shoulders. “I only saw people coming here and I wanted to come one day too.”

“Well,” my mate begins to drag me across the wide space. “There are several attractions here. Some are more radical, others more calm. Most are made to get the adrenaline pumping in you. There's usually a lot of screaming, especially in the Haunted Mansion and the Haunted tunnel.”

“Haunted?”

“Yes, haunted. Like in horror movies.” amusement dances on Ruhn's lips. “You stay in a small, roofless car. Then you enter this dark, gloomy tunnel or mansion, full of scary figures, coffins, skulls, blood, people jumping at you screaming out of nowhere, it's very...chaotic. But good if you like horror.”

“We can go there, I think I'd like to! I like horror movies”

My partner looks at me as if I were a mental hospital patient.

“Come on, Night! You have a skull tattooed on your hand, don't tell me you're afraid of horror things.”

“I'm not afraid!” Ruhn defended himself. “I just...it's not my favorite spot.”

I cast one more suspicious glance in his direction as we walk through the park. I evaluate some of the attractions trying to judge which one would not be boring.

“Okay, what's your favorite ride?”

Ruhn seems to be scheming something in his mind.

“I like the Teacups.”

“Then take me there.” I encourage him to take action. For someone so brave, Ruhn seemed more fearful than usual. “I want us to have fun together, Night.”

I rub my thumb over his hand. Maybe he was nervous about it being our first date, but he takes a deep breath and smiles at me.

“Get ready then, I'm going to show you all my favorite rides to go.”

And he showed. The Teacups. A kind of chair that collapses from a frighteningly high height. The bumper cars that, although he denied it to the death, I won every time. Spinning gravity, The Rotor, Pendulum ride, he even encouraged himself to go in the haunted mansion with me and his frightened screams amused me more than anything. I have never felt so free and alive. Being able to be with my mate, without any worries, just acting like a normal woman was more than I could have asked for. Ruhn also won me a stuffed deer from one of the stuffed animal machines. I was still thinking of a name for my new creature when I felt like something was missing.

“I want to go on the roller coaster”

Ruhn doesn't show any reaction at first, but he seems to consider my request carefully.

“Are you sure about this, Day? Some roller coasters are dangerous, people vomit…”

“Oh please, Night!” I give him a quizzical look. “I've never been to one, I'm willing to do anything! Not to mention look at all the rides we've been to?! Every single one of them is dangerous, I'm sure we can face the roller coaster.”

Ruhn doesn't answer me, he just looks at me with a skeptical face and I knew he was about to give in.

“Please…” I give him my best pair of puppy eyes.

Ruhn catches me off guard and gives me a peck on the lips.

“Okay, sweetheart. Let's do this”.

I jump in celebration as we walk to the line. The queue was huge and we spent about five minutes standing around waiting until it was our turn. Ruhn was silent, making only occasional comments when I tried to talk to him. I didn't let myself be affected by his lack of words, I just held my deer plush and excitedly entered the attraction. Ruhn checked that the safety lock was truly secure about ten times and only stopped because the car started to move. At that time he grabbed my hand tightly.

“I love you.” Ruhn declared randomly.

I look at him confused

“Why?”

“Because you are brave, you saved my life, you are beautiful, you’re my mate, you….”

I start laughing hysterically.

“I meant, why did you say that out of nowhere?”

“Because if we both die here…”

Another laugh that I can't contain.

“Honey, we're not going to die! It's just a roller coaster.” I stroke his arm trying to comfort him.”

“That's what you 're saying!” Ruhn argues desperately.

“Raise your arms.”

“What?”

“Raise your arms, go!”

That's what I do, but Ruhn doesn't. When the carriage plummets at high speed, screams begin to echo and Ruhn's are the funniest. I couldn't stop laughing, I've never felt so complete. Full and sincere happiness runs through my veins and I wouldn't change anything right now. The wind whipping through the strands of my hair, the adrenaline burning in my blood, Ruhn's hand squeezing my thigh as he screams, terrified but smiling. Everything is a blur, the rise, the fall, the curves, suddenly we are upside down and before I could recover it starts again. And again and again. Happiness, freedom, fun, love for my mate who agreed to this madness for me, I experienced a real overdose of feelings in minutes, but it felt like hours until the carriage stopped and the lock released us to get up.

