#this is like the forth meme I’ve posted today

[ugh-yoongi]

the very last thing i decide | pjm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there’s you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is it, he thinks.

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

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

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

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

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

But you do.

And, inexplicably, Yoongi listens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m no one’s dog.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s just how it goes.

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

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

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

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

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

Someone else’s, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

But, god, he needs to know.

Needs answers.

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

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

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

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

Can’t you feel that?

He needs to know.

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

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

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

“What you said to Taehyung,” he answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there’s nothing gentle about the first time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taunting him.

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

Until now.

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

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

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

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

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

Jimin is blond when Namjoon sends you to South America.

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

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

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

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

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

“Done. Anything else?”

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

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

“Tell him he’s a bitch, then.”

“He’ll kill me if I say that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It comes out more like a plea.

—

You’re good at your job.

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

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

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

Until now.

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

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

Would Namjoon let you go if you asked?

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

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

Doesn’t matter.

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

No one spares you a second glance.

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

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

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

It’s empty.

Of course it is.

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

You know who it is, you fucking dickhead.

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

Sorry.

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

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

What kind of life is this?

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

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

It’s time for Namjoon to let you go.

—

Something is wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The second time is nothing like the first.

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

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

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

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

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

Jimin mouths at you until you forget.

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

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

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

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

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

Jimin’s hair is pink when—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re being followed.”

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

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

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

“Where’s Jimin?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know it’s a liability.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

You are wholly unprepared for the sight that greets you.

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

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

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

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

Eyes that now contain nothing.

“Jimin, what the fuck happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namjoon should’ve let you go.

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

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

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

“Destruction.”

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

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

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

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

You watch him go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve gotten sloppy.”

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

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

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

“Who?” Jimin manages to choke out.

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

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

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

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

No one talks to Namjoon that way except you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Or what, Kim Taehyung?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is a waste of your fucking time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m—that’s not—knock it off.”

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

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

Jimin’s hair isn’t dyed at all.

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

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

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

[godborn]

i’m gay and can’t resist the opportunity to be sappy so here’s a january 1st post to let all of my mutuals know that you are loved by me whether you like it or not and that i’m grateful for every single one of you and am looking forward to getting to know you more in 2024!

when i returned to this rpc after a year long hiatus where a lot of stuff was just going wrong in my life, i was a little nervous that i’d have trouble finding interactions and building relationships both ic and ooc. it was a little difficult at first, but i’m so thankful i stuck it out because right around the corner were some very cool & special people who are not only talented writers and masters of characterization, but genuinely kind & fun people to talk to & get to know.

this post is dedicated to all of my lovely mutuals whether we’ve written together for months or u just followed me today, but there are a few people i want to be gay toward individually under the cut 🥳🏳️‍🌈🩷

@vialaviolenza / @valoroso : my beloved mortis!! you were my first new friend that i made upon the end of my hiatus & i adore you to the moon & back. i knew you were special from the moment i found out you basically live a stone’s throw away from me lol but more than that, you have been such a blessing to me. you’re always willing to listen to my ramblings & crazy ideas & our threads are always fuckin based, so you genuinely have it all & i’m excited for us to become closer in this new year!! 💚💚💚

@lovesigned : bella, i’m kissing u. i remember when you first followed me and we messaged back and forth about how we loved each other’s writing and were fucking nerds about classical allusions & mythology & all that. even now i’m still in awe of how beautifully your prose reads btw. but beyond that you’re probably the funniest person on this website & going absolutely feral with u is always a good time lmfao. i love everything we’ve ever plotted and written and i will love everything we will plot and write in the new year. u are so sexy and cool mwah

@blueshiftting : MEME MY BELOVED u are genuinely the sweetest person ever in the world and you deserve every good thing ever in the new year. not to mention cordelia is a baddie & the immaculate energy you have created for her is untouchable, truly one of the most well-written ocs i’ve encountered. i owe u my life for making the fuckhouse server because it’s always such a vibe in there & it’s been great getting closer to everyone in there, including you.

@rejectshumanity : the coolest person on this website actually,,, but also a total sweetie that i’ve loved every second of talking to. dani when i say i stan you heavily i mean it you genuinely have Thee best take on dio & manage to blend the serious & unserious parts of his character immaculately. i’m excited for when ur inspiration returns to you because i think we all want to see how you will absolutely kill it in the 2024 season lol. either way, you’re a gem & i’m looking forward to growing our friendship in the new year!!

@praeteritus-memories : lu … u are my homie fr like the only constant thing in my life in this rpc for the past 3 (ALMOST 4???) years. coming back to writing with you again has been like returning to a warm hug which i really fucking needed after everything i went through in 2022-23 😭 i love everything we do together & everything we explore in our threads, they’re always a blast & i’m relieved we cannot always pick up where we left off without things being awkward lol. i hope this year treats you kindly, you deserve it luv 🩷

@ironleonine : GEO MY LOVE IM SO SORRY I KNEW I HAD LEFT SOMEONE OUT THIS IS LESBIAN ON LESBIAN CRIME . anyway you are the literal sweetest, kindest, most fun person to talk to be it ic or ooc. i will start 10 million different threads with you and idc i will love every single one. you have such a talent for bringing your characters to life, i will never NOT enjoy writing with you wtf. our chats are always the best even if they’re full of the most random shit lol i feel like you really understand me & the chaotic chemical soup that is my brain. when i marry you in 2024, what then?

#[ 春 ] : 🌸 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬 › out of character . #happy 2024!! i am wishing all of you health & happiness #i feel like the last 3 years have just been a collective nightmare for everyone so let’s have a little hope that we’re turning a corner lol #i wasn’t going to make this post initially but i changed my mind because u know what . starting the year off with gratitude & positivity #is never a bad fucking idea #i hope you all have had a great start to the year so far 🩵🩵🩵 #giorno & i are sending u lots of love uwu

[whentherewerebicycles]

morning with the pups. I have a headache from crying but I bought myself a small treat (orange scone from panera) and managed to get some good work done this morning. I will be honest I feel Bad still but am trying to ground myself so I don’t spiral off into the deep despair again.

here are five small positive things:

I am being actively befriended by this very gruff middle-aged women’s studies faculty member who was on my search committee. I thought she hated me for the entire Zoom interview and the first seven hours of the campus visit but then in the last hour of the visit it suddenly became apparent that she liked me a great deal and just has a very brusque no-nonsense demeanor. we have been emailing back and forth all morning about this faculty pedagogy fellowship she’s leading and I think we are going to co-teach a couple workshops together. also we’re going to start going on walks together because we live so close. it’s nice to be befriended! and it’s nice to think about work as a place where I could build more friendships, especially with people who are there for the long haul.

my best friend lives so close to me now 😭 it was nice to break up the crying jags last night by going over to see her.

