#also i have a stupid compulsion to make as much money as i can in video games if given the option

[jacevelaryonswife]

► Modern Headcanons | 「AU」

pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon | Aegon Targaryen | Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader (the famous big three).

a/n: This is situated in college and I hope you all like it. English is not my first language, sorry for any mistakes.

warnings: mentions of alchool, drunking and sex.

Modern headcanons masterlist

— Aegon ↺

We must begin with Aegon. The dude changes of graduations like he's changing clothes. He never knew what field to choose, he never had a big dream to fulfill or an aspiration to something — perhaps because his family was flying in money.

In high school he was the typical popular boy who part of the team and dated one cheerleader a month, in college it's no different.

He's a fuckboy, living in a frat (even though he doesn't have to) and throwing a thousand parties. He loves all girls, but freshmen, exchange students or super smart girls get his special attention. And some boys.

When I said that he changes courses like he changes clothes, I wasn't exaggerating.

First he tried physical education (why? He don't know), then computing at Luke's insistence (lots of numbers, he fucking hated it), then he tried law (WHY DOES A BOOK HAVE 800 PAGES?), he considered international relations and end tourism.

He wanted to do an exchange, but Alicent forbade it until he settled on something.

He just wanted to be an heir :(

He would probably meet you at a party and flirt compulsively. He wouldn't rest until he had your number, or kissed you, or better yet, performed obscenities in his room.

Eventually he would rent an apartment to have more privacy for his one night fucks.

Aegon would try to steal Jace's girls — why not?

He's used every drug you can imagine.

He would wake up drunk in the middle of campus.

He's a himbo.

— Aemond ↺

You know that handsome and mysterious guy that you would definitely have a crush on? Well, it's probably Aemond.

Among the areas he could choose, in addition to history and philosophy, I see physics or some impeccable academic career.

Unlike Aegon, the opportunity to run the family business would eventually excite him, so studying business administration is also a high possibility for our boy.

He would attend the best colleges.

He's intimidating at first sight and likes to do things alone, which makes you reluctant to try to get close.

But damn, he's super charming and seems to give off attractive pheromones and you can't pay attention to anything but him.

It's like Edward — you thought he was a vampire too.

He is super stylish and has an impossible presence to divert attention.

He would NEVER live in a frat. The idea of ​​sharing a house with other guys his age is a nightmare. Seven Hells, he thinks he'd throw up at the smell of alcohol, drugs, and bed sheets after sex. Fucking gross.

He would rent an apartment close to university and other things that can enrich his routine.

He goes to some parties (not like Aegon) but getting drunk is not an option.

Maybe he'd try marijuana at a certain point, just to prove it.

He would always be with a book or phone in hand, or just contemplating the environment.

You'd meet him at some party or the library or any other part of college.

He was the best kiss you've had in years.

He makes you feel stupid with his intelligence and eloquence, even if he doesn't mean to. When you tell him you feel inferior, he'd take your hand and grope your face and say there's nothing that makes you any less than him.

— Jace ↺

I confess that choosing an area for Jace was the HARDEST thing about this headcanon, so he was the last.

I see him as a sports guy, but it would hardly go from a hobby. He could do business administration like Aemond to take care of the family business, but I also see him doing architecture. (If you have another option please enlighten me).

He would be a frat boy, BUT, with BIG caveats. He would be the boys' dad, guiding them not to drink too much, use illicit drugs and not take girls to his room (the latter mainly).

He's all sweet, kind, and protective with girls, unlike most frat boys.

He loves parties but tends to stay sober at most of them (sometimes he allows himself to get so fucking crazy and he turns cute and red when he's drunk).

He would smoke marijuana a few times and would definitely be a smiling high. Afterwards he would feel a little guilty.

You would also meet him at some party and be suspicious of him. Respectful, sweet and handsome? Just one low blow to get into your pants.

However, he's kind of hard to resist and by the end of the night he has your number and Instagram. Maybe even an excited kiss.

He's such a great kisser, it's so fucking unfair.

He would take you to a candy store or anywhere you want to go. Totally a good boy who treats you like a queen.

He would try to hide you from Aegon's clutches at family meetings.

#jacaerys velaryon x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aegon targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon headcanons #headcanons #aegon targaryen headcanons #aemond targaryen headcanons #modern hotd #modern aemond #modern jace #modern aegon

[dollsonmain]

I deleted most of the posts about yesterday because I noticed I was kind of in a panic and wasn't being kind at all (I usually keep that kind of thing to my whining blog), but I'll make one post (this is a compulsion to be accountable, it's not like I think anyone needs to hear this), and get all of it in one place.

Yes, this is about the door sweep, but it's also about living with That Guy.

So the door sweep shredded and needed replaced. At some point it got to where it was difficult to close the door, too. I thought that was because of the door sweep, but now I'm thinking it was because the frame piece that the hinges are screwed into is cracking.

I did some measurements as well as I could, ordered a new sweep online, and it doesn't fit. Not only does it overlap the kickplate on the door, but there is too much material in the flaps on the bottom to fit into the gap.

We had to take the door down to remove the old sweep, destroying it in the process. I told That Guy how to take the door down without stripping the hinge screws and he said that was stupid, we would unscrew the hinges instead.

I did get a little validation when the instructions for the door sweeps all said to remove the pins instead of unscrewing the hinges

That Guy won't permit the kick plate being removed and that area being painted over, so that sweep can't be used there at all and will be taken down to the basement where we can use it.

He also can't handle when things don't go exactly his way the first time every time, so he was throwing a tantrum the whole time, which is the opposite of helping.

We ran to the store to get another sweep, taking the old one with us. I compared it to the ones there, showed him, picked one, and we brought it home.

At this point he's tantruming about spending money. He does that. HE has spent $10 so far.

Part of his tantruming is pedantry and deliberately being obtuse about how people are talking. Like, if I say "Let's try putting the old one back on." even though we've been discussing and fighting with door sweeps all day, he sneers and asks THE.OLD.WHAT. It's a problem I've had with him for a long time and a way he tries to enforce control when he's having an anxiety spike because things aren't going his way. I call it The Script.

The door wouldn't close with that one on, either. I was convinced it would fit but with closer inspection discovered that the flanges for the kerf channels on the old sweep were 1in apart and on the new one was 7/8in. 7/8in is the current standard (our house is over 20 years old), so most listings online don't even note that measurement.

With the flanges being in the wrong place, the sweep can't be installed flush with the door, and the door can't close.

All this time, I did NOT want That Guy "helping" because every time he "helps" it goes the same. He makes a 20 minute job take hours on end. But I couldn't get the heavy door up and down myself.

He also says everything I research and everything I KNOW is wrong and stupid, and that's infuriating. That treatment by him makes it really hard for me to keep being kind about his anxiety about change and I do often fail to keep it up.

At one point he tried to force the door closed with the second sweep, causing the board the hinges screw into to crack more.

We've had to take the door off and on a few times, and that proved to him that he's gotten physically weak, which pissed him off, which exacerbated the tantrum.

He's decided it's my fault that the hinge screws are now loose.

Either way, right now there is no sweep on the front door and it's periodically popping loudly now and then.

Now.

The real reason I wanted to make this post, the whole accountability compulsion, is to say that yeah, I'm the reason there's no sweep on the front door right now.

I'm aware that I tend to scramble to not take the blame when something happens. That Guy has a habit of blaming me for literally everything that happens even when he's the only one involved. It's always my fault somehow.

However, I have no problem admitting when I was actually wrong.

I also have no problem admitting that I am destructive. Often, me fixing something involves a lot of destruction, first. I have destroyed things in an attempt to fix them.

I saw the problem, took some measurements, didn't get all of those measurements right because I didn't know there were two more measurements than I had taken that were needed.

Yes, I looked it up. No, the places I looked didn't mention those measurements for some reason (the size of the gap, which is really important, and the spacing between the flanges because I didn't eve know how this thing was attached before taking the door down), likely because they were all assuming the doors people were researching for were in the current standard, until I found that video later by the older man

which also re-validated me saying that to take the door down the hinge pins should be removed but proof doesn't matter with a narcissist.

I plowed ahead because if you ask That Guy to change anything, even if it's to change something on the house that's falling apart, if it costs any money he says no so I have to just do things without asking or including him in the process to keep the house in one piece.

I did measure insufficiently, and I did destroy the old sweep removing it (though that tends to happen when an old kerf sweep is removed).

I do not take the blame for the door hinge screws being loose. If we had taken the door down the way I said to instead of the way That Guy decided is right while knowing literally nothing about construction, the screws wouldn't have been touched. If the board they are screwed into hadn't already been cracked, they wouldn't be loose. He decided it's my fault for using too much torque on our very low-powered electric drill, when I didn't use nearly as much force as a construction worker does, it's a low-powered drill, and I would have used a manual screwdriver but he decided we'd use the electric and he unscrewed it the first time.

So. I will take the blame when it is mine but I will go to great lengths to not take it when it isn't because I've been blamed for literally everything wrong whether it's my fault or not for so long and I'm tired of it.

[chi-ow-hua]

tw: intrusive thoughts, compulsion stuff (but like, mental health, not magic), ableism, mentions of drugs and addiction

Will, as most of the people who bother to unmask his easygoing persona will gladly tell you, is a bit of a control freak.

He doesn't actually know what drugs feel like. He knows Michael used to smoke weed with the Stolls sometimes. "Only way to deal with all these suicidal fuckheads" he'd grumble when Will glared at him in disapproval. But that was always away from the rest of camp and also not a very regular occurence. Will knows that because he started secretly going through Michael's dirty laundry after he caught him the first time, and Mike was always very bad at hiding the smell. (He managed to hold himself back from doing the same for the Stolls, though. He can justify it to himself if it's his own siblings; but elder teens from another cabin he barely talks to? That would just be deranged behavior.)