My breathing was labored and I still couldn't stop laughing. Ruhn, next to me, with his eyes closed, breathed deeply, trying to find the strength to stand up. My mate threw his head back and laughed loudly, slightly desperately, and it was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard. The moonlight reflected off his lower lip piercing and I leaned in to give him a kiss.

Ruhn grabs my hand and we exit the attraction as quickly as we can to let the next group on.

“That was…Insane! I never felt like this! Wow, Night, that was absolutely hysteric…’

Ruhn lets go of my hand before I finish and sticks his face in the nearest trash can, throwing up his last meal. I have to bite my lip to contain the laughter rising in my throat, but the other part of me, the protective part, rushes toward him. What a great mate I am, laughing at my mate while he spilled his stomach.

I approach Ruhn, grabbing his hair with one hand and rubbing his back with the other. It doesn't take him long to get up and wipe his mouth with the sleeve of the shirt he was wearing under his leather jacket.

“Did you have fun?” That was all Ruhn asked me when he could speak.

“It was the most fun day of my life. In truth.”

“Great. So it was worth it.” My partner speaks still breathlessly and looks at me with satisfaction in his eyes.

He was much paler than usual though.

“I think we can go home now.” Ruhn declared

“I think we can face the roller coaster one more time.”

He looks me up and down in disbelief and I can't help the smile that appears on my lips. Ruhn gives me a playful shove and starts walking toward the exit.

I run until I reach him, intertwining our hands. I try to kiss him, but Ruhn avoids my face.

“I'm not going to kiss you tasting like vomit.”

“What nonsense! I've seen you worse.”

“I can't argue with that.”

We walked in comfortable silence to our apartment. As soon as Ruhn passes through the door and takes off his boots and hangs his jacket on the wall, I grab him with my hands in his strong arms. I look deep into those violet blue eyes, noticing the confusion in them.

“I also love you because you are brave, beautiful, my mate and…”

“Fuck you Lidia!”

Ruhn shows me the middle finger in response to my mockery and I throw myself on the couch, laughing uncontrollably, while I hear him close the bathroom door.

#ruhnlidia #ruhn x lidia #lidia x ruhn #ruhn and lidia #ruhnlidia fic #crescent city #sarah j. maas #hofas #lidia cervos #ruhn danaan #fanfic #hofas spoiler #crescent city fanfic #post hofas #ruhn x the hind

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apalapucian · 1 month

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hiiiii hope you're having a good day!!

💥👀💖😈🎢 for the emoji asks, please!!

hi diana my mom who is actually also my child who i am adopting. ily i hope you're also having a grand day!!! thanks for these!!! 💖💖💖

👀 Tell me about an up and coming wip please!

AAAAHHH okay i'm putting this first so i can put the rest of the questions and answers under the cut okay. also since you've supported bad day wall so much (thank you for that, endlessly!!!), what i can say about part two is that it will cover summer and then the beginning(? so far?) of seventh year and it will have a happy ending because you and i deserve that and here's a small snippet (but again, pls, grain of salt and all that, because this is a rough draft):

—

"what happened?" james asks, concerned.

"do i look not okay?" lily asks back, not unpleasantly, just genuinely curious.

"kind of."

"how? like, in what way? because i really thought i was holding up fine."

"you're — sad contemplative."

"i have other kinds of contemplative?"

he sits beside her. "loads," he says. "you have judgey contemplative, confused contemplative, life crisis contemplative, nostalgic contemplative... all sorts."

"hmm, and you know all this because... ?"

"um, so i know when not to cross you," he says, like it's ridiculous that she doesn't know. "any wise man would."

that makes her chuckle.

"so what's up?" he nudges her lightly. "why are you sad contemplative?"