I’m genuinely excited to be an aunt. there is a lot of pain around it too and it is going to take some time to work through that but it will be so nice to have a baby in the family. also I am requesting nicely of the universe that if my brother & sister-in-law MUST have a baby before I do, please let the baby to be born on my birthday so we will have a special aunt/niece or nephew bond forever. I do not think this is too much to ask. ugh my heart hurts a lot but I am being brave about it.

last year I wrote a long letter of rec for my old boss/beloved grad advisor for this major mentoring and leadership award she was up for. she won the award and I guess they sent her the file with the letters attached. anyway she sent me a box of woolf & vita sackville-west books, a beautiful handmade glass vase, and a long letter where she said my rec letter made her cry and cry. it was really nice to hear from her—she’s been dealing with really scary long covid health issues since early 2020 and there was a period of time where she was in and out of the hospital so often with such serious issues I thought she might die. she is doing better now though and she says she’s retiring this year, which will be a huge loss to the university but I hope good for her. idk I was happy to hear from her and it was nice to get a surprise package of books (with more on the way, apparently).

oh friends. to quote that tumblr meme from the other day, they should invent a way out that isn’t through. I just don’t want to do the soul-work of trying to break down this grief and metabolize it and integrate it into my sense of self all over again. I’m just sad, you know? I’m sad and I’m tired of feeling sad, I want to feel otherwise, but it’s exhausting to think about clawing my way through these feelings again. I want to be on the other side of this experience and I thought I was there but I see now that I’m not, or maybe that the grief and painful agonizing uncertainty about future losses is going to keep surging back every time something reopens the wound. I feel like I’ve spent the past seven weeks swimming so hard for shore, and I’d finally managed to haul my exhausted self up onto the beach only for a massive tidal wave to crash down over me and pull me back out to sea. and I know it is just the start. liz will be pregnant soon and my SIL will have the baby and people in my social circles will continue to post their pregnancy announcements online and ugh. ugh. I just have this hugely selfish wish that everyone would hold off for like six more months so I could crawl a little further inland before the next wave hits. this is not a positive thing from the day but I can’t quite wrangle myself into feeling gratitude for all the good things in my life today. I think I’m just going to be treading water for a while.

#IUI tag

[myevilmouse]

For the fic writing meme: 1, 15, and 16 please!

Dear @takadasaiko!

Thank you so much for these asks!  I am trying to take some time to myself tonight and these questions are a great excuse to think about the fabulous fun that is fanfic. 

what’s the fic you're most proud of?

The fic I’m most proud of goes back and forth…I’m proud of different fics for different reasons…And also sort of depends on my mood at the time.  I think in the past I’ve said Endure for similar questions… But I guess if I had to just pick one to be my legacy this evening, with my current frame of mind, I would probably choose Interpreter (Thryce).  I am a Luke girl first and foremost, but Thrawn being an alien and Imperial allows me to indulge in two of my favorite kinks:  language and uniforms, with a healthy side of power dynamics and hot for teacher fun.  So…that one is a real fave.  So much Cheunh, so much military protocol muwahaha I really had fun with it. 

15. How do you think your writing as improved over time?

That’s an awesome question and to be honest, I’m not sure it has.  I sometimes read older fics and there will be a phrase I wrote that I’m like “damn I don’t write like this anymore.”  I think I have gotten lazier as time has gone on, as real life kicks my ass and prevents me from spending more time on my fic, so in general I’m not sure I’ve improved, sadly.

I guess one thing though—I have started to see patterns in my writing and tried to avoid them consciously.  I hate using the same words/phrases over and over—and always want to find original ways to say things.  I know there is the lament of how many different ways can you describe an orgasm or whatever, but I sort of love and hate the challenge of trying to infuse new and interesting vocabulary and imagery into my stories.  So maybe that’s one way it’s improved. 

16. Do you re-read old fics? Is there a time in your writing you won’t go back to?

ALL THE TIME.  Today at work I gave myself a tea break and reread Martial Arts, just because someone had reblogged one of my old Tumblr posts about it.  Then I was like damn professor Thrawn is hot and wanted to read more.  So while standing in line at the post office I started rereading Cold Comfort cause I still wanna sequel that, and while stuck in a boring moment I pulled up Containment to remind myself that I did actually write fic this year.  Hahah I will have to do my year end wrap up soon.

There is no time in my writing I won’t go back to…there are sometimes things I wrote that I skim over, not really cringe but within a story I find some parts less interesting or less rereadable than others, but nothing I’m super ashamed of… I will say the fic with the least rereads in my oeuvre is probably No Small Thing.  I wrote Jaime/Brienne as an anomaly as a pinch hit for a fic exchange/good Samaritan deed, and it feels sometimes like someone else did it, hah.  I love the fic, as I love all my children, but sorry Jaime, you don’t melt my butter like Luke or Thrawn.

Still, he has a nice butt

Thank you again so much for these asks! I really appreciate the distraction and chance to talk fic with you! 🥰💙💛😘

#myfic #fanfic is for fun #welcome to my kinks #star wars #star wars rebels #game of thrones #my thoughts #asks #i like asks #fandom friends

[demcnsinmymind]

@innerwar​ asked: 🔒 What’s one thing about your muse that you still can’t figure out?   | Mun Vs. Muse Meme | ALWAYS OPEN

This one is funny because I was just thinking about that again after writing a reply to a thread earlier today. I’ve written about it sooooo many times before, but I still can’t stop talking about it I guess. I cannot for the life of me figure out which direction he’ll ultimately sway many years into his post-canon verse. (wrote a little about the ‘no happy ending’ headcanon here)

I’m mostly set on my headcanon/idea that post-canon, he will try a lot harder to be a better person. And in quite a couple of threads I got going in this verse, he can be the sweetest, most loyal and upstanding man at times. I mean, one of the reasons why his character is quite beloved in the fandom and why a lot of people started following and writing with me is the fact that despite all the douchy behavior, despite all the flaws...you can’t help but feel sorry for him. Somehow, in that awful second movie, he managed to do the most henious thing a character can do to another one - kill someone - yet still make you feel sorry for him and not resent him for it. That’s one of my very favorite aspects and scenes about him as a character.

Yet at the same time...both in canon and especially in my threads and verses, he’s capable of saying and doing some truly awful, almost villainous things as well. Like, sometimes I’m actually shocked and taken aback by the things he’s capable of saying, thinking, and manipulating to his liking. It’s especially apparent in the many threads I got going with @sanguinelupus​ (srrryyyyyyyy;_;)

And I keep swinging back and forth on this ultimate question. What will he be? A villain? A bad/evil character, tarnished by his trauma and bad traits? Or will the sweet and surprisingly genuine and deep character win in the end, turn into a proper hero that I think he’s absolutely capable of as well? To this day, I really cannot tell you the answer. It changes weekly. I think if you were to ask him, he wouldn’t be able to tell you either. Truth be told, I don’t think there is a definite answer. He’s just an utterly grey and complicated character, with many contradicting traits and I honestly adore that about him anyway.

#text post #headcanons #hc : psyche #hc : habits

[awesomeduskangel]

I finally deactivated my old DeviantArt account after having it active since 2011. I feel simultaneously at peace and sad. I think the word I’m looking for is “bittersweet”? I feel like going on a bit of nostalgia trip, soooooo read on if you want.