Will has never partaken in hard drugs or known someone who does. He has never experienced addiction, or met anyone suffering from one. Not as far as he knows, anyways. He can reluctantly admit that his paranoia regarding addiction probably borders on irrational. He knows a huge number of campers were not very happy at the abrupt decline of drugs and medication in the infirmary after the mantle of head medic got thrust upon him - including his own siblings, who know he would rather spend more energy than necessary on his healing than just sucking it up and prescribing some fucking advil.

But he looks at the neatly labeled opioids and over-the-counter drugs and all he can think about is schizophrenia and apoplexy and overdosing. Besides, Chiron seemed very happy with Will's new policy. "It will save us so much money" he'd muttered in utter delight, and Will realized he'd never thought much about how camp financed itself. He'd assumed the gods just... created money. Or something. But he should've figured that anything even resembling child support would have them hightailing in the opposite direction.

The drugs are locked away in a cabinet. Will used to have the only key. Upon severe complaints from his cabin and multiple attempted heists, he reluctantly gave Chiron the backup. He tries not to think about Austin's disappointment when he refused to give it to him. It had been a silent plea for trust, and Will is ashamed to say that he can't. Not when it comes to this.

Will knows that his siblings would never do anything. They are reliable and responsible and have endured too many lectures to ever be this stupid. He knows very well that they would never abuse of the cabinet, because he actively reminds himself of that fact every time he sees Kayla pale and trembling and with vomit stains on her camp shirt or Gracie so gaunt you can count every single one of her tiny ribs. Images that are not real and could never be real because they are all smart and responsible and reliable and would never abuse of the cabinet.

He still doesn't give them a key, though.

For all that will can't stop thinking about morphine and oxycodone and hydrocodone, he doesn't feel any desire to try them. The problem isn't him. It's the others. Because they hear the words but they don't know them. Not like Will does. They don't understand it, don't see the risks, don't feel the symptoms, don't see their siblings. Will knows better, and it is his duty as head medic to protect them. "i will give no deadly medicine to any one if asked, nor suggest any such counsel". Will tried to make the rest of his cabin learn the hippocratic oath too, but was severely outlaughed and outvoted. "You aren't even old enough to go to uni", as if that made a difference. Maybe Will isn't a doctor in the traditional sense, but he is the closest thing camp has.

Everyone can get caught up in an addiction, Will knows that all too well. Especially if you think that you are immune somehow, stronger than your own biology. No one is. Will knows that. Just as he knows that he will not become an addict because he knows better and has never once used the key always hanging around his neck. Another pearl, another year without an overdose. Maybe he is a control freak, maybe it would make things easier for everyone involved, maybe he knows that there must be something wrong with him, but maybe he is also saving his fellow campers lives. Maybe doing anything else would rob him his sleep, even more than it already does. "Its patronizing", Kayla said quietly. She is always loud, except when she is really angry. But maybe there is nothing wrong with his urge to protect. Why should she know better than him, anyways?!

The acetone and disinfectant are locked in a different cabinet. Everyone has a key for that one, because they are always in demand. "Why", tired and confused and annoyed and not actually expecting an answer. "There's a precedent" had been his non-answer, doing exactly as they'd known he would. Will can only use the disinfectant that is already in the dispenser. He threw his own key into the lake, one of the times he'd volunteered to care for their overnight patients on his own. (He knows he has the only key besides chiron, but it's better to be safe than sorry.) The patients were sleeping. The key had been on his necklace, tinkling along with the other, and then the bottle of desinfectant had been in his hand. He'd managed to put it back. Then he had run towards the shore before he could change his mind. He felt the splash in his bones, imagined it sinking into the depths of the lake. Hoped it stayed gone forever while simultaneously having to hold himself back from jumping in after it. Will couldn't become addicted, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

There was no reasonable way to lock away the soap in the bathroom. That was okay, though. He was used to staring, and most of the time he managed to wash the foam down the drain.

Will is in Nico's cabin, waiting for the other to return from the arena. He knows it's a privilege. Nico doesn't like his cabin. Nico really doesn't like people being in his cabin, especially without him. He keeps threatening to reform and redecorate, but always finds an excuse not to go through with it in the end. Will is starting to think that that is by design. It makes him a bit sad to think about. Of course Nico would also have his idiosyncrasies, being a child of the big three, but it's still painful. He wishes he could do something to make it better. Will still looks forward to their potential ikea trip whenever Nico mentions it.

Nico trusts Will. Or at least he hasn't invited anyone else to hang out in his cabin besides Reyna, Jason and his sister, which has to count for something. He stares at the pile of laundry - all black, except for one obnoxious yellow sweater he'd stolen from Will. Will hadn't asked for it back, even though it was soft and comforting and had been a gift to him from his mom. He'd always taken it off before performing any medical procedures - something he stopped bothering with for the rest of his clothes - meaning it was miraculously blood-free. He remembers being a bit surprised when Nico had clung onto this one, out of everything. Normally he tended towards the goriest ones. Said the stains were necessary in order not to clash with his aesthetic.

Nico prefers to keep to himself, values his personal space and his privacy. But Will looks and can't stop staring. Deranged, he remembers thinking. He'd barely been able to justify it when doing it to his brother. Doing it to anyone else would be-. Especially to Nico. Nico, who trusted him to stay alone in his cabin. Nico, who was one of the few campers to never ask for something to relieve the pain. Werewolf scratches were known to be particularly painful. Why had he never asked? (wouldn't he be doing him a favor? "into whatever houses i enter, i will go into them for the benefit of the sick")

Will, as most of the people who bother to unmask his easygoing persona will gladly tell you, is a bit of a control freak. He tries to tell himself that it isn't wrong. Tries to convince himself that it is, that there is nothing he could say or think that could justify it. Deranged. Will thinks he hears steps approaching and launches himself onto Nico's bed, where he'd been sitting before. The laundry pile - in even more disarray than before - glares disapprovingly. Only way to deal with it, he says. I'm doing it for nico, he begs to himself. Then why are you trying to hide it, his mind answers. Will tries to look away from the pile, but can't stop his eyes from glancing back.

"I'm gonna shower real quick, okay?" Nico, opening the door. "Have fun", Will answers, actively not looking at the laundry. And then, because he loves the nonsensical shot of adrenaline and superiority it gives him, "I see you found my sweater. You know, the one that mysteriously disappeared last week."

He holds his breath. Will doesn't know what he was expecting, but Nico doesn't deliver. Barely even glances at the pile. "I was literally wearing it yesterday, Solace. I know you know it. You were there." And then he rolls his eyes and disappears behind the bathroom door. And Will suppresses the urge to follow him inside and eat his soap.

#how do you even tag this #there is definitely some compulsion and intrusive thoughts going on here #not superiority complex not inferiority complex but a secret third thing #and anxiety. definitely some of that too. #tw drugs #tw ableism #let me know if there is anything important i forgot to tag? #does drinking disinfectant count as sh?? #will solace #solangelo #this was supposed to be about SAD??? #not main tagging nico cuz dude barely even appears

[collegeoflore]

6 + 7 for Xarrai and Ieriyn from the ask meme you reblogged?

hiii anon thank you 💖

6. How easily could your OC be convinced to do something that goes against their moral compass?

xarrai:

idk man astarion works pretty fucking hard to do this and it does not work LOL the thing about xarrai is that they barely have a moral compass at all and so what little they DO have they are incredibly dedicated to. like the only real moral they have to speak of is Tyranny Is Bad - though like, there's wiggle room there (in their opinion). at what point does something become tyranny? how much power is too much? i feel like they're constantly living in that grey area honestly so it may not be as hard to get them to do something against their morals if you kind of treated it like the frog in the boiling water analogy. like what astarion did (offered to share the power of the vampire ascendant with them) would not work because they can go "hm no that sounds like tyranny. hard pass." (tho he was also lying and they knew that) but if someone were to, say, encourage them to take power slowly and carefully by winning people over one by one and systematically ruining their lives to keep them in line, you may be able to get them a few ruined politicians deep before they were like "hey wait a minute...."

i rly need to expand on the weird mind games they've been playing with the elites of the upper city for the last 15 years to make this answer make any amount of sense tbh but that is its own can of worms. essentially for them the line between tyranny and simple control/influence is very thin and always moving and they are always always always right up against it out of some sort of baked in compulsion to seek safety in power whether they use that power or not.

ieriyn:

ieriyn has already crossed that line. killing people at all period was against his moral compass. BUT that wasn't him being convinced so much as him seeing the reality of the situation this whole tadpole business has put him in which i think is kinda different. and see the thing about ieriyn is he's not stupid but he is trusting and the right person probably could convince him of a lot. i'm cooking up some sort of plot wrt to his lifelong mentor manipulating him into. something (undecided what yet) that's going to play into the personal quest i'm giving him (bc i'm unwell and need all my tavs to have their own special personal quests) but that's like the exact thing i'm talking about - ieriyn trusts easy and he trusts deeply and while he does have a strong moral compass he also has a deep need to please the people he cares for that makes critical thinking harder for him sometimes.