—

💥 How do you feel about criticism?

oh damn i'm a baby lol. no but — ok, so, i write for a living, among other things, and i do like my bosses/editors (we have the same writing styles and preferences and i like their work and respect them for their work ethic and command of the field and experience etc etc), so criticism/edits are a normal everyday thing by now they don't really faze me anymore. so i would say i'm okay with it generally. but when it comes to fanfic, which is my happy space and where i'm much more protective of the creative liberty it affords me (i mean, i write in lapslock for god's sake, that's like, not just an invitation for critics to take a piss, i understand it also tends to make readers not take me seriously), i am very selective about which critics and criticisms i make room for. like, i will read/listen to everything, i can't not if it's already there, but if we don't write about the same things in the same way to begin with, i will also just carry on. easily and unapologetically. not to say i don't consider critique and don't need it anymore, just that i've long been able to segregate the actually helpful ones from the ones that just. end up being noise. here's a post from inkskinned about this that i resonate with!

—

💖 What made you start writing?

stories? i don't even remember now. i was an imaginative child, i guess?? i do remember my first ever story, as in like handwritten on a pad lol, it was about this girl who pretended to be her sister because she liked her sister's boyfriend. i was nine??? idk where that came from?? i also was really fascinated with english as a language. i love good sentences. i would come across one from anywhere — a book, a news report, on energy drink packaging, from some executive's speech — and i would send them to my friends, because WAAA LOOK AT THIS SENTENCE AND HOW GOOD IT IS. WHO THINKS OF THIS. and i wanted to try making good sentences as well. so i'm still doing that lol. oh but jily fanfic — um, because of TLAT, i think. there were fics before that, but i think i really fell in love with them through that fic first, and then i fell into a deep pit of other well-written fics, both canon and AU, and found different versions of them and the whole friend group (still anchored to their canon characters/dynamics of course). then i started coming up with my own plotlines and i couldn't find them anywhere, so i started writing my own!

—

😈 Has there been a point in a story where you did something just to be playfully mean to your readers?

sirius's "dead by twenty-one" comment in bad day wall for sure :)

—

🎢 Which of your fics would you call your wildest ride?

ah, time lapse. i wrote that feverishly for weeks in the summer of 2016 and then it died down and then it picked back up and until now it's still wild. the outline keeps changing as well.

for oneshots, the storm one was also kinda wild hahahaha

thank you so much ily!!! 💖💖💖

#asks #jily #jily*#writerisms #apalapucian*

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according2thelore · 4 months

Text

2023 top five!

@preseriesdean thought it would be fun for artists/authors/creators to post their favorite five creations this year, and i agree! it can be anything: your favorite posts, fics, art, edits, fanvids, anything!

i saw some folks turning this into a tag game, so here are some tags! @deanwinchesterpregnant @dyed-red @mercette @crucifysam @weirdbrothers @togethertogethersoulmates @pookeenpie

if you end up doing it, pls tag me! i'd love to see y'all's works! :)

-lizzy

so in no particular order, here are the five fics i liked the best/am the most proud of!

considering that everything i’ve written on this account (240k words of it good lord) was published since february 23rd, i’ve got a lot to work with!

i was in the fandom back in 2012-2013 until 2016-2017, and when i rewatched it recently with some friends, i realized just how many words and feelings had been broiling since. i wrote a LOT for spn back in the day (not published, just for the pure joie de vivre), but everything on the ao3 is completely new since feb!

1. tell me, why are you still so afraid?

or, the "what do you want, sam?" fic. this one might be a surprise! it did moderately well, but i'm really happy with it! i love writing weechesters/pre-series, and i hope this fic did them justice! it hit a lot of points i liked, and i had so much fun writing it!! i'm proud of it! :)

2. you're pretty when you don't speak

or, sam's wife pov. i was shocked!!! aghast!!! frankly agog!!! at how much folks loved this one! i had the idea in the shower of all places, lmao, just the idea that wait, being sam's wife must be so lonely. it was not the usual fare (and written in second-person pov), so i was expecting it to gently and quietly flop. but no! i wrote this fic in two sittings at one a.m. the night before a paleopathology exam, so i'm shocked any of it was coherent in the morning. thank you, dear reader, if you interacted w it at all! :)

3. romans 3:10-11

ahh, romans. to other folks that write, this was one of those fics that scratched in my bones until i sat down and wrote it all out. does that sound pretentious? it was stifling; it was all i could think about. even now, i look back on it and feel like there are things that are missing, extended scenes and extra themes that i wished i had teased out. the response was overwhelming and positive and i'm so glad you lot liked it! if you ever want more...idk...lemme know...