I joined DeviantArt in 2011. This was back when I was first getting into anime and looking at fanart of characters I liked. My first anime were InuYasha and Tokyo Mew Mew, but I’d browse through and like fanart of other anime I came across as well. Over time, finding those fanarts (and thanks to Quizilla, but that’s a whole different story) led me to watching other anime I still hold dear to my heart today (I’m sure my middle school self would feel this 100x more lol), such as Soul Eater, Shugo Chara, etc. It became a way for me to engage with those characters and others who liked them. It was my introduction to fandom. I remember going back-and-forth in the comments with other users for pages -- and I mean pages and pages of comments -- on how great these characters were. I made a lot of friends this way, most of whom I don’t really talk to anymore, but I really cherished the times we spent together.

This site was also one of the biggest reasons for my writing development. After posting some fanfic on my account (which I ended up taking down maybe...a month later lol), I happened to come across Fanfiction.net while scrolling through stuff. I think it was mentioned in someone’s post. Anyway, being on DeviantArt led me to creating a Fanfiction.net account. I posted fics on there from middle school to the end of high school, and then one more in college. From there, I moved to Ao3 and stopped using FF.net altogether. Anyway, tangent aside, if it weren’t for DeviantArt, I don’t think I would’ve gotten into writing or reading fanfiction. Both on DA and FF.net, I remember how I’d talk to other users about our OCs, what we were writing about, etc. It was really amazing to find people who were just as passionate about writing for certain fandoms and characters as I was. If it weren’t for that, I’m not sure how my writing would look now. I could go on a whole tangent about how my original writing has developed since then, but that’d take a while soooo...moving on.

Of course, I also developed a lot of my drawing and photography as well. I look back on my old art and compare it to now and think, “Wow! I did that!” Being able to show my pictures to people and create something I envisioned gave me even more motivation to get better. I wanted to reach the level of the kinds of artists who could evoke feelings from looking at their art. I’m still not at professional-manga-artist level by any means, but when I compare my old work to now, I feel proud to see how far I’ve come.

I miss those journal memes where you’d put your OCs or favorite characters into situations. (E.g. “4 and 7 are locked in a room together! What do they do?”) I miss finding fanart of anime I’d never seen and going down rabbit holes before eventually deciding to watch them. I miss the weird little badges you’d get like the Llama Badge. (I think that, by the time I deactivated today, I was up to the Super Albino Llama.) I miss making connections with other fans in ways that other sites can’t replicate.

Being a member for 12(ish) years shaped a huge part of my youth and being. I know there’s a lot of mess going on right now with DA, but I’ll always look back on those memories fondly.

#personal #nostalgia dump #deviantart

[petnews2day]

the people online who really, really hate your beloved pooch.

New Post has been published on https://petnews2day.com/pet-news/dog-news/the-people-online-who-really-really-hate-your-beloved-pooch/

the people online who really, really hate your beloved pooch.

The anti-dog movement does not advocate for the killing of dogs. That is the first rule emblazoned at the top of the r/Dogfree subreddit, where 46,000 subscribers gather every day to dream of a better world. There shall be no “suggesting, joking, wishing for, or celebrating” the destruction of canines; all cruelty, even in hypothetical terms, is a no-go. That said, you shall also not include mealy-mouthed clauses like “I love dogs, but,” or “I don’t like dogs, however,” at the top of your posts, for that demonstrates a fundamental misreading of the community. This is not a place for people who are mildly aggrieved by dogs, or who don’t like a specific dog, or who think that the frilly obsessiveness of the average Upper East Side French bulldog owner can be a little much. No, there are people on this planet who believe that our environment, infrastructure, and society would be a lot better off without the presence of man’s best friend—and once you get past the unthinkable taboo of that premise, you may begin to see that they have a very strong case.

“This is a ‘safe haven’ where our members can engage in discussion about an unpopular opinion,” said one of the moderators of r/Dogfree, when I sent him a message over Reddit. They declined to elaborate further, fearing that a media spotlight would bring unwanted attention from raving, frothy-mouthed dog lovers to their forum—naturally destabilizing the Zen. I found myself more sympathetic to this plea than I thought I’d be. It is hard to think of a single element of Western culture less controversial than dog ownership (putting the fraught question of pit bull bans aside). The owning of non-pit breeds is not a wedge issue between political parties, or an armament in the culture war, or a retrograde regional quirk. No, we have all agreed, for centuries, that owning a dog is normal, which is a consensus that has solidified despite the fact that our sidewalks are paved with feces, and that owners of canines now bring them into environments where they were previously prohibited (gyms, bars, airplanes, and so on). If you witness the purifying intensity of that paradox, as these dog-free posters have, you’d probably go a little crazy too.

The r/Dogfree subreddit unfolds like a catalog of every possible grievance in the anti-dog category. Some posts are basic, open-mic rants, detailing the ironies of pet ownership. “Fuck people who care more about dogs than people,” reads one. “I miss when dogs were pets,” pleads another. (That poster, in particular, harbors a distaste for the sort of unmarried, childless millennials who refer to their pooch as a “fur baby.”) Other regulars put forth longer, more serious tales of canine malfeasance. Here, someone snaps a picture of their cat’s unmarked grave, after it was (the poster said) tragically killed by two unleashed dogs. (“She was very gentle and very curious. She probably thought they wouldn’t hurt her.”) Elsewhere, a poster recounts a story in which they got a patron—and her pit bull—kicked out of the restaurant where they were eating. This is one of the few victories the subreddit can claim. (“I’ve lost many battles on this very subject recently so I felt really vindicated today.”)

The subreddit is popular enough to spawn a handful of sister forums, which are a little less exacting in their tone. For instance, here is r/DogfreeHumor, where you can find some honest-to-God anti-dog memes, while r/TalesfromtheDogHouse brims with personal anecdotes from those who hate dogs but are forced to live with them, often due to an unresolved tension in their marriage. In that sense, the forum is not dissimilar from r/Childfree, where Redditors gather to gripe about societal pressures to reproduce. These are not arenas for actionable political advocacy; the anti-dog contingency is not petitioning the White House or writing to their local Congress member—there is no dog-free bill moldering away in committee. The people here know they’ll be in the stark minority for life; commiseration is their only option.

“I don’t really think there are any solutions. Society has gone too far. I think the world is at a point of no return. If anyone were to suggest anything that would in any way control or regulate dogs, there would be an uproar. It would never work,” says a restaurant manager in Norway who is a frequent contributor to r/Dogfree. We’ll call her “Vivian,” because like everyone else I spoke to for this story, she wishes to remain anonymous. “I use the subreddit as a place where I can vent and feel seen and heard. Almost everyone these days are dog nutters. … I could say I hate a person and that would be OK, but saying I simply don’t like dogs and [don’t] understand the hype? People act as if you committed a literal crime.”