7. What's one way your OC has changed since you first came up with them?

xarrai:

well when i made xarrai they were just some dude. they were just a stoner bard who moonlighted as an expensive fssw and that was... it. lol. they didn't give a shit about much of anything (still kind of true, though they have Some Things They Give A Shit About now) and absolutely didn't want to be any sort of leader. and now they're. well. an ex-banite cultist with a shitload of childhood trauma and an abstract sense of self trying to navigate cycles of abuse and trauma AND a stoner bard who moonlights as an expensive fssw.

ieriyn:

i initially planned to multiclass him into a warlock with the idea that he made this pact Very Recently to try to wrest power/inheritance money away from his older siblings but that seemed 1. too power hungry and i already have xarrai and their weird relationship to power and 2. too cool. ieriyn needed to be a little cringe. he needed to be a boyfailure. he was also originally meant to be part of a co-op campaign with my partner for their spawn astarion romance run (they r doing an ascended run rn) but i just didn't think his arc would work as well if he had to share responsibility like that because, again, i wanted him to be kind of a failure esp early game and the tav ramza has planned for their astarion romance is actually competent and i didn't want to bog him down with my sweet sweet fail son.

#oc. xarrai #oc. ieriyn #漫言 #xar has changed SO much bc i went into the game completely blind with them #and just sorta. built them as i went. #i rly like the way it’s worked out so far tho :3c

[hardpacker]

i finished a big project i was working on. ("Finished"... i want to add to it as a forever-WIP, but it's also complete.) reading queer theory is one thing and is in a way useful, but being able to find and peruse firsthand accounts of real run of the mill people through their ephemera is pretty soothing. it is mournful in many ways, too. i really do try to avoid thinking things like "i'm past expiry" or "maybe my work will outlast me" and this project put that to the test for sure. it's easy to look at the most formative things of my life and, with them gone, feel lost. if those touchpoints become more and more removed, and all that's left is the curated memory of a curated memory... i guess i worry about even losing language.

when i look at this-- no. that's not right. when i indulge myself with time to look and build something that has a slightly more complex (aka worth 0 dollars) metric for value, i feel very guilty. the guilt makes it feel all the more like a compulsion i can't curb. I'M not even adept at judging its value. or advertising it as having value, in words that signal the right meaning. i'm still thinking of myself as having the skills and the speed of an earlier time in my life and if i don't have a Product every few days i feel like irredeemable shit. it's all about product. representing that product. being the person expected to have made it.

i tiptoe around my own person, feeling like i need to settle on One Thing instead of embracing all of me-- because what if i lose money off my many facets, or somehow even fucking stupider, what if i lose respect? you're never gonna have context for everything. i don't even have it. entire chunks of what feels like multiple lifetimes are all gone, no keepsakes, not by choice. i'm jealous of permanence, to readily have whatever proof is expected. permanence sounds like family, chosen or otherwise. choice itself, selecting the best from multiple options instead of only having one. being able to remember. having something to remember. being remembered.

there are many specific archives for printed/physical material, so i wanted to focus on the digital because it's so easy to lose. not that physical items aren't also, but once one has them, losing them is a little harder. without a way to Have a webpage, corporations can just pull a plug and it's gone. i can't scroll back to the beginning-- or even a couple years ago-- on my own twitter account. we're lucky to have the Internet Archive, 1 Terabyte of Kilobyte Age, etc.

of course, it's also very scary. it gets scarier and scarier. we're more desperate. the stakes are higher. we much too often see the consequences of personal information being accessed/stolen. it's miserable. it's not even recent anymore and a lot of tactics are similar with the same end goals but the deployment of them has changed.

it is mournful to look at the most formative memories of the internet-- a thing i didn't have much of until my later teens-- and long for something scrappier. black backgrounds feel like home to me, like a physical room. but it's also very moving that these people found each other at all, and talked, for years. (and in many cases it started in identity, because that's how you found groups on yahoo, webring, fanlisting.) i see first names, transition timelines, memorials, histories, goals, pets, artwork, writing, some detailed and some not. they used words to describe themselves that you might be afraid to now, or feel you're not "allowed" to use them, but by doing so they found each other and built connection from scratch on an otherwise disconnected internet. anything i could say feels like it's been said a million times before and i don't have a firm conclusion from this.

i'm sure i'm spending too much time inside the computer in a way that's like exceptionally unrelatable. i guess my justification, if i need one, is that i'm not having fun anymore. i'm simultaneously knocked the fuck out, the last of my energy depleted-- and very worried of what will happen if i continue to be this alone. i've never been this despairingly alone, and without any vision of the future, ever in my life. there have been points, for sure, that came close-- but even then i had school, friends, and personal work that (for better or worse) kept me moving in a way that felt forward. i did a lot of ill-advised things too. and i still thought i might turn shit around. or at least exist as an equal among others. with no guarantees on anything, community smoothed over that fear.

everyone around me has always said that taking a break nurtures you. no one should work all the time in the same way. you should have things beyond that. burnout is inevitable. some even admit the systems that create this are soul-crushing and body-destroying. but every break i take turns out the same: i lose something integral. nothing feels right. i'm lost. there's no footing, nothing to hold onto. i feel like reintroducing myself. i don't know how to act or participate, if i'm expected/wanted to participate, if i'm missed at all, and it happens over and over, something unknown is just wrong. if i knew what it was, i'd attack it head on, but i don't. i just know i have a very bad habit of chasing what won't meet me and i don't want to anymore. if anything, i wish i could just stop caring and be content with having a tiny unknown life. i wish i could cut the rest out of me and never worry about it again. it is an agony that won't go away or i don't know what i'm missing in trying to fix it, because i do try. saying this isn't enough.

i understand it's wrong to think about what remains when i'm gone. there's no failproof way to predict when the end comes. i think i'm finding that what remains may not even be sought after, and what was once enjoyed was propped up by projection. even so i can't stop myself from hoping i'll have something saved that's worth visiting. that someone will imagine my life from it but not as a spectacle, just a moment to sit in or with. this probably sounds melodramatic and if so... whatever. i'm not sure how to say it a different way.

#writing

[alphabetsoup-blogposts]

Concerns? Indeed.

FAO, people in those spaces were reading my private diary out loud as I was typing it.

There were in addition (as you can probably hear): express exhortations to all listeners to change phone sets, change routers, change software, spend money, not spend money, sign up to new email accounts, log in to Discord spaces, join WhatsApp calls, play video extracts, avoid replaying video extracts... much of which I did because I assumed that, of course, they had the GG permissions (an impression they were keen to confirm).

Later, I began to doubt that I was right about this. I became concerned first and foremost because some of the instructions seemed risky. My concerns mounted, first, when an international space appeared increasingly to be looking to British thought leaders and, second, when it became clear that the purpose of participation was to push code and to use the emotional content of the issue to trigger large-scale decryption work. At the time I was on a hiatus but the trigger worked because, as I say, my emotions were engaged by the issue. Later, I decided that I would continue with the decryption work but choose my own sources and set my own parameters. That is where we now find ourselves.

I agree that this is what activism often looks like (Discord, Protonmail, WhatsApp, crypto...) but I stress that activism is not normally powered by capture of the listener's private diary or keyboard. I hope you can see that a platform which is trying—under its self-avowed mission—to facilitate the accommodation of refugees via various official and unofficial channels, becomes a much more sinister thing once it is powered by an unsanctioned capture of a particular participant's devices.

Was I free to leave? Yes, of course. But not entirely without cost. I entered wanting to make a personal contribution and hoped that I might. On leaving I lost that hope and the added-value in my life—my ntieth go-round on a cycle of hope and disappointment that has to do with IRL agency and virtual control—but I also had to view a great wash of algorithmic emotional prods about making a difference and about how neutrality is, in reality, siding with the aggressor. (Those continue to this day—isn't that why we're here?) The prods may have been public and general, or they may have been a correlated series of targeted hooks. I felt a great deal of ambivalence and some self doubt. Was it, in fact, a sanctioned GG-inspired exercise? Or, was it, conversely, an exercise in justifying continued interference? Did I imagine it all? Am I mad? Or, conversely, am I stupid for not expecting this...erm, weird "knowingness" by now? Why does anyone want me to get an iPhone or take people into my house? Is this another threat to my life? Even if there were no other prods, the mystery of it all was a hook per se. The natural impulse is to stick around in hope of an answer and that, I think, broadly explains not just the activity of a few weeks earlier this year but a significant part of the compulsion over half a decade (the other part being deliberate gamification).

As I say, I was willing to help in my personal IRL capacity under normal retail safeguards. I am also willing to work in a wide variety of contexts to interpret code qua "Perks", but there was nothing consensual, transparent, respectful of autonomy or safe about what occurred in those spaces.

[rametarin]

A unique kind of evil

Let me tell you a bit about one of my aunts.

We'll call her Gooseneck. Because she's incredibly skinny. She knows she is not the body type to get into a fight, because she's extremely petite. However, she's also the sort of person that, if she had the tools to overcome being so small, she'd be a violent bully. But she knows when she could be beaten to death, and by whom, so is polite and pseudo-friendly and sociable. Beneath that, however, she's poison.

She has a strange fixation and fascination for flooring the accelerator of cars during rainstorms and kicking up enormous amounts of wet dirt and mud on people. In that kind of, "this is funny if you're a sociopath" fashion.

As a kid I can remember her sweetly taking me to the store and then dropping me off, then turning around and doing that before driving off. And then I learned not but a few years ago, she did that to my grandmother- her mother. As a kid I assumed it was a mistake, that she was just ignorant or bird brained and stupid and did it by accident, not knowing I was behind the car.

That bitch premeditated doing this, offered to take me to the store to buy some candy, backed into the driveway, had me get out, and then made sure I was standing there waving in the driveway before she peeled out and threw mud and rain into my face and clothes. And she did the same thing to grandma.

The day this happened to me as a child, I was upset it happened. But I realized, people make mistakes and it's not always personal. Then I talked to her son, and realized.. no, that shit was deliberate. She does that to people because she finds it funny.