4. we didn't get it right, but love we did our best

or, the Heaven fic! this one took awhile to make, and a lot out of me to do! it's the longest fic i've made this year, by a lot! the planning process was a lot of fun (even though charlotte was mostly asleep), and i even colour-coded themes and turning points i wanted to include. the sense of accomplishment when it was done was a great part of this year!

5. there's no such thing as a clean break, when your heart starts bleeding out

or, the stanford!era fic where dean bleeds out on the highway and decides to not tell sam about it. one of my favorite things to write is a character getting more and more out of it as they lose control (or blood), and this one was a fun challenge! i love stanford!era dean, because he's so mangled and angry and sad. i feel like that one tweet that william shatner posted where he said ELECTROCUTE HIM!!! this also feels the most like the things i wrote back in 2014, so it brings nostalgia :,)

this was WAY harder than i thought! i loved and was so proud of so much of my work this year! a top ten would be easier, but i'm happy with this list!

thank YOU for reading! :)

we are holding hands now and there's nothing you can do to stop it. y'all keep this up and we might even have to stare lovingly into each other's eyes.

#spn fanfic #spn fic #sam and dean #samdean #wincest fanfiction #wincest #wincest wednesday #2023 top five list #tag game

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bratshaws · 10 months

Text

through the hourglass 175. brb x oc

a/n: im posting early cause my connection is oscillating like a mf and i can't risk it! Also, no rooster...and well,I'm gonna try something new next chapter so wish me luck??? (comments and reblogs are super welcome and encouraged!! they make my nights they really do<3)

pairing: plus size!oc x rooster

warnings: slight angst???

goodness gracious (pls read this one to know more what this fic is about!!)

chapter

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Beatrice was having fun, honestly knowing she wouldn’t be able to work for a few months this was more than welcome.

She was also enjoying the snacks, what were they? She brings one close to her eyes while she chews the very same thing, Nicole looking up at her in question, “...I think…this has pepperoni, hmmm,it’s so good.” she is sitting in the shade, right next to Evelyn’s seat but she’s busy talking to her relatives right now.

Nicole tries to reach for her mother’s hand, trying to snag a bite “Okay, here,” she shoves her finger inside before pulling out a piece of cheese, small enough for Nicole to chew on it. She’s careful while doing so, but Nicole has proven she’s a Schiavoni because she adores cheese, “Nice,right? Hold on,Shells- oh.” the blonde comes back with a cheese platter, holding it up to Beatrice’s face “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” and she shoves another snack into her mouth, ‘Hm, this is so good. Evelyn is great with party foods.” she sits down next to Beatrice and Nicole, flicking her eyes when she sees the phone resting on Beatrice’s thigh, “You talked to Rooster?’

“I sent him a message, since we know that Ev will have a boy,I thought he’d like to know about that.” she smiles, “And because Hangman wouldn’t shut up about it, so.”

“Of course.” Shells mutters as she chews “Fuckin’ weird.”

“What?”

The blonde shrugs while crossing her legs by the knee, “I don’t know, you two are with kids, married - well, Ev will get married when Jake comes back,I think…and I don’t know, it feels like a lot more time passed than just four years.” she chuckles, “I mean, the second you and Rooster met, it was like this whole spiral of new shit came along too, not that I’m complaining,after all I got Bob. But…you know, it started with the two of you.”

Beatrice smiles, nodding in agreement. "You're right, it does feel like a lot has happened in such a short amount of time. Meeting Rooster definitely brought a whirlwind of change into my life, and I never expected to end up where I am now. But I wouldn't trade it for anything."

She takes a moment to reflect on their journey, her eyes softening with fondness. "From that first encounter in the bar…everything just fell into place. It was meant to be." Shels clears her throat quiet loudly, arching her brows so the brunette continues, “...and yes, you helped, a lot.”

“Thank you.I sure did. Because if I didn’t make you move, you’d both die pining one another.” she shakes her head as she leans back on her seat, “And hey, I just gave the first push, you did everything else and hooked him in.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes but she was grateful for Shells' bluntness. "You did give us that push, and I'll always be thankful for that.” ‘you are welcome’ Shells says, dipping her head forward “Sometimes, all it takes is a little nudge to set things in motion."