Vivian, like most of the people on the subreddit, can point to a specific instance that triggered her anti-dog radicalization. A roommate she shared a flat with owned two unruly hounds, and living with them, she said, leached the childish pro-canine delusions from her body. “Humans forcing dog culture down my throat only makes me dislike them more,” explains Vivian. Another poster I spoke to—a 26-year-old data entry operator named Ivy, from Bulgaria—also loved dogs as a kid, until the realities of her home country’s stray feral dog problem hardened her to Fidos of all types. (Eastern Europe, for what it’s worth, is in the midst of an unhoused canine epidemic.) “Some of these dogs were known to be aggressive and had bitten some of our neighbors, and me and the other kids knew to avoid those particular dogs,” she says. Like Vivian, Ivy found herself disgusted by the rampant inequality and precarity facing her fellow humans, while dogs lived rent-free—literally—in our heads. “Can you imagine what we could achieve if we gave that unconditional love and support not to dogs but to humans?” she asks.

These are not uncommon stories; I’d reckon that most human beings have had a negative encounter with a dog. In fact, approximately 4.5 million Americans are bitten by canines each year. (Many pit bull­–specific bans on ownership, passed in response to dog-bite stories of the 1970s through the 2000s, are still in place, if controversially so.) But a person doesn’t need to be bitten to have an uncomfortable run-in with a dog—for some, being jumped upon or chased around the yard may count. The difference is that those in the online dog-free community, unlike most people who have had a bad dog experience or two, do not believe that the pros outweigh the cons. A world without dogs, says Vivian, would be a world with less drool, less poop, less noise, and fewer allergens—which is the sort of argument that brings to mind the activists who complain about motorcycles. Here are two beloved traditions adored by a sector of the public—dog ownership, motorcycle riding —that create an unmistakable strain on those outside the immediate orbit of the hobby. The anti-dog radicals are tired of making concessions, and on paper, I can’t blame them.

“From my point of view, it is insane how dog people will literally take this animal out of its natural habitat, imprison it behind four concrete walls while they’re out at work and expect it not to go crazy,” says Ivy. “They go completely nuts in a completely unnatural environment for them and they can’t do anything about it because the dog person has taken their freedom away.”

I am likely more sympathetic to this argument than you are. A few weeks ago I wrote a story campaigning for an uncompromising canine ban in New York City because, as Ivy mentioned, I cannot think of a single more inhospitable place for an ambulatory quadruped than a Lower East Side studio apartment. I’d go as far as to say that every single dog I’ve ever met in an urban environment seems to vibrate with anxiety, and if we’re being honest, maybe some sort of backyard access should be compulsory to pet ownership. That said, there is a ruthless fanaticism to r/Dogfree that I can’t quite get behind, and I suppose that makes me more of an anti-dog moderate. One Reddit poster I interviewed laid out a list of potential balms for his dog issues, including “citations for noisy dog owners” and a euthanasia policy for any hounds that display “aggressive qualities.” (They added that they were a huge animal lover.) I also caught wind of a YouTube channel, called simply, “I Hate Dogs,” which is popular in the dog-free community and roils with an ugly rage for all forms of canine companionship (one choice video title: “Dog Lovers Are Dishonest, Delusional, Perpetual Liars”).

Now Please Allow Me to Ruin the Viral Story About the Beauty Queens Who Fell in Love

My Childhood Dream of Running Away—and Eating Like an Absolute King

What People Who Know Nothing About Tom Brady Should Know About the Gisele Bündchen Divorce

Asian Americans Helped Build Affirmative Action. What Happened?

All of this, I think, is indicative of how digital camaraderie can supercharge a whiff of exasperation into a keening, white-hot boil. It is abundantly clear that there are bigger issues facing the world than the indignities of a culture that normalizes dog ownership. But a subreddit like r/Dogfree has a way of encouraging the brinkmanship of posting—posters prodding one another further and further out on a limb to solidify their revolutionary bona fides. After 2016, everything has become factional and polarized—normalcy has gone out of style, and ridiculous, intractable stalemates are all the rage. That goes for our politics, and that goes for people who don’t like dogs.

But perhaps, someday, moderates like me will have their day in the sun. We will set aside our euthanasia mandates and curdled invective, and instead ask some commonsense questions. Why is that Siberian husky living in a 30th-floor one-bedroom apartment? Why is that Rottweiler running around the cul-de-sac unleashed? “Humans deserve better treatment in society, and dogs deserve that too—like a more suitable environment for them to be themselves,” says Ivy. Now that’s the sort of sentiment that haters and lovers alike can get behind.

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#Dog News

[maxwell-grant]

i have been watching old (and sometimes new) gmod animations and i grew up watching enough ytps to know the general idea behind them, and i recently gained a sort of fascination for them. there's something special about them that i couldn't quite put into words, but i think you got it down perfectly in your post about grand guignol. basically, thanks a bunch for that.

Well thank you! And, yeah, I pretty much grew up watching GMOD and YTP constantly and even today I still come back to those a lot when I'm restless and taking a break from work, and I think there's genuinely a lot that can be learned or discussed from them as uniquely 21st Century art forms.

I've been rewatching a lot of Raxxo's content lately and I think it was his content in particular that kind of convinced me that the "GMOD/SFM - Grand Guignol" analogy wasn't nearly as much of deranged word salad as I assumed it was, because in all honestly, if you had to try and condense his videos into a genre or definition or something of the sort, what the hell else can you possibly call this that in any way comes close to describing what you experience?

Like, all of his videos are described as "GMOD animated in SFM", because SFM is usually associated with more straightforward dramatic content while GMOD has been cartoon madness from the start (and it's fascinating to watch just how tame even the early Rubberfruit videos are compared to the kind of stuff Eltorro64 or Dr Lalve are putting out), and Raxxo is the latter in the style of the former.

And his videos are not just a non-stop barrage of brain-breaking, because they have weirdly dramatic pauses, and moments of straightforward action, or simple sentence mixing, and there's continuity between his videos, and incredibly smooth and natural gestures following by the characters stretching and deforming like jello monsters on the next second as their screams warble to drown the soundtrack and then everything's back to normal, and then they start doing things that kinda even make some sense as a narrative, but you cannot even begin explaining properly why, and I've watched these so many times that I even kinda start to see what makes sense and what doesn't, even though literally no one other than Raxxo is ever going to guess why he made the choices he did, and god these jokes must have taken hours if not days to render, why does the scretching Soldier head saying "Sputnik!" shows up in everything he does, and oh did I mention he also makes up the soundtracks he uses himself and they don't match in the slightest most people's perception of his content?

And for the finale of the Soldier Dispenser saga he created maybe the most batshit collaborative animation effort on Youtube, which is about an hour's worth of 200 animators all creating their own little batshit mini-stories in reference to his own and, seriously, who the hell could have possibly predicted something like this existing back when computer game Team Fortress 2 was announced in 2007? Or when Youtube was created?

Who could have possibly predicted something like this existing at any point in human history? Where else could anyone possibly experience this much audiovisual chaos anywhere? I can't even bring myself to watch the video in full again, but that this exists at all, and that it's far from the only one of it's kind, and that Team Fortress 2 fan content has spiraled so hard past anything the creators could have possibly predicted that it has self-sustaining meme ecosystems (Remember when smexuals were a thing? Or the Freaks?), that it's still fucking going 15 years past the game's debut, is, it's kind of a lot, is what I'm saying.