When asked about it, she giggles as if covering you in mud and violently thrown rocks and dirt and wet is the most harmless of pranks in the world, then pretends you didn't say anything. Doesn't even fear any kind of physical retaliation.

My mother and all my aunts are like this. Get them in the right context, they're heartless sociopaths in human skin. Grandma isn't, for some reason. But I sincerely think I might have a single cursed X chromosome. If and when we can detect "absolutely fucking crazy" in a genetic test, it'd be nice to know if my X chromosome bears it. And I wouldn't be surprised.

How this manifests across my mother and aunts is particular. Gooseneck is an opportunistic scavenger that refuses to plan ahead financially and then casually slips that she needs money over and over again, then refuses to stop spending like an asshole.

Then we have Cracklethroat. Sounds like she blasted and abraded her throat away on paint thinner or too much cigarette or cigar smoking, and drinking whiskey. Had a bunch of babies, demanded my grandparents take care of them while she and her husband spent most of the 90s fighting, getting back together, then having another baby. Also an opportunist, but a compulsive liar and gaslighter.

And then there's Flompf, named because she's fat. She's probably the closest to my mother in terms of what sort of entitled, unflappable psychopath over petty things she is. If she thinks she has you in her power and you have to choose between taking the hard road to get away from them or stay and tolerate her shit, she'll treat you like garbage and let you know where you stand, but only after it's too late to escape.

Dealing with these cunts is like being attached to anti-social tumors that bark and fight at one another while sucking the blood out of you in order to have the energy to do it. I hate them all.

[ramblesinshamblesgreenbus]

I suppose beneath it all, I’m a girl’s girl in that I will always be a girl, even when I’ve ascended, even when I’m dead. like christin said, if they didn’t want me to be one at fifty they should’ve let me be one at fifteen. the girls who aren’t doing it for the girls are the ones screaming for everyone to grow up get over it. why is she still hung up on something from so long ago? why does she care so much? remember that jenny zhang essay published in poetry in 2015, where she kept repeating noonecaresnoonecares? the feeds turn everyone into the kids in your high school english class who made fun of the idea of poetry, of the compulsion to sit inside a feeling. whether you accept this or not, you really do carry every age inside you and no matter what you do, certain past ages rise to the surface and stay stubborn n stuck. nothing will stop that from happening, not therapy or the right food or clothes or money or sex or work. cool is cool but cool is also dead, adult and dispirited. I am a fucking loser. I am so cringe it hurts to look at me too closely. I cannot tell you how much better life can get once you stop caring about the shit that makes you feel stupid small and sick. look at me. I’m me, internally eternally just about seventeen. I have never gotten over anything that has ever happened to me and I never will. I’m racing toward real adulthood which i've always pegged to be the scarily disgusting 25 years landmark and I’m not yet bored. I’ve somehow slipped past the gatekeepers, still figure out how. but I know I made it this far by doing exactly what I want.

anyway. I keep finding gems in the past few years’ notebooks. I have to ignore the character names because they’ve changed so much, focus instead on the relationships, the dynamics. nothing feels as good as when this all makes sense. on the best days it can feel as though some part of my brain has known the path while another part of my brain has not. maybe that’s the reward of trusting the process, trusting myself. for example, I’ve used “arson” as a character name for the past year and then realized last week that it’s part of an anagram for [redacted]. I knew. I have to believe that I knew. do you believe me when I say I have the ability to reach through time? not in the real world, of course, but in this one, the one I’m creating and that someday you will be able to visit, too. in the world I created, I have powers that don’t make sense. like how I can double back on myself. I can control everything. I wish everyone could know what it feels like to be this unconstrained. I’ll write more on this later, explain what I mean, but: I do think turning myself into a swarm made me better (see bee poems, sylvia plath). it made the freedom of movement easier to access. this book I’m writing would be a worse book if I’d written it coherently from the beginning, a dutiful little first draft passed in on time. fuck that. the truth is, any loss I’ve grieved over the past three years has been swallowed by a sense of growth. look at me, this bosch monster with its gaping black hole of a mouth. I eat and eat and eat.

<3,

a.m.p.

[starvette]

T 4/90

Another mess of a day. At least it was cold and windy again so I just slept intermittently and badly for a lot of the afternoon. Kept waking up and thinking just SUCH stupid, stupid nonsensical thoughts. Later mom came and wept about dad and wanted me to fix everything and called us both weird. Then she occupied the bathroom right when I needed it.

I finally tried organizing my selfies. I take way too many and the quality has gone down to rock bottom. Overwhelmed after some hours, I went grocery shopping. I shouldn't have bought anything, but I did because I can't go a day without grocery shopping. It's a compulsion after years of daily grocery shopping. I didn't actually need any new food. I have discount bell peppers and beets in the fridge. Since I had almost no money left all I got was 220g of this stale dry refined wheat bread. I told myself it would be good fuel for the imminent run. Then I got home, had 10 minutes left, made popcorn. Of course I couldn't eat it fast enough and felt too full to run, sat in bed to try to digest everything quickly, but then it got too late. Didn't run.

I should have worked out at that point but I decided to get Sims instead. It took a bit to figure out how to get them going on Linux. Sims took forever to download and it's still got 1GB to go. I tried to think of edgy sim names and organized more selfies. So, so many bad, bad selfies. Now I feel truly sick and absolutely exhausted. I have to stop myself right here, shake this day off and go do something useful like my skincare and little workouts, and even dead hanging outside. And feed the fucking popcorn kernels to birds. I tried googling if they can digest that stuff at all and I think they can? Birds are crazy dinosaurs. I've just been so scared of making popcorn since The Incident. I think the pot will overheat and explode and razor sharp shards of steel will like rip right into my gut at F1 speed and the glass lid will explode too, in my eyes. And I will die right there on the kitchen floor. I've got 675g popcorn kernels left. The birds can have them.

Beyond the explosions, I'm not sure if I'm even allowed to eat popcorn at all. Ache eat maize but I don't know. I'm rather scared of grains now but I also didn't want to just keep the vaguely tempting popcorn for months in my pantry until it dries out and becomes unpoppable since I read in a cooking blog that moist kernels pop better. I just want the fucking corn out of my house. It scares me. I need to eat clean for a long time.

Mairi got back to me. I love her too much. She will be able to tell me her upcoming schedule only after 'a few weeks'. More waiting. Meanwhile I must diligently investigate molecules not play the sims. Wondering if I'll ever get to be normal.

[d0ntw0rrybehappy]

I just read a part of n&t that explicitly talks about Apple being Black, has Elushin being a demagogue and being racist (not at the level of saying n** or saying horribly racist things but heavy, clear connections to racism)… to my writing group.

I feel like I have a bad habit/double-edged sword of zeroing in on the most taboo stuff I can think of, in a kind of desperate attempt to be heard, confirmed, challenged — dealt with. So that issues can be shifted, put to bed. I feel like confronting the taboo is sometimes the core of good art, but usually it’s about oppression the author has been through… not trying to wrangle with the oppression of others. It’s an odd and slipperily deplorable thing to write about. I often wonder if it’s like, a pathological compulsion, focusing on these stupid little thought loops (*hand-button-meme SAY SOMETHING OFFENSIVE*) in the face of other literary issues one might write about. Or like I’m pretending to be stupid and naive just so I can say all this stuff. But then I imagine publishing this anonymously and how I would just go for it and really believe in the underlying project at play (digging it up, making people look at it, searching for what rings true — the valhala in it to use n&t word) so a lot of what’s going on here is embarrassment about my being connected to it. About the author being me. (I hate how open I am, it makes me so vulnerable and potentially unhirable, but is also such a beautifully deliberate way to live life, like a drug high, to make it unreal.)

Anyway, it was terrifying to perform and I would give money to hear what people truly thought. But in lieu of that I have to base my faith in what I think and what they said (consider the evidence, my therapist says).

Was silent for a while, then it opened up. Ppl kinda skirted the issue, but it was hard to judge what % of that was that they didn’t really understand what was going on in the story, and what % was not wanting to touch the racism issue bc it’s so charged. The teacher/moderator is a Black author and reading the piece I was like oh god this feels… bad. but also like damn if I can’t like read this and feel behind it when I’m around non-white people then the story obviously needs work. So I’m just gonna do it. Her advice wasn’t that intense, she actually spoke for my piece which was an honor, she was like, there’s a mythic quality to it, like an Aesop’s fable. And you’re clearly trying to get to the bottom of some kinds of issues - religious, social overtones, discrimination. And her biggest critique was how impossible it was to orient oneself in the world bc it was confusingly constructed.

I was like “did you guys feel…uncomfortable with me reading this?” One guy was like “nah.” “Did puppy go on [being racist, I was exhausted reading that] for too long?” “Nah.” Then another guy was like “I didn’t like how you apologized for saying the word ‘retarded’ [in a quote from elushin], you either have to say it and stand by your use of it, or find another word.” Then we had kinda a productive conversation about using a word that makes such a big splash that it drowns out everything else. The “nah” guy was like “yeah I had to edit mine a bit for words like that” (boomer white guy tbf).

So I mean, it was actually a productive discussion, and any feeling I have about having sucked all the air out of the room I don’t have any evidence for. Just how I felt. Nobody said they were offended, they were just like, hey, maybe revise that word if you have to trigger warning the whole thing for it, probs not worth it, sometimes words have too much impact (and I’m dealing with a much bigger thing than I really understand), but if it’s not pointlessly there to offend or shock then do you. Also one of the women later called me “wise” while I was critiquing her I practically spat my water out lmfao. What a compliment wow I WISHH lol I was like “3% of the time” (hoping to get to 6% by 40) (I was sooo flattered lol)

Anyway, this got me thinking about how to do all the stuff I’m doing but to what degree to mediate it, so everyone doesn’t tense up and can kinda feel safe to enter and grapple with the issues. That’s one of the great powers of fantasy: you disguise everything a little, you do it with stuffed animals so people can kind of deal with it. And there’s a real point to subtlety, it’s not frivolous. Showing a little kiss is very different from hardcore fucking in a movie. I always just want to arrow straight to the bullseye but maybe that’s the wrong way of looking at it, maybe I can shoot straight but without… killing the beast. Or to kill the beast it has to be earned, it has to be timed right.