Nicole, who has been quietly snacking on another piece of cheese, looks up at Shells and Beatrice with an innocent expression. "Mama dada?” she questions as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, making Beatrice smile and kiss her temple.

“Yes,mama and dada.”

“That kid is going to be a menace when she’s older.”

“Hey,’ Bea narrows her eyes playfully, “It’s my daughter, excuse me?”

“She’s already talking, she's going to learn how to get your car keys at eleven. Just you wait.”

Beatrice blinked, staring at Shells as the party continued around them, “...did you steal a car at eleven?” Shells doesn’t reply, but she does drink her non-alcoholic punch while looking away. Honestly there were things in Shells’ life that Beatrice decides it’d be better to wonder than to think about. As she was about to question her again, she saw Evelyn approaching with a glass of water in her hand, “Hey, are you done socializing?”

“For now.” she sighs, flopping in the seat that’s between the two women, leaning back and kicking her shoes off, ‘Jesus, I can’t remember who was the last person I talked to. And they are all family.”

"Well, it's a big family gathering, Ev. It's hard to keep track of everyone. But hey, at least you got a break from the relatives for a moment. I know how bad it was when they found out about Nikki.”

“Aa!”

Evelyn takes a long sip of her water and lets out a content sigh. "True, true. As much as I love them, it can be a bit overwhelming at times.” she looks over to where her uncle Tom was, currently trying to show her younger cousins - and Jake’s young relatives- how to throw a baseball over the fence, “Mom!Uncle Tom has a baseball!”

Vivian’s smile drops, “He what-THOMAS! WHERE DID YOU GET THAT!”

The three of them just watch as Evelyn’s mother walks over to her brother and yanks it out of his hand, “...where did he get that anyway?” Bea asks quietly, “Did he bring it with him?”

“Most likely.” Evelyn mutters, “His favorite story is how he almost went to the big leagues but he chose to get married instead. Which my aunt say never happened. He is a lawyer through and through. Runs in the family.” she explains, “On my mom’s side at least…anyway are you okay?”

Beatrice looks up from Nicole to meet Evelyn’s brown eyes “Me?” her friend nods while still drinking water, “I’m okay! Why are you asking?”

“Because while we are both pregnant you are the one carrying two and a baby.” she smiles down at Nicole who just babbles something in reply, “You need anything? A better chair? Something comfier?”

“Oh,no,no,I’m fine.” Beatrice smiles, “Honestly I’m okay. This party is really helping me get my mind at ease, Rooster’s deployment has been a bit hard lately but…you know,” she plays with Nicole’s hand for a few seconds as her daughter enjoys her tiny piece of cheese before she looks ahead, ‘It’s manageable. I just want him to come back safe and it’s been only a few weeks apart?” she didn’t want to explain how anxious she was feeling even before the deployment, they didn’t need to worry about her like that.

Evelyn reaches out and places a comforting hand on Beatrice's arm, patting it twice. "I understand, Bea. Deployments are always tough,and honestly I’ve been feeling kinda iffy about Jake too." she mutters, ‘Mainly because he’s not here to know that the baby pumpkin will be a boy…well, as long as they decide to be, but I wish he was here.”

“How have you been handling it?”

Evelyn’s laugh is dry and a bit humorless, “Well…you know, this really helped. I was angry about changing the dates but I think it was better if I did this.” she smiles at a few family members, especially from Jake’s side, before letting her smile drop, “I do think we’ve been going good. Even my dad is helping.” she waves at her father, who smiles and waves back, before turning his attention to his brothers-in-law, “I know he’s been trying to…be more present. He’s going to be a grandpa now…speaking of which, how did your family react when you told them about the twins?”

“Yeah!” Shells says, “You never told us!”

Beatrice inhales softly, her mouth parting as she’s violently reminded of that day. She wanted to wait until her father was out of the hospital, and her siblings were all at home with them…she did fear making her father feel worse but it wasn’t that bad.

Well…

“...my mom fainted.” she mutters, ‘Um…Sabrina fainted,Leonardo fainted.” she frowns a bit, chewing her lower lip “But e-everyone else took really nicely and um, once my mom recovered she cried. A lot. A whole lot, oh wow she cried even more than in my wedding! Hah…um…” she does think it was a lot more dramatic than what she was telling her friends, but she was too traumatized to say it outloud.