Like, I'm speaking as someone who studies a lot of pop culture and combs through it's most obscure and weirdest recesses to find stuff to write about, I'm still just as baffled by how far these things have gotten as I was when experiencing it for the first time. And you can find a lot of stories like these digging through Youtube Poop and the specific styles of certain creators or certain developing memes for franchises that grow and grow and permutate.

Think about what has to have happened to make a video like iteachvader's What'll It Be? happen.

Long John Baldry, blues musician extraordinaire, voiced cartoon villain Dr Robotnik in a Sonic cartoon. Said Sonic cartoon and performance was lucky enough to survive through Youtube clips. People noticed one of said clips of his performance has him saying a word that sounds like penis in a funny way, so they start making jokes about it, and parodies, and then literally hundreds of parodies popularizing the concept as a source of comedy, some of which take the form of music. Said music is done by cutting, remixing and splicing audio from said performance over music beats, which can be a PAINSTAKINGLY LONG PROCESS as someone who's tried doing that several times now, all this to make something with "Poop" in it's name (which I guess isn't that different from pulp writers spending weeks and months breaking their fingers to put out a novel's worth of content every month, for newspapers and magazines that were literally going to be used as toilet paper later)

These parodies catch on a bit and die out for a bit, until iteachvader comes along, and he proceeds to build a career not just by making funny parodies of said cartoon, but also knocking out genuinely really, really good musical parodies, editing voice clips of said performance to make it sound like the villain's singing (and additionally, he also creates his own tunes, and he's shown that literally every sound he uses is taken from the show, which is just, absolutely mind-boggling effort). He's also created over the years a running joke of Tails being Dr Robotnik's son that people liked enough to ask for more, and then we come to the video above, which is a song about Dr Robotnik spoiling his son Tails asking him what he'll want, which is not at all in line with how the two characters are canonically. And said remixes would eventually get remixed even further, even with crossovers with other characters or musicians, and so forth.

And that is the story of how dozens of creators working separately, and with little intent other than goofing around, single-handedly revived a dead man's music career, as the voice of the fan reinterpretation of a animated adaptation of a videogame villain, popular to the billions if not dozens of billions of views over a decade in the making, on a broadcasting platform said man didn't even live to see being created.

I think sometimes we like to think of ourselves as advanced and jaded enough that nothing surprises us anymore, and if we went back in time and showed an iphone to our great-grandparents they'd start screaming in sheer confusion. And, maybe they would, yeah, but imagine if you were Long John Baldry at any point in his life, even after he finished recording his lines as Robotnik, and someone showed up to you and explained that all of this was going to happen to you, to your voice, to your performance. Imagine if you were one of Valve's lead developers working on Team Fortress 2 during the nine years it spent in development, and someone showed you Raxxo's work and Soldier's Dispenser Quest and just, everything that had happened to characters you hadn't even fully created yet.

I imagine Long John Baldry would have taken it well enough eventually, by all accounts he was a fun person who loved to try new things, and he was an openly gay British vocalist in the 1960s when it was literally illegal to be gay in Britain, so I imagine nothing could possibly rattle his cage that deep in the long run.

But can you honestly tell me you wouldn't freak out at least a little trying to understand just what exactly the future was showing you? Can you honestly tell me your cynicism and world-weariness would be worth anything in the face of all this knowledge about what the world was going to do with your creations and work?

Can you honestly tell me, just now, that you have any idea what the hell is your legacy or reputation as an artist, or even what your art is known for, going to look like in a decade or two from now? And that things aren't going to get weirder than they are now?

I find that fact both frightening and strangely assuring at points, and exciting above all.

#replies tag #ytp #youtube poop #sonic #long john baldry #dr robotnik #kfad2 #silvagunner #iteachvader #raxxo #tf2 #sfm

[bebepac]

Ri-Liamo de Bergerac (Happy birthday Zoehanji )

Happy birthday @zoehanji​ !!!!!

Original Post date: 04/27/21 at 9:52PM EST  (4/28 where you are celebrating your birthday!!!) 

I have no idea when we started talking but we did, somewhere in the beginning of my writing journey on this site.  Even though I still consider myself to be a beginner here. Thank you for being my friend and being a fellow long distance cousin, as our relative in common would be Drama Whore!  Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha   🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

I hope you enjoy this.  I know that Fast Forward has always been one of your favorites.  

The Book:  TRH and Beyond

Pairing: Liam x Riley  /  Maxwell x Taylor  (Maxwell x F!OC)

Warnings:  Sexual Innuendo  and fluff. 

Word Count:  1889

Summary:  Maxwell and Taylor go on their first date.  Both are nervous and ask Liam and Riley for an assist.  

A/N:  This is a little similar version of Cyrano de Bergerac, not in the take that someone has a big nose, no one does, but the aspect of someone getting help in a conversation by using someone else’s words.  I did ask around to see if anyone had done something similar to this.  No one recalled of a similar story, so any similarities to anything currently on the fandom is completely unintentional.  

I also used @theworldofprompts  prompt: "All my life I've been searching for an answer as to where I belong. Then I met you and everything changed. You treated me like I deserved to be treated and you made me feel like I had a home. I don't want to lose that. I don't want to lose you." which will appear in bold.  

Song inspiration for this.  I heard this song while i was desperately needing to calm down while i was listening to the calm station on my pandora and I came across this song and enjoyed it so, so here it is for you all to enjoy too. I feel like it has a little sweet nervous energy, but then the music builds like you’re getting used to being with someone. it’s truly a beautiful piece.  

First Love by Yiruma 

I don’t own rights to the music. But i’m quickly becoming a Yiruma fan.  Every song was amazing that i heard today and it had such a unique feel.  I could pick them when they started playing on pandora.  

Riley raised her eyebrow at Maxwell. She saw him pacing nervously as he kept glancing in Taylor's direction. Taylor was completely oblivious as she had her nose buried in a book she'd gotten from the estate library.

Finally Maxwell had psyched himself up. He walked over to Taylor sitting in the lawn chair next to her.

"Hey Softie."

Taylor put down her book, as did Ellie as she was sharing the oversized lounge chair in the sun with Taylor. Both lifted their sunglasses to their hair.  

"Lord Playlist?"

"So I was wondering if you want to have dinner tonight."

"Silly Uncle Maxwell, we eat dinner every night."  Ellie confirmed matter of factly.

"What Riley Jr. said."  Both Taylor and Ellie picked up their books again, sliding their glasses back to cover their eyes.

Riley laughed to herself.  Oh my God Taylor she thought. She is absolutely adorably clueless. 

Liam laughed softly.  He gently rubbed Riley's stomach.

"Aren't you glad we're married? We don't  have to do that."

"You were never like that."

Liam blushed.  "I felt like that when I talked to you the first time. I don't even remember what I said on the street to you. I was so dumbfounded by your beauty."

"You don't remember me being so awkward, Liam?"  

Liam shook his head. "You… were perfect, is all I remember, My Love."

A light blush hit Max's cheeks.  