Part of me is also like, we live in such tight-lipped times for dealing with racial politics. People are so afraid of touching it and having their reputations ruined. It reminds me of this story I just read about 1940 when no one’s allowed to criticize the world war. The same largely formless yet overwhelming social pressure. I think we’ve had a giant racial reckoning on a social level in the last few years, a long-needed one, and dealing with race has gotten really confusing for white people. And that we should confront it openly. And what’s cool about writing is that you’re *allowed* to bare yourself and then sometimes people are like “meh we didn’t really like that” and then you get to grow from that.

[bluejay-writes]

Sae My Name - Chapter 9: Planning a Coming Out Party

Fandom: Mystic Messenger Rating: Mature Chapter 9 Wordcount: 2270 Pairings: MC (Jin) / Vanderwood, other background ships. Notes: This fic is focused around a trans MC, which plays a big role in her story. She is the focus character, though the rest of the RFA and side characters do play a part Chapter Specific Notes: Hey fam! Just a quick heads up that this chapter features some mild self-harm habits and a good bit of dysphoria. Please take care of yourselves, and make good choices about your mental health while reading, ok?

You can also read this on Ao3!

First / Prev / Next

The entire RFA had gathered in Jumin’s living room that evening to make a plan.  But their plan was anything but what Jin had thought would happen given what she knew of her father and the RFA in general.

“So you’re saying you want to invite our father here and make a deal with him that he leaves us alone and we don’t air his dirty laundry?” Jin asked confused.

“Basically, yes.” V said, Jumin nodding in agreement.

Seven shook his head, “It’s too cheap. We should use this opportunity. Give him the information to take down Mint Eye. It saves us the danger to ourselves and our loved ones and gets him to leave us alone.”

“That won’t work.” Jin said quietly. “I mean… He’ll take down Mint Eye without issue, he has that clout, but he’ll never let me go. I’m his heir. Publicly. As his son. As Saejin.”

“So just come out as trans then.” Yoosung said, his first contribution to the entire conversation.

A chorus of incredulous responses drowned out whatever else he tried to say until he actually banged on the table to get everyone to settle down.

“I mean it. It’s scary and it’d be a lot of negative press since even normal gay people don’t get treated well here. But the pressure for him to disown you would be strong. And then you could be who you want to be, Jin. Not who the man that donated genetic material thinks you should be.”

“That would likely actually work.” Jumin said in mild surprise. “Good thinking, Yoosung.”

Jin looked around at the hopeful faces and stood, walking shakily toward the balcony. “I need some air.” She said before ducking out into the evening air and around the corner to avoid prying gazes.

Do I want to come out? I mean… I wanted to transition. I still want to. I hate this stupid body and its stupid wrong shape. Why do I have to be a rectangle when I could be an hourglass? If I looked more like a woman, would he do more than just joke with me? Do I even deserve any of that attention? In her anxiety Jin compulsively cracked her knuckles, and when they stopped providing her with satisfying pops she started to unconsciously claw at her wrists.

“Hey.” Vanderwood said, appearing next to her and taking her hands in his. “Talk to me, Girl.”

Jin shook her head, traitorous tears leaking down her cheeks.

“I have ways of making you talk.” Vanderwood said with mischief in his tone. 

Jin couldn’t help but smile past her tears, “You’re a brat, Stark.”

“You like that about me though.”

“No, how would you know that?”

“Because you smile. Your real smile. Not your social girl smile.”

“Oh, the dorky one.”

“Mhm. The good one.”

“You are literally the worst.”

“Okay, yes. I am. Now talk to me. Please.”

Jin took a deep breath and let it out slowly before starting to talk, her eyes fixed to her hands held tight in his.

“Everyone seems to think that me coming out as trans will save me from Father’s designs. And they’re right, in a sense. It’s like ripping the band-aid off. It needs to happen eventually, though I had hoped it would be more private and less newsworthy. Admittedly I’d hoped to use his money for my transition but that was never going to be a feasible option. The bigger problem is that it’s going to affect everyone else so much and they aren’t even considering how me saying something could ruin their lives in addition to my own. Our society is so behind in terms of acceptance that Saeyoung and Saeran will both be tainted by this. Everything they do is going to be under a shadow of my queerness. Jumin won’t get by unscathed either, he’s been seen in public with me so any time he’s seen with Saeyoung, someone’s going to decide he’s gay. Which, I mean, doesn’t look too far off, but that’s his business not the public’s. And Saeran hasn’t even had a chance to live his life yet, he’s been through so much; he deserves to just get to be himself. I know there are paparazzi photos of Zen and I because we were neighbors for so long, I’m sure there’s something that’ll get screwed up there. I mean Yoosung’s probably fine because college but who knows what dirt could come up. You’re especially at risk because I opened my stupid mouth and pretended to the cops my father’s paid off that you’re my boyfriend. This just seems like… a horrible, painful idea wrapped in a shiny candy shell. Like a jack-in-the-box that’s actually a shrapnel grenade. But I have no idea how to get everyone else to underst—”

Vanderwood had tried to interrupt her, to stop her flood of words to no effect several times, and when he’d finally had enough he pulled Jin into his arms and kissed her, quieting her anxiety spiral in the only way he could guarantee would work. The moment she froze in reaction to his lips against hers he let go, taking a step back and looking at the ground.

“I’m sorry. I know I didn’t have permission to do that, you can slap me if it will make you feel better. I just couldn’t think of another way to get you out of your head for a minute.” He looked back up to meet Jin’s eyes, unsurprised to see tears running down her cheeks but kicking himself internally all the while. “If you want to come out then I’ll help you make sure they understand the repercussions they’re likely to face.”

“But you…” Jin felt numb and looked back down at her hands, empty now, but red lines along her forearms where she’d clawed herself before Vanderwood walked up.

“Believe me, I understand the possible repercussions but I don’t actually care. I live a life in the shadows, Little Lady. No one knows or cares who I am and they tend to forget me unless they have a reason to remember me. If you’re the reason they remember me then I’ll consider that a badge of honor.”

“That’s not it.” Jin sighed. “There’s no way you’re okay with… me.”

“What do you mean? You’re beautiful, funny, smart, and have more common sense than both of your brothers combined. What’s not to like?”

“All of this.” Jin gestured to her body with distaste.

“Jin.” Vanderwood stepped back into her personal space and pulled her into a hug. “I never thought I’d be telling you this, let alone in this way, but… I don’t frankly care one whit about your body. I like you. It doesn’t matter to me what’s under your clothes or what shape your body takes. Of course I want you to look and feel like yourself but you’re going to be attractive to me, to be who I want, however you look. Because I’m here for you.”

Jin felt her heart flutter at his words and felt her traitorous body respond to the combination of his words and being pressed into his hold. A small strangled sound escaped her as she tried to back away, but Vanderwood held her tight.

“Yes, I noticed. I’m trained to notice these things.” He said quietly. “I’m flattered, but I completely understand how you feel about it. I’d like to ignore that your body is a traitor and hear what you’re actually thinking please.”

“I like you too.” She sniffled, trying to keep from getting tears and, gods forbid, snot on Vanderwood’s shirt. “But how can you even say those things about this body? How can you like me even though I’m so wrong?” Jin knew there was a better, more eloquent, way to put that but as she’d never been able to find words for it before, she was unlikely to be able to now.

“I can’t really explain it either.” Vanderwood said gruffly, and Jin thought for a moment that the agent might be holding back his own tears. Weird.

“Try? Please?” Jin pleaded.

“Okay. Hm…” Vanderwood paused for almost long enough that Jin asked again, but then he started speaking in a low tone. “I’ve never really talked about this, but… I’ve had to do a lot of different things undercover as an agent. Sex is old hat. I know that’s probably not what you want to hear from me but it’s true and there’s no point hiding it. I’ve had a wide variety of partners; thin to fat, old to young, male and female. But the only times it ever seemed like something more than a job was when I knew the target or had time to get to know them before the act. So… It’s not about your body for me. It’s about you. Your smile. Your laugh. The way your eyes light up over the simplest things. And because I know you’ll ask; no, your brothers don’t interest me in the slightest. But you…” He kissed the top of her head gently. “I just want to steal you away somewhere far away. Somewhere you can be exactly who you want to be and never have to deal with this stress again.”

Jin moved to step away and this time Vanderwood didn’t stop her. She met his eye for a few seconds that seemed like an eternity before smiling softly. “So… what now?”

Vanderwood chuckled, “Can I call you my girlfriend?”

Jin smirked, “Yes, but only if you kiss me again.”

A little while later, Vanderwood led a successfully calmed Jin back into the room by the hand. All eyes were on them, some in concern and others in curiosity. In the time they’d been talking, Saeran had woken up and joined the conversation. Jin hesitated, concerned about bringing up the topic again but Vanderwood gently tugged her along back to the table.

Conversations silenced as she returned to her spot and stared down the people at the table.

“So, I don’t know what you’ve been discussing in the meantime…” Jin started, worried. “But I want to talk to you about Yoosung’s suggestion.”