Evelyn's eyes widen in surprise as Beatrice recounts her family's reaction. "Wow, that sounds intense. I mean, I knew having twins would be a big deal, but fainting and crying? That's... quite the response."

Shells leans forward, her curiosity piqued. "What about your dad? How did he take the news?"

Beatrice's expression softens as she thinks about her father's reaction. "Well, my dad wasn’t in the hospital at the time, which made it a lot easier. When I told him about the twins, his eyes filled with tears, and he just hugged me tightly. He kept saying how happy he was. It was such a beautiful moment… and my mom cried again. She cried um…a lot."

Evelyn smiles warmly, holding her head up with a hand and propping her elbow on her knee. "I met your mom, she's just really emotional when it comes to these things. And I’m glad your dad was happy too…and your siblings?"

“Oh they are all the same. Except Michael,I think he knew from the spot.” she shrugged, leaning back on her seat and holding Nicole on her chest, being mindful of her growing bump, “It was…nice? They are checking on me too,and I forgot to tell Roos about it damn.”

“Dam!”

“W-no! Nikki that’s a bad word!” Beatrice’s panicked stare was only broken when her daughter covered her mouth to giggle, “Oh god,I can’t even imagine once she starts repeating Rooster’s words.” she sighs, looking down at her diaper “I need to change her,” she’s already standing up and stares at Evelyn because she has no idea where the bathroom is at her parents’ house, “Ev, can you um–”

“No worries.” her friend stands up with a grunt, squinting her eyes while setting her empty glass aside, “Follow me.”

Evelyn leads the way, guiding Beatrice through the bustling party towards the bathroom. It does take a while to get there since some of the party goers now paid attention to Beatrice and Nicole. Nikki, of course, loved the attention and just cooed and gurgled at everyone who smiled at her. Luckily it doesn’t take long for them to leave the commotion, with Beatrice following closely behind, cradling Nicole in her arms and grateful for Evelyn's assistance.

As they walk, Evelyn looks over her shoulder and smiles reassuringly at Beatrice. "Does she need anything?"

Beatrice returns the smile, feeling a sense of relief wash over her, shaking her head. "Thank you, Ev.But no, I got everything in here." she lifts the shoulder that holds the bag strap, “I just need a clean space to do it.”

Evelyn reaches the bathroom door and holds it open for Beatrice. "Alright,I might stay here…I kinda need a break for everyone else if that’s okay?"

Beatrice nods understandingly. "Of course, Ev. Take all the time you need.It won’t be a bother."

Evelyn smiles gratefully and steps aside, letting Beatrice enter the bathroom with Nicole in her arms. "Thanks, Bea. I'll be right outside if you need anything. Just give me a shout."

With that, Evelyn closes the door behind Beatrice, leaving her to tend to Nicole in privacy. Beatrice finds a clean, spacious area to lay down a changing mat and gently places Nicole on it. She takes a moment to take a deep breath, appreciating the quietness of the bathroom compared to the lively party outside. Not that she’s complaining, I mean, she could handle her own family, but with her mind going so fast it was better to focus.

As she carefully removes Nicole's diaper and begins the process of changing her, Beatrice reflects on the events of the day. It's been a good day so far, she talked to Rooster and now she’s enjoying a party! It could be much worse.

Nicole babbles happily, seemingly unaware of the commotion happening beyond the bathroom door. Beatrice smiles at her daughter, taking her time, ensuring that Nicole is clean and comfortable before carefully securing a fresh diaper in place. Nicole babbles some more, kicking her little legs so much Beatrice has to hold one of them, “Nikki, just let me fix your skirt at least.”

Rebellion.

Nicole just moved her legs even more,giggling and loving how her mother’s face went from calm to exasperatedly amused until she couldn’t help but laugh, “You, are terrible.” and she tickles the baby’s tummy, “You are just like your father. You two have a way to making me laugh and forget every bad thing that goes on in my brain.” she whispers, knowing Evelyn was right outside.

Beatrice’s smile drops and she sighs, the anxiety was still there, gnawing at her spine, whispering things she didn’t want to hear nor think about. “It’s fine. It’s all fine.” she whispers, closing her eyes and clenching her jaw, quickly meeting her reflection and smiling - the best she could- “It’s all good. I talked to him today so it’s fine…anyway.”