"What I meant Softie, was you and me alone, away from the estate."

Taylor slowly lowered the book again, her eyes slowly meeting Maxwell’s.

"So like a date?"

"I mean date is a strong word, but it could be an accurate one. Two people dressed nicely eating food together at the same table. I mean I'm not opposed to the idea if you are."

"Auntie Taylor likes food, and to dress nicely. You should see Auntie Taylor's dress for the ball. I picked it!!!!!"

"Excuse me Miss Crown Princess read your book."

"So… whaddya say Softie? Dinner tonight?"

"Sure. Riley Jr. nailed it pretty much."  

"Great! I'll meet you out front at seven."

Great."

"I swear this baby likes to just sit in there and poke my bladder for fun." Riley tried to roll out of the lounge chair she was on. “A little help Liam?”

Liam immediately jumped up to assist Riley to her feet.  

"You just went thirty minutes ago."

"You tell your daughter that."

Liam affectionately rubbed her stomach, kneeling to plant a soft kiss on it.

"Little One be nice to Mommy. She has kept you safe all this time and we still have a few weeks to go. Let Mommy relax.."

Riley had stepped out of the lavatory only a few steps when Taylor descended on her like a ninja.

"Jesus Christ! Taylor you almost scared the crap out of me, and the way this baby has my bodily functions out of whack it could have legit happened!!!"

“Ew. Riley. Gross.  Another reason I won’t procreate.  Did you see, Maxwell asked me out!!!! On a date!!!!"

Riley laughed.  "Because he likes you, and you like him."

"What are we going to talk about alone?!?!"

"You guys talk, and you are texting back and forth all the time."

"We talk in a group Riley. All Me and Maxwell do via text is meme war each other."

“Huh?”

"Our whole texting conversation… nothing but memes!!!"

She swiped on Maxwell's conversation in her phone it was nothing but pictures.

"It's okay, I'll get an ear piece set  from Nico, and help you.”

“You’d do that for me?”  

“Of course I would.  Can’t have your first date with the guy you like nothing but uncomfortable dead air.”  

“Thanks Ri.  Can you keep this between us?”

“Sure! Do you need help picking an outfit for tonight?"

"Nope, with the outfit, you kind of already did when you gave me my new wardrobe. If I can’t pick from there, I’m truly an idiot."

Little did Riley and Taylor know Maxwell and Liam were having a similar conversation.

“Liam I didn’t think she would really say yes!!!  She said yes!!!! She said yes…..” 

Then it looked like the gravity of the situation crashed into him.  Maxwell looked like he was about to hyperventilate.  

“Calm down Maxwell.  Taylor likes you.  It’s easy to tell from the trained eye.  She lets down her guard around you.”  

“What are we going to talk about?  I can’t talk about peacocks all night.  Or Memes. She’ll think I'm a complete buffoon.   I don’t even have reservations anywhere.  I asked her on a nice date and I don’t even have reservations ANYWHERE!!!! What am i going to do?!?!?!

Liam grabbed Maxwell by the shoulders.  “Get a hold of yourself man!!!!  And take a breath, your face is turning blue.”  

Maxwell took a few cleansing breaths.  

“Don’t worry about the reservations, I can handle that.  It’s good you are friends with the King and Queen.  And for conversation I can got it.  I’ll get an earpiece from Bastien, and you’ll be fine.”

“Don’t tell Riley.  She still hasn’t let go about the fact of my baby hippo tattoo.”

“Nor will I thank you for reminding me of it.”  Liam laughed loudly.  

Maxwell and Taylor left on their date.   Both Liam and Riley made excuses to not be in the other’s company for the evening.  

Both Liam and Riley were pleasantly surprised being a whisper in someone’s ear how well the night was going.  Both couldn’t stop thinking about how natural the moments between the two of them felt, and how perfect they were for each other.  

“I can’t tell you enough Taylor how beautiful you look to me tonight.  And I know you’ve had trouble seeing yourself that way when it comes to that word. But you are Taylor.”  

She heard her sister softly gasp.   Tears filled Riley’s eyes.    

Tell him Thank you, and that you wanted to look nice…. For him.”

Taylor parroted her words.

Taylor starred at the menu. None of it was in English and she had no idea what any of it meant.

I wish I had your eyes right now Riley. Taylor thought.  

The conversation was sweet and romantic. It was the perfect date.   Maxwell reached across the table taking Taylor’s hand.  

“Would you like to dance?”

“Yes.”    

As they danced,  Taylor started relaxing in Maxwell’s arms.  

“You know I have a hard time sharing my emotions sometimes. All the time..”  

“I know. And that’s okay.  We can take this slow.  There’s no rush Softie.”  

This felt familiar to Liam..  Too familiar.  He knew those words…..her words.

Riley felt the same way but she couldn’t be sure.  

Both had gotten up from their desks to investigate to see what the other was up to.  

Taylor had never felt like a moment was so perfect and what Riley said, she really felt in her heart.

"All my life I've been searching for an answer as to where I belong. Then I met you and everything changed. You treated me like I deserved to be treated and you made me feel like I had a home. I don't want to lose that. I don't want to lose you."

“Riley?”  But she had the feeling, it wasn’t Maxwell’s question.

Taylor pulled away from Maxwell.

“Liam?”  

Liam and Riley stared at each other in the hallway.  

He touched her ear feeling her ear piece and she touched his, feeling the same. 

“I knew it was you.” They both said in unison.

“I could feel your heart Riley, through the words even though it wasn’t you saying them.”  

“I could feel you too.”  

From the earpieces they could hear Liam and Riley kissing and the sounds of commotion.

“Bedroom, now?”  Liam's voice deep, rumbling with desire and need.

“YES LIAM!" Riley cried out.

"OH GOD!" Taylor shrieked.

Both Maxwell and Taylor ripped out their earpieces.  

“Well that escalated quickly.”  Max cleared his throat looking at their earpieces that were laying on the table.  “Won’t be using those for the rest of the evening.” 

“Why did you think you needed help on the date Maxwell?”

“Because I’m awkward, when I’m around you.”  

“No you’re not.  You’re funny, and really nice.  I’m the awkward one. I don’t know how to do this normally.  I’ve never had a healthy romantic relationship before.”  

“That’s okay.  I haven’t been in many relationships before either.  We can learn together.”  

“So can I be honest with you?  I have no clue what the hell I ordered.  This place is nice but it’s too much for me.  I’m guessing it was Liam’s idea?  Can we go somewhere else?”

“I know just the place.”  

Maxwell and Taylor left that restaurant, and when they got to the second place, Taylor’s smile widened.  

“Now stop me Softie if you’ve ever heard this one,  a dashing noble wearing a squid tie with an affinity for peacocks, and a Queen of Cordonia lookalike walk into a bar…….”

Date one for Maxwell and Taylor part two was them dressed up like they were going to the ball, eating burgers and drinking cheap Cordonian Beer, playing pool.  And it was perfect.. For them.

No. Dead. Air.  Conversation flowed easily between the pair.

“Wow.  I can’t believe the earpiece stayed in.”  

“You don’t think they heard anything did they?”  

“I’m sure they probably took them out.”  

"Can I ask you something?"

He could hear the slight sadness in Riley's voice. "Sure, you can ask me anything."

"Do you think I'm cool?"

Liam laughed out loud but abruptly stopped when he saw the look on Riley's face.

"Of course you are Riley."

"Then why is Ellie my sister's shadow right now?  Why do I feel like she wants nothing to do with me?"

"Riley… it's not that. This pregnancy has been rough on you.  You know how active our children are, and how active you were with them. Even while you were pregnant.  Well….Taylor fills that spot  for what you aren't physically able to do right now. Before it was me. I think you notice it more now because it is her.. But yes, it is clear Ellie adores Taylor. They have bonded and really love each other. “

"It was just so hard when I came back from California  Liam. She hated me."

"She didn't. She loved you, and it was my doing that put a wedge between you and her. She was hurting Riley. I did that to her. Not you. I’m sorry for that."

“It’s okay Liam.”  

*^*^*^*^*^*  Breakfast next day *^*^*^*^*^*^*

“How was dinner last night Taylor?”  Riley asked.

“It was great.  We went for Burgers and beers.”  

“That’s nice.”  

Liam lightly cleared his throat.

“So……..”

“We didn’t hear anything.  We both ripped our ear pieces out when we heard where things were heading.”  

“Riley you’re about to pop, how is that even aerodynamically possible right now?!?!?!”  

“Oh it’s possible!”  Liam chuckled.  “God yes it’s possible.”

“Taylor it’s like when the amusement park is about to close and you want to get on your favorite ride one last time.  Even if you’ve had too much food and you’re full and you might throw up.  You got to get on that ride one more time.”

“You went to a carnival Mommy?”  

“No, she just went on a royal scepter ride. God did I say that out loud?”  Taylor slapped her hand over her mouth.

“Oh my God!!! Can we change the subject now please?”  Liam inquired, beads of sweat were forming on his face.    

“Yes please because this conversation went incredibly awkward!”

Riley laughed looking around the table.  The adults looked like they wanted to climb out of their skins and her children looked either confused or unaware of what was happening.

Tags in the Comments!!!

#bebepac writes #birthday fics #happy birthday zoehanji #trh fanfic #trh fandom #liam and riley #maxwell x taylor #fast forward #the world of prompts #choices fic writers creations

[stark-tony]

today is my 22nd birthday so i’m celebrating by reccing 22 of my favorite fics and giving my general thoughts about them.

atla

 i'm still here by owedbetter (77.7, T, zutara) "You see me."And somehow, that makes all the difference.

thoughts: One of the first zutara fics i ever read and it’s still one of my absolute favorites. The characterization of all of the characters is superb and the gradual development of zuko and katara’s relationship is amazing.

 such selfish prayers by andromeda3116 (47.6k, T, zutara)  Katara's ambition, so long set aside for the good of others, breaks free and sets fire to her soul. Or, Katara has a vision of her canon future, casts it aside, and becomes a world-changing politician instead.

thoughts: while this fic is a zutara fic, the majority of this fic is centered on katara and her helping rebuild the world after the war and it does an astounding job of portraying just that. and honestly this probably has my favorite characterization of katara i’ve ever read in a fic.

 Southern Lights by colourwhirled (501.8k, M, zutara) A world where the Avatar has disappeared from memory. Where Sozin’s Conquest was successful. Where the unsteady order of the empire is threatened as members of the royal family are picked off one by one and lines are slowly drawn in the sand.One last chance for peace forces an unlikely alliance between a homesick waterbender, a carefree Air Nomad, a runaway Earth Kingdom heiress, and the fire lord's inscrutable son. Together they must learn to shed old enmities and become the balance they seek to restore to the world.OR:The avatar has four heads.x[[Chapter 4: "And always, his eyes, cautiously watching her. Even when he thinks she isn’t looking. It drives her mad"]]

thoughts: when i say i was unable to put this fic down i genuinely mean that. like i’m pretty sure i was hooked from the very first chapter and i never looked back.

bnha

  stickers and stars by aloneintherain (1.9k, G, gen) “Aizawa, are you sure I’m the best person for this job? There are a lot more qualified people on campus. People who have been teachers for years, and—”As All Might spoke, Midoriya Izuku crawled the length of the couch, ducked under All Might’s arm, and made himself comfortable on his lap. All Might’s hands rose into the air, as though unsure of what to with his arms now that he had a toddler curled against his stomach like a cat seeking the warmth of its owner.“Um,” All Might said.

thoughts: is it not enough to say ‘baby deku’ and leave it at that?

 Butterfly by aconstantstateofbladerunner (198.8k, T, gen) The first over-night trip off campus since the training camp was supposed to be a fun break from more intense work back home. But between a bleak introduction to chaos theory, a chilly reception from the locals, and the looming threat of a villain attack, Izuku has too much on his mind to properly enjoy the fresh air. But those worries are a light breeze compared to the hurricane that accompanies what he finds on the outskirts of town.Or rather, what finds him.

thoughts: it’s incredibly well written and the horror aspect is so good. also the dad might in it is top tier.

villain eradication plan 5C: let them attack budding heroes mothers, wait appropriate time for mother to defeat them (3.4k, G, toshinko)  Targetting the civilian families of hero students should be cakewalk. Pity they decided to go with Inko first.Or the one where Inko accidentally defeats the League of Villains.

thoughts: this fic is basically inko accidentally being a badass and it’s as hilarious and awesome as it sounds

 see it all in bloom by aloneintherain (57.2k, T,  tododeku, kiribaku, momojirou, bullying) Midoriya looked over the occupants of the room with butter soft eyes. “We should do this again. Seeing everyone in one place … it’s like we’re back in school again.”Todoroki said, “It feels like a family reunion.”(Social media fic, counting down the five months to Class 1-A's ten year reunion.) 

thoughts: this series deals with social media + the lives of class 1a after they become pro heroes and it is amazing.

 remember from here on in by aloneintherain (8.1k, G, gen) Aizawa glances from All Might to Midoriya quickly. It sounds impossible—he’s never heard of a quirk that can be handed down like a family heirloom—but at the same time, it makes perfect sense. Midoriya’s inability to use his quirk at the start of the year. The strange, familial relationship between All Might and Midoriya. The slow malnourishment of All Might’s body, like his power was being siphoned away.“You’re …” Aizawa begins.“I’m All Might’s successor.” Midoriya’s proud but shaky voice rings clearly down the empty corridor.Aizawa finds out about One for All. 

thoughts: this fic deals with one for all being revealed to aizawa + midoriya getting more quirks and it is amazing

could i but teach the hundredth part by terra_incognita (5.2k, G, gen) Ito Matsu knows three things about her neighbor, Mr. Yagi: he's very skinny, he's very kind, and he has enough children to overthrow the Japanese government.Or:All Might is retired, but his former students keep coming up with reasons to visit. 

thoughts: this fic is so lovely and i adore it so much

mcu

 the talk by parkrstark (3.1k, pepperony) “Wait, man, what’re you doin’?” Rhodey asked, leaning forward.“Giving the kid his talk before he goes off to college.” Duh.Rhodey blinked. “At 3am when you’re probably too drunk to even spell your name, months before he actually has to leave?”“Yeah.”Rhodey blinked again. “Okay.”

thoughts: this fic is absolutely hilarious and poor peter is suffering throughout all of it

 call you home by Madelinedear (19k, G, pepperony) sometimes family is who you're born with.and sometimes family is a spider boy, a rich not-dad, and a kickass aunt.(or; tony, may, and peter find a place in each other's lives)

thoughts: to me, this fic is the tony may co-parenting fic. like i honestly don’t think that anything can ever top it

I Never Lived 'Til I Lived In Your Light by losingmymindtonight (38.4k, T, pepperony, character death)  As the world shifts to make space for Morgan Stark, everyone around her shifts, too. (As it turns out, this also includes Peter Parker's sleep schedule.) 

thoughts: this fic is both fluffy goodness and heartwrenching angst and it handles both beautifully.

 Lazarus, come forth by iron_spider (47.9k, T, pepperony) Tony's mind is a chaotic mess but he remembers the moment—remembers his death, remembers the red hot pain and Peter screaming, Rhodey rushing to his side. How he knew he’d never see Pepper again—but they’d fixed it. They’d fixed the world, erased the lost time, set things right—and the kid was back. The kid was crying, the kid hated him for doing what he did, but he was back. He was alive.Tony Stark was dead. But now he’s breathing again, trying to think, gasping, hands tracing the box surrounding him, covering him, suffocating him.He’s in a coffin. He’s under the ground. He’s under the fucking ground.(Tony Stark dies defeating Thanos. But then he comes back to life. He has to find out how, why, and how to live again. And how to deal with the changes in the people he's coming back to.)

thoughts: although this fic was written and finished pre-endgame but to me this fic is the fix-it fic for film.

Identity Saga by KitCat992 (400.7k, T, pepperony) An organically developed, platonic slow-burn of Avengers-fam dynamic with a heavy hand of Irondad & Spiderson. Throw in an overdose of whump, a couple of cunning villains and a big-bad hiding in the shadows, and you got yourself this hot mess.

thoughts: i just love the avengers dynamic in this series and the whump is medically accurate which is amazing.

college applications: the biggest meme by sagemb (3.3k, T, pepperony) Tony covered his face with both hands and screamed very gently. “Can I just bribe the school to let Peter in?"

thoughts: this series is absolutely hilarious and i love it

hp  

 The Changeling + Armistice Series  by Annerb (586.6k, M, hinny, rape) Ginny is sorted into Slytherin. It takes her seven years to figure out why.

thoughts: this fic is absolutely golden and i adore it so so much. the characters are so well written and the worldbuilding in this fic is fantastic and it actually has an original aspect of hogwarts (aka the parlor) that i practially consider to be canon at this point. also the depiction of slytherin house + house unity in this fic is just *chef’s kiss*

 boy with a scar by dirgewithoutmusic (208.7k, T, hinny, romione, jily)  A series of "what if" rewrites of Harry Potter, books 1-7. Cross-posted from tumblr (ink-splotch).

thoughts: every single one of these fics are exquisitely written and i wish that i could experience the beauty of this series again for the very first time.

  Hogwarts, to welcome you home by gedsparrowhawk (FaceChanger) (11.1k, G, ginny) “You understand, Professor,” Harry began, after a moment, “that I don’t have my N.E.W.T.s. I never even finished seventh year. Between everything, I never had a chance the first time around, and then afterwards there didn’t seem to be much point. Hermione argued for it, of course, but I was so tired of Britain. So technically, I am completely unqualified for the position.”“Quite a way to begin an interview, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said, dryly.Or, three years after the war, Harry Potter becomes Hogwarts' newest Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

thoughts: this is my favorite harry as dada professor i’ve ever read. no doubt about it

 And the Unethical Binding Contract by justafandomfollower (14.6k, G, gen) AU. What if the Triwizard Tournament took place in Harry's first year, not his fourth? 

thoughts: this fic is beautifully written and i love the relationship that forms between harry, cedric, krum, and fleur.

Regulus Black and the Way Things Changed: A Not!Fic by imaginary_golux (8.8k, T, wolfstar) What if Regulus Black, and not Severus Snape, ended up being the turncoat Potions Master of Hogwarts?A not!fic written in bullet points, ignoring the Deathly Hallows entirely because they annoy me.Beta by my immensely patient Best Beloved, Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw, and by the delightful starbirdrampant.

thoughts: this fic may be ooc at some points but it’s so funny that that makes up for it

spn

 Broadway Musical by Griftings (12.5k, M, destiel) This is the day that marked the Holy and Blessed Union of Dean Winchester and Jo Harvelle.The merging of prominent bloodlines is always a grand occurrence, but breeding pedigree hunter families like Winchester and Harvelle is something to be rejoiced. It is also something to be meticulously planned, which thankfully the Host is very good at.Or, the romantic comedy where Dean Winchester and Jo Harvelle are destined to get married, Castiel is given the task of playing matchmaker and fails terribly, the entire Heavenly Host becomes a sitcom audience, God warns against male pregnancy, and Jimmy Novak is incredibly unimpressed with angels in general.

thoughts: this fic is quite possibly the single most funniest thing i have ever read. like i was straight up cackling when i was reading some of the scenes.

  Down to Agincourt by seperis (1 million+, E, destiel) There is no such thing as a guarantee when it comes to war.The outcome's known. Why try? Return your rusty sword to battered sheath, bow your head and bend your stubborn knee. Why take the field when you cannot win the war? But Harry -- he went down to Agincourt.

--Harry Takes the Field by bratfarrar (AO3 link here.)

thoughts: this fic is an absolute work of art. the characterization dean and cas and all of the ocs is astounding the world building is immaculate and the writing is so detailed and in depth. a fair warning though to the first time reader as this fic can get very confusing at times but trust me it is worth it. 

#mcu recs #atla recs #hp recs #bnha recs #spn recs #my fic recs #bullying tw #rape tw

[thurisazsalail]

I explained the Spirit banner threat today

I explained the Spirit banner threat today to a very sweet couple in their 70s. You gotta follow me a minute. There’s no boomer and ‘greatest gen’ meme stuff here. It was actually a couple hours of fun stories back and forth.

The guy’s mom was a single mom. Imagine: a SINGLE MOTHER... that means in the 1960s, almost 15 years before a woman could own a credit card -1974- because credit cards didn’t fundamentally exist yet. If you didn’t have funding, you largely didn’t eat, or you relied on a store owner *individually* approving credit when they wanted. This is the subject of 70s horror shows for a reason. See also the first episode of “Tales from the Darkside” and “Twilight Zone” reboot, “The Card.” A single mom when you could just be locked up for various shit. Damn near no social resources. Way less than what we have NOW. A single mom who was a *waitress.* Some of you are doing the math, here, and how we legally start at often HALF the typical minimum wage. (Thanks, racist white people! 1930s racist policies are why that exists!) He never