Yoosung immediately spoke up, cutting off two other people in his excitement. “Jin, I am so sorry I even suggested that. I didn’t even consider what it would mean to you to do that and I know it was a lot and we don’t have to do that. It was just—”

Jin shook her head and cut Yoosung off, “It wasn’t a bad idea. It just hit me a lot harder than I expected and I don’t think you’ve all thought through the consequences of this as much as you might think you have.”

Saeran cleared his throat and took a sip of water. “What are we considering here? You told me about negotiating with our father, but none of that was specifically Jin.”

“The thought is that if Jin comes out publicly as transgender, then she’ll get disowned and be able to live her own life. That’s the only way we can think to free her from your father’s direct influence.” Zen answered when Yoosung shook his head.

Saeran looked upset, “So you want to sell my sister to the press? She’d never be able to have a normal life.”

“It’s not just about me, Saeran.” Jin sighed for what felt like the thousandth time. “This will affect all of you.”

“No? How would it even do that?” Zen asked. Jin watched as Jaehee facepalmed at the actor’s lack of foresight.

“Zen, you’ve been living alone in a bad neighborhood next door to a woman also living alone. Do you think that the paparazzi don’t have photos of the two of us and headlines ready to go about you secretly seeing the neighbor? Imagine once they find out that neighbor is the prime minister’s deviant child.”

Zen made a face, but didn’t argue.

“And Jumin - you yourself mentioned that you thought Seven got our father’s attention since the two of you had been going out together for meals. How soon do people realize who you’ve been out with once I become popular news and start spreading stories about your sexuality?”

Jumin nodded solemnly. He’d thought about it.

“Jaehee - this will, without a doubt, affect the Judo school. I know you’re not too interested in any impact to yourself as a person, but this…”

Jaehee simply nodded as well. She’d already considered it.

“Yoosung, I know—“

“Jin, I get it. My family are amazing, but they’re also pretty conservative. My dad works for the government. Chances of my education not taking a hit from this are slim.”

Jin paused. Wait. They’d all considered…?

“I think you can see that we’ve thought about it, Jin. If you can be strong enough to put yourself out there, we can be strong enough to hold you up. Simple as that.” Everyone around the room nodded but Seven wasn’t done. “Don’t tell me I’m the only one who’s noticed the change in dynamic since Jin came back in…”

Jin felt Vanderwood tense behind her and heard him practically growl at Seven. “Don’t you—”

Before he could finish that sentence, Jumin turned and kissed Seven to shut him up. Just like Stark did to me. Is that the only way to shut up a Choi triplet?

There were gasps of shock and all Jin could do was laugh.

“Seven and Jumin are dating, by the by.” She deadpanned.

Jin realized that she owed Jumin a favor for letting her relationship status slide under the radar for one more night.

#choi triplets #mystic messenger #longfic update #chapter update #juciel #ao3 link #read on ao3 #sae my name

[youareunbearable]

My friend: can u stream u playing a video game or something while I study? Maybe overwatch or dead by daylight or something

Me: sure! Im playing rdr2 online if thats ok? I'll make a broadcast!

Also me: *does nothing but hunt deer and bison for 4 hours as I ramble about the new rabbit fur mittens I want Gus to make me while also making over 300$*

My friend: I'm pretty sure you're playing this game wrong but im too impressed at how much cash you have to say anything

#amber rambles #i play rdr2 like some bro version of animal crossing and its great #i just hunt to make money so i can get cute clothes and have gus praise me #i took out half a bison herd with headshots while i was rambling about a friend i made while fishing #in blackwater and my friends laughed and asked where this great aim is when i play OW with them #lol im only good cause bison cant shoot me back lol #also i have a stupid compulsion to make as much money as i can in video games if given the option #im a multi millionaire in skyrim and i own every house i can in the game and my brother is always shocked when he sees me play #mainly cause hes normally too broke to buy a health potions on his saves #in rdr2 my frienda collectively have maybe 200$ between all 4 of them while i just reached 880$ for the second time this week #after blowing all of it on clothes and some camp extras

[gatheringbones]

["At the end of August in 1981, I found myself in a small town in Arkansas, where I knew no Lesbians other than my new lover, Lynn. I wanted it that way. We were living in hiding from my armed and vengeful ex-lover who had abused me for four years and had threatened both of us with deadly harm. This was five years before the publication of Kerry Lobel's ground-breaking book, Naming the Violence: Speaking Out About Lesbian Battering. I knew I had been battered, but I did not understand how deeply I had been injured.

I only knew that I seemed to have saved my life at the cost of my sanity. I jumped at loud and not-so-loud noises. A frown from a stranger could reduce me to tears. I was afraid to bathe if I was alone in the apartment. I relived every word of every fight in relentless flashbacks. I had blocked much of the unbearable pain of the previous four years out of my consciousness at the time, in order to cope with immediate danger. Now that I was "safe" it all came flooding back. To escape, I watched TV compulsively, avoiding anything violent—nature shows were my favorites—and I read science fiction. Having lost faith in women as well as men, I was a serious candidate for a species-change operation.

Luckily, at some point in that bleak winter, I read a magazine article on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) in Vietnam Vets, and I recognized all my symptoms. I had a name for my suffering, and 1 knew I was not "crazy." I'd felt so much guilt and anger towards myself for not being okay, that is, my old self, since I was "free." Now I knew healing would take time and effort, and I gave myself permission to not be normal right away. Also, seeing how much my condition resembled that of war survivors helped break down some of my denial about the hell I'd been through.

Still, I had no guidance on how to recover from PTSD. I followed only the dimmest instincts. First, I began to read accounts by survivors of any serious trauma. These people became my invisible support group. I found myself drawn especially to stories of political prisoners and concentration camp survivors. Although my experience was not like theirs, these were the people I felt would understand how my will had been sapped and my strengths twisted, how the smallest acts of resistance and mere endurance had needed all my wits and courage. Bruno Bettleheim in his chapters called "Behavior in Extreme Situations" (The Informed Heart) finally answered the question I'd put to myself every 44 hour since my escape: "How could I have been so stupid?" He made me realize that under abuse, especially the combination of intermittent threats, unpredictable violence and constant psychological torture, everyone responds differently, but everyone changes fundamentally, and everyone has their breaking point.

One day as I sat reading at the kitchen table, I looked out the window at the small yard beside our duplex apartment, and I began to imagine growing a garden there in the spring. It seemed like a highly improbable idea: the area was very small, steep, bare of everything but gray shale and orange clay, and the house shaded it part of the day. But the notion of a garden took root strongly. For the first time in several years I had something pleasant to anticipate.

I wrangled my landlady's permission to put in a garden. Then I mailed off postcards for seed catalogs. I persuaded an acquaintance who owned a truck to bring me a load of cedar slabs discarded by a local sawmill, and I used these to construct two frames, about four feet by six feet, and two even smaller ones, just three feet by four feet. By this time Lynn and I had saved enough money to buy a very old VW bug, so we drove to a nearby creekbank and filled bushel baskets with rich bottom dirt, which we dumped into the frames to make raised beds about four inches deep.

To supplement the tiny growing space, Lynn scavenged large cans from the cafeteria of the hospital where she worked. I painted them a hopeful green, filled them with soil and placed them along the sidewalk below our porch. Old-timey "Corn-row Beans," originally bred to tolerate the shade of cornfields, grew up strings tied to the roof and bore prolifically.

I didn't have much money from my SSI income to spend on garden gadgets, so I made do. I wove a trellis for my peas from six-pack rings liberated from a liquor store trash bin. (I can testify that this plastic never biodegrades—the pea fence survives to this day.) I got some more bushel baskets from the local grocery, painted them with non-toxic preservative and lined them with garbage bags after snipping a few drainage holes in the bottom. Placed around a small stone patio above the garden, these became containers for large plants.

The garden rewarded me before the first mouthful of early spinach was harvested. It moved me out of the gloomy apartment and into the sunshine, watering can in hand. It motivated me to interact with people and to occasionally risk asking for help. I found out they would usually say yes. My attention was now focused on the future, not the bitter, unchangeable past. At night when the flashbacks threatened to roll, when I dreaded the dreams I might have, I put myself to sleep with 45 detailed plans of my next crop rotation. I found out I could learn a major new skill, a little at a time. I could do things right, even come up with ingenious solutions to seemingly impossible difficulties. And when I did things wrong, plants were most often forgiving. The plants themselves were a tremendous source of inspiration. Talk about survivors! They defied every book written about their needs, often thriving with too little sun, too little water, and too little soil. At the end of a year, I could easily stick my shovel in the dirt up to the hilt, where only four inches of top soil had previously existed; compost and the action of the roots had created friable loam out of shale and clay.

When I experienced failure with gardening, it was never the kind of disaster I'd grown to associate with mistakes. We didn't go hungry, because other crops outstripped our expectations. My lover didn't beat or berate me, but sympathized and helped. The garden was important to us economically, because we'd both lost almost everything we owned in our escape. Luckily, in southern Arkansas, it's possible to garden yearround. The garden gave me precious, desperately needed tastes of success. Disabled, unemployed, I still felt like an important contributor to the household. I even had food to give away sometimes, and that was a delicious feeling.

Gardening was not the only factor in my recovery, but it was an important one. I didn't grow up with abuse, but battering and similar traumas can expand minutes into hours, years into decades, until four years feel like most of a lifetime. At the end of a year and a half of gardening, I no longer felt as if I'd spent the majority of my life in a battering situation. Healing had acquired a new definition for me: I didn't insist on having the old me back; I'd mourned her long and well. I accepted the fact that some injuries are too severe to be made whole, that I might never be the same again. But I began to actually like and trust the me I am now, scars and all. As my garden taught me, I must make do with what I am. I have discovered that my flaws are not fatal and my successes are greater than I'd hoped for. So far I have not gone hungry, and I even have something to offer."]

Amy Edgington, Gaining Ground, from Garden Variety Dykes: Lesbian Traditions In Gardening, Herbooks, 1994

#amy edgington #lesbian literature #terra preta #cw abuse #you are a goddamn tree stump with leaves sprouting out

[itsgettingcrazieroutthere]

Okay, I'm completely into Community because of one (1) Abed Nadir and just saw a fic that had both Abed and Janet (The Good Place), and BOOM.

Oh. My. God.

The Good Place AU that nobody asked, but I just got completely obsessed with.

Annie as Tahani. And maybe Shirley as Tahanni too. Both think they were, respectively, a great student and a great christian and, therefore, deserve to be in heaven. But Annie's competitive and selfish and Shirley's an hipocrite and passive-agressive, so their good deeds don't matter, because they didn't mean it and they made life hell to people around them.

Jeff as Eleanor. I think that's self-explanatory. Jeff knows he doesn't deserve to be in the Good Place, he was a swindler: forged his diploma, acted as an lawyer for the rich and the bad guys for money, didn't have any friends and didn't care for anyone but himself.

Troy as Jason, of course. He is not stupid, what good did he do to deserve to be in the Good Place? He faked an injury to run away of his problems, he is irresponsible, some people might say he is childish (he's not, thank you very much). In high school, he was a bully, didn't care about anything but parties and is a closeted nerd (who is ashamed of being a nerd, so he beats them up to make himself feel better about it). The one thing he isn't is a monk, though. He is definitely not a monk that practices the vow of silence, so he probably shouldn't be in the Good Place. But he is CERTAINLY not fond of going to the Bad Place, especially not once he finds the best friend he could ever have in the Good Pace.

I think Britta would be Tahani too, actually: she is an activist that doesn't vote, a rebel without a cause. She is always talking about the time she helped a homeless guy, but hides the fact that she actually just gave him 25 cents and ONLY because she saw an ex-boyfriend leaving the store across the street. She can forgive racism, but draws a line at animal abuse, and so many other things. Just like Annie and Shirley, her motivations weren't in the right place. Also, she is the worst.

Abed is Chidi and you can't change my mind. He isn't a bad person. He isn't, okay? He is just too sincere sometimes. Too smart, doesn't know how to express and read emotions, maybe a little bit too direct. One could even say that he could drive everyone a little bit crazy when he did homages of series and movies, or when he went full meta and treated life as a movie. Maybe he made people cry once or twice when he got a little bit too honest, you know? There was even this one professor that went crazy because he thought Abed was too spoiled (that professor is in the Good Place too, because he was disrespectful and full of shit, completely intolerant and ignorant of Abed's autism, by the way). But, if you ask Abed, he would say he is adorable, so everything is cool. Cool, cool, cool. The thing is, Abed may not be the greatest expert in human mind, but he is an expert in television and cinema, so he gets by. And, honestly, if you were to choose ANYONE from the study group, he is the innocent one, the one that could teach them how to deserve to be in the Good Place.

Frankie as Janet? Frankie as Janet. Frankie is a problem solver. She is cool, she solves problems. Maybe, just maybe, she can be a little bit snob, but she knows EVERYTHING, so she also has the right to be a little snob, actually. Also, as she gets to know and befriends the group, she gets more and more human, and she loves them more and more.

I thought about the Dean as Michael, but I didn't really buy it. Maybe, we can make it different this time: the Dean as a Michael that thinks the "Good Place" is actually the Good Place. He thinks he was good, so he got promoted, from devil to angel and his (Community College?) "Good Place" is legit. The one running the experiment is the City College Dean, somewhat like Shawn, but they are not partners, I think.

Chang as Vicky? Actor, self-centered, a bit of an idiot and always ready to try and carry out a coup d'etat. He is a betrayer, that's what he does. But he gets to know the study group and grows to like them, so he always comes back to them and is ready to do crazy shit for them (even if he still back-stabs them once or twice, but it's not serious, okay?)

Elroy is a second Janet, okay? Calm, patient, he is somebody that also tries to solve problems, even if he's not half as efficient as Frankie. But the Dean leaves him to deal with white people, because he's a compulsive "white-people complimenter" (I don't think this is a word, but you get what I mean).

White people like Pierce, who is a piece of trash that thinks he is the best person ever. Racist, homophobic, sexist and a certified idiot. I can't think of a character equivalent in the Good Place, so Pierce will be another person that is "in the wrong place", but he never realized that. Not a single time in the 109.857 times the group realized they were in the Bad Place actually. Also, in most of those times, he was one of the reasons why the others realized they were in the Bad Place: if the Good Place let people like Pierce enter, well... Would they meet Trump there too? It didn't make sense.

If I ever do write this, it'd be Jabed or Trobed, because Abed is my baby (and I hate Jeff/Annie), and of course I'd make him the main main character.

That's it, folks, thanks for coming to my ted talk! (For now hehehe)

#the good place au #community #abed nadir #troy barnes #jeff winger #shirley bennett #annie edison #pierce hawthorne #britta perry #ben chang #craig pelton #frankie dart #elroy patashnik #gifs not mine #my fics #my aus

[rostovs-lover]

dual purpose

din djarin x reader | cursing, some derogatory things said to reader, xi’an is Not Nice - mando is Not Nice back, very dialouge heavy  | she/her pronouns | fluffy? a little angsty?? | wc.1144

so i kind of wrote xi’an as more verbally rude to reader as opposed to physically, i am also not good at arguing so that scene is iffy, very sorry. i hope you enjoy!

anon : Hey I love your writing 💕im in love with the Mandolorn (sorry if I spelt it wrong). I thought of a great idea, where Mado has a girl on the ship she’s traveling with him and they have grown to become good firends, and he becomes quite protective of her because she is weaker than him. In chapter 6 the prisoner, Xi’an is Mandos ex, she sees the girl he is traveling with and gets jealous and starts to become threatening towards her and violent, ans Mado becomes protective of her 💕

Xi’an, whos still not over Din, takes her passive aggressive aggression out on you, Mando is not having it.

      Din Djarin was terrifying, all heavy metal and loud boots. He was the sun, blazing hot and blinding, all tucked behind thick beskar. Something about you, your cool demeanour and the way you seemed to float on your feet, a stark contrast to how heavily he clunked around. He was terrifying but you had seen through it. He was terrifying but his friends were worse. Not friends, per se, he’d made that evident. Ran and Mayfield and Xi’an were not his friends, hardly even acquaintances, ex-colleagues.

      When he’d landed the Razor Crest in the doc, clearly put off, Din took a moment to collect himself, “You don’t have to talk to them.” He turned his head to look at you, “They’re not… your crowd really,”

      You snorted, “That's beautiful coming from you, my dear. You know, you’re not particularly ‘my crowd’ either?”

      “I’m serious-” The cool leather of his glove pressed to your cheek, “Look at me [Name]. They’re intense, they’re bounty hunters, mercenaries. They kill, ruthlessly, for money, and I don’t want you getting in their way.”

      You stared, eyebrows furrowing, “Get in their way?”

      “Not-” He sighed, “Not like that. You’re not in the way. I just don’t want them to do anything… to say anything. They’re not nice people, not at all. And you should know about Xi’an.” He had an edge to his voice, something bitter biting into her name. Xi’an. You could taste the bad memories through his tone.

      “Whos Xi’an?”

      “Xi’an is someone who I used to know. We had a relationship? If you could even call it that. It wasn’t really anything important, we were both young and stupid and always running on adrenalin. Things happened, things that probably shouldn’t have, and when I left things were very… open. There wasn’t closure for her, for either of us, and from what I know of Xi’an she probably isn’t really over it.” He moved his hand to brush a tendril of hair behind your ear, “I don’t know how she’d feel about someone else, I really don’t even know how she’ll feel about the kid. I just don’t want her to ruin anything, or to hurt you.”

      You reached back, to clutch at his hand, “Din.”

      He seemed vulnerable, more so than any other time you’d seen him in broad daylight. The dam was leaking and sweet weakness was dribbling from the cracks, pouring into your hands like ambrosia from the Heavens. He dipped forwards, pressing the crown of his helmet to your brow bone, “I know, I worry.”

      “Yes you do, too much. I’m alright Din, we’ll be alright.”

      “I know, I know you will but I still just can’t imagine losing you. I don’t know what I’d do. I think-” He let out a soft noise, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle, “I think I’ve actually had nightmares about that. About something happening to you and the Thing. I know you can hold your own and take care of yourself but I just feel this compulsion to keep you and the kid safe.”

      “It's a paternal instinct Din, to protect your family.”

      “Paternal.” Din jeered, “What have you turned me into?”

      You tapped a finger to the side of his helmet, “I’ve made you soft,”

      Xi’an shared the same sentiment, that Din had gone soft. And she blamed you entirely, she had voiced that. When she’d first met you she circled like a vulture, walking around you as she fiddled with her utility belt.

      “You’re cute, so is that-” She reached out to pinch at his little green cheek, “Is he yours?” Her tone was condescending, filled with mock pity.

      The Child leaned away from her, ears twitching downwards as he pressed closer to your chest, “No, he's not. I just help Mando take care of him,”

      “He's Mando’s?”

      “No, no- not really. Kind of, but it's a long story.”

      Xi’an cocked an eyebrow, “Kind of? What even is it, I’ve never seen anything like it. Mando didn’t… you know, with its mom I hope. I mean, now I guess it couldn’t really be put past him.”

      You shook your head, clutching tighter to the Child, “No, the baby was found, Mando took him in after-”

      “Are you two..?” a grin crawled up Xi’an’s, “I bet you are. Oh I don’t blame him, you are pretty and all that time in the middle of nowhere would make anyone desperate, even prudey Mando and his creed. You know, I never took him for the companion type but I mean, you are something to look at, and good with kids. How nice it would be to have you on the ship, dual purpose.”

      “Xi’an-” Din’s tone was curt, “I see you two have met.”

      “We have! She’s a cutie, I think I’m starting to see a pattern with your picker. Plus with that kid, she seems to be good for a lot,”

      The Mandalorian’s shoulders tense and his fingers clenched, “You know, you never were good at reading people. Good for a lot, what is that even supposed to mean?”

      She snorted and crossed her arms, “Just you must be desperate is all, but you could have come back instead of picking up a space hooker. But you’ve domesticated her well!”

      “Really Xi’an?” Din leaned closer to her, “Are you jealous that I wanted more or have you always been this much of a bitch?”

      “Can you still fight or have you gone soft Mando? Did a girl make you soft, or was it your kid?”

      “I’m sorry you weren’t the one who got to have this life Xi’an, but I really don’t think you’re adept for it,”

      That was what caught her, making her flustered. Din had nipped the weak spot she had, desperation for family. Xi’an regained herself and straightened, “At least I still have the balls to do my job.” She turned on her heels and stormed towards Burg.

      Din sighed and reached out to pull the Child from your arms, “I’m so sorry about her,”

      You shook your head, “Its fine, you warned me, I didn’t take any of it to heart,”

      Despite the dark visor covering his eyes, you could feel the sympathy, “It still wasn’t okay, any of what she said. You’re not dual purpose. You're wonderful and perfect and the fact that you’re so good with the kid is just an up.”

      Your face flushed, “Thank you Mando, that means a lot.

      “I’m not just saying it [Name]. When you asked to come aboard full time it was such a relief, with how much the Thing likes you.”

      You smiled, reaching out to fix the collar of the baby’s robe, “Well I like him too, he happens to be my favourite little monster in the whole galaxy.” You looked up to your companion, “Don’t worry, you’re my second favourite.”

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian imagine #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin #din djarin imagine #din djarin x reader #baby yoda #grogu #mando #lennie writes

[coepiteamare]

nine thousand, seven hundred nineteen kilometers

pairing: yoongi x female!oc  genre: mild angst, it’s not fluff but it’s not angst, thieves oc & yoongi  warnings: mild angst, oc and yoongi are thieves (think ocean’s 8/11-13, pickpockets in this drabble), lapslock word count: 1.4k

summary: you find love somewhere in between los angeles and new york and lose your heart in between paris and tokyo. (alt. maybe he’s the compulsion you can’t seem to shake, the ache that doesn’t fade even nine thousand, seven hundred and nineteen kilometers away)

paris is much quieter than the places you’re used to, but it’s not a bad thing.

you like having coffees in cafes, settling in nooks, and drinking in the scenery spread outside the window. there’s a slight soreness in your arms from the aerial act last night that you remedy with macarons and the cafe cat that comes to sit in your lap, nuzzling its nose in your turtleneck. but the itch in your fingertips refuses to subside: a dull craving that refuses to be muffled no matter how many hobbies you pick up, how many characters you adapt and abandon, how many miles you put between yourself and los angeles. 

maybe you should move to amsterdam, you think as you thank the cafe owner. you contemplate luxembourg as you give the cat one last pet and leave behind a half eaten croissant. dubai is also pretty, you tell yourself as you bump into a youngman in a peacoat. hand into his pocket. you fall over, gripping on to his sleeve, as he reaches out to stabilize you. his prada wallet in your bag. you flash him a shy smile that could make the eiffel tower crumble. his watch on your wrist. you giggle an apology--i’m so sorry, i was distracted, i should have been paying more attention--and vanish into the crowd in a haze of vanilla and rose with his gucci tie clip in the pocket of your trench coat.

old habits die hard. 

maybe it’s not a habit you’re trying to get rid of, something whispers in the back of your head, or maybe you’re not trying at all. shut up, you whisper back.

you close the door quickly when you enter your flat, letting the fall chill know it’s an unwelcome guest before it can settle in. 

the apartment you live in is small, a little out of the way from central paris, but you like the trimmings on the cabinets and the colours of the wall. it feels lived in, less sterile than white walls, and it feels like what a home should feel like. there’s scratches on the countertop and smudges of the lives of tenants before you, and, really, you could do a lot better with the money from tokyo, but it was the first place that didn’t hiss at your insecurities in the sound of his voice. all the other ones you had seen had reminded you of him--walls painted with his laughter, banisters lined with the snap of his gloves, floors tiled in his stupid, ostentatious spending habits--and you had almost given up on paris, almost decided to live in the cheap motel with shitty coffee and questionable door locks because the first hotel you checked into had him written all over it (as did the next one and the next one and the next) until you found this apartment, cozy and in need of upkeep. i’m yours, it seemed to say; better yet, it said nothing at all. yours (whatever that meant). 

“you should get better locks,” his voice rings, and you drop your purse, items clattering to the floor. 

he looks just as you remember him: soft, wispy bangs against pale skin, dark eyes taking in more information than you could ever know, jaw and mouth sharp like he’d bite if you made the wrong move. the way the sun gently brushes him with a soft golden glow makes you wonder if he’s somehow conned the sun into working for him. (he’s always had a flair for dramatics, even if he claims there’s no room for theatrics in his plans.) you wrench your gaze away from him, your ribcage suddenly two sizes too tight for the thudding contraption it holds inside.

“have you ever thought locks were meant to keep people out, yoongi? that maybe people have locks to try and keep whatever’s inside them safe?” you pick up the items off the floor, carefully placing them back into your purse, trying to keep your voice steadier than your hands. 

“i have a proposition for you,” he says, without missing a beat, like nothing happened in tokyo. 

“would you have sought me out if you didn’t?” you mutter under your breath. you don’t like the bitterness that spreads through your mouth, the hurt that lingers like a bad aftertaste. “i’m retired,” you lean against the wall. you wonder if the scuff marks on the floor have been there a while. you try to look everywhere but him, but your training kicks in and you’re hypersensitive to everything he does: the way his shoulders are loose but his eyes are constantly moving, the way he still holds the tea cup like he did the first time he took you to a cafe 3 minutes after he met you, the way his left hand is still, unnatural, like he wants to drum them against the table or pick a lock, have something to do. 

he hums and sips the tea in front of him. “i would have been a little quicker with the wallet,” your head turns to him in shock, “but other than that, it was a pretty solid job.” of course he was watching. there was nothing yoongi missed, from the stutter in your heartbeat to the thrum of your fingers against the wall. he drops his smile and his gaze bores into yours, but you feel the smug satisfaction smothering you like his cologne that still permeates your dreams, six months later and six thousand miles away.  

“awareness of surroundings has gotten sloppy though.”

“fuck you.” 

his shoulders shake as he laughs, breath catching with every inhale. it takes him a minute to collect himself, but the smile doesn’t fall. “the crew misses you.”

“more like you couldn’t find another acrobat,” you scoff. everything about this is painfully familiar: the sharp rapport, the sparks, him. it’s too easy to settle back into habit, even if you’ve been burnt before. it feels like diving back under the covers, body aching to crawl back to what it knows. the words slide out of your mouth before you have a chance to think about them, bitter and acrid. “were you even trying?” 

“were you even trying? it’s like you wanted to get caught” he had scoffed, mouth acidic even at your tear stained face. “this isn’t a fucking performance you get to put on night after night. there is no safety net waiting to catch you. that-” he gestures at the wind, at the depository miles away from you, “whatever that was almost cost us this job.”

“i’ve missed you.” he smiles, and just like that, you hear the faint click, his words cracking the pin code on your ribcage and unlocking the heart you’ve tried so desperately to cage. you should have known better: there’s never been a lock yoongi couldn’t pick, a safe he couldn’t find his way into. nothing has been able to keep him out: not the gallery treasury in newport beach with its earthquake proof alarm system, not the cartier vault in new york city with its impressive randomized laser grid, and certainly not the flimsy, fickle alarm system of your heartbeat. 

“how did you find me?” your voice is too soft, muddled under memories buried six feet under.

“have you ever seen me fail to get what i want?” he makes his way to you and doesn’t stop until you’re pressed against the wall, the tips of his shoes against yours. sandalwood tickles your throat as you take a breath. his nose brushes against yours, pink lips mere centimeters away. 

“i meant what i said, your awareness of your surroundings needs work.” his breath fogs your clarity. “besides, if they wanted to keep things safe, maybe they should try a bit harder. i’m just here to prove that all things can be found.” he taps a finger against your nose lightly, mouth stretching into a smile before he makes his way towards the door with his hands in his pocket. he doesn’t turn back to look at you. “you know how to find me.”

you stand there, dazed, until the faint tap, tap, tap of the rain against your windowpane breaks the fog, sun submerged in velvet darkness. 

maybe he’s just as potent as a habit, just as hard to kill. 

you find a plane ticket to los angeles in your backpocket, a burner phone in your coat pocket. your safe door is wide open, contents untouched, with a post it note on top. 

it’s like you’re not even trying. p.s. did you miss me?

A/N:  a BIG thank you to hana @taestybae​ for reading this and telling me she loved it. i absolutely adore you. 

i’m going to work to expand on the universe (hopefully) and introduce the rest of the crew because words cannot describe how much i love this universe and these characters. 

#yoongi x oc #yoongi x reader #yoongi fic #yoongi imagine #bts fic #bts imagines #bts scenarios #yoongi scenarios #btswritingcafe #thebtswritersclub #heartsforbts #bangtanuniversity #violet dreams of violet gardens