Beatrice scoops Nicole up into her arms, cradling her close, burying her nose in her daughter’s hair and closing her eyes again, “It’s fine.” she bounces on the spot a bit, trying to get rid of the nerves, “God,it’s fine. Why am I like this?”. She pulls back and takes a moment to admire her daughter's tiny features, feeling a surge of love and protectiveness wash over her. "You're such a precious little girl, Nicole.” her daughter blinks up at her, “Yes you are.” she feels the sting of tears but holds it back the best way that she can.

As Beatrice holds Nicole in her arms, she finds solace in the unconditional love that emanates from her daughter. Nicole's innocent gaze and infectious smile bring a sense of joy and peace to Beatrice's heart, even in moments of doubt and anxiety.

Like right now.

Gently swaying back and forth, Beatrice takes a deep breath, willing herself to find calm amidst the storm of emotions. She reminds herself that she has a support system in place, both with Rooster and her friends like Evelyn and Shells, who are there for her during this challenging time. “Oh boy, okay.” she turns on her heel to walk out of the bathroom, once she feels she’s okay enough and meets Evelyn there.

Her friend was leaning against the wall, this time with her arms crossed and eyes distant, “Um,Ev?” she snaps the tall woman out of her thoughts because she physically jumped, “Sorry,I uh,we’re finished.”

Evelyn blinks, momentarily caught off guard by Beatrice's voice. She quickly regains her composure and pushes herself away from the wall, offering Beatrice a warm smile. "Oh, sorry about that. Lost in my thoughts for a moment. How's everything with Nicole?"

Beatrice returns the smile, her own expression a bit confused. "She's doing great. Just a little rebel, this one." She holds Nicole up for Evelyn to see, who immediately breaks into a grin while kicking her small legs, “Look at that.”.

"She takes after her parents, I see," Evelyn chuckles. "Well, I'm glad everything went smoothly. Are you feeling alright?"

Beatrice nods, her voice steady but her eyes are still on Nicole and she takes the time to adjust the bag strap on her shoulder "Anxiety acting up, nothing more."

“...can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, sure!”

Evelyn chews the inside of her cheek, going back to crossing her arms, “...how do you feel about this deployment?” she questions quietly, “I want to ask Shells but you know how she’ll be,” and she makes a movement with her hand, something akin to ‘what the hell’ and rolling her eyes, “She won’t give me a straight answer…but you will. I am anxious as well,Bea…and I’ve handled deployment a lot.” she flicks her gaze to Cyclone’s picture on the wall, the crisp white uniform appearing even brighter under the light, “But this one…I don’t know, something feels off.”

And Beatrice hated it because it feels like it.

“Listen,ugh,’ Evelyn rubbed the bridge of her nose, “Sorry, sorry,I don’t want to add to it. I’m just…I don’t have anyone to share my worries with. My mom…she’s more used to it than I am but–” and Evelyn goes back to leaning on the wall, this time Beatrice joins her, with Nicole still babbling happily with her head on Bea’s shoulder, “...feels off doesn’t it?”

She didn’t want to admit it, “...it does.”

“They’ll be okay.”

“I know. They will.”

‘Then why,” Evelyn begins, throwing her hands up, “Why are we nervous like this?”

“Well,I don’t know about you but my anxiety never really left…I think it’s worse because of the pregnancy.” she suggests, clearly not knowing it either, “But…we are still talking to them, you know? And…and knowing more about what’s been going on, within the rules of course, so…maybe it’s the hormones.”

“...makes sense.”

“Yeah! They are good at what they do.” Was she really comforting Evelyn and not vice-versa? Is this an alternative universe??? “And I know they’ll be okay…especially now.” she inhales softly, then shakes her head, “Anyway, let’s go back to the party, yeah?I’m sure your family is worried sick about you now.” she places a hand on Evelyn’s shoulder, this time leading her back instead. “I think we’ll both need this more than we know”

She does wait for Evelyn to walk out first, taking a few minutes to breathe and close her eyes, only opening when she feels good enough. She knows they’ll be alright, but she doesn’t really mind when she pulls out her phone to write him a message.

I love you. I know you’ll do good. Stay safe Roos.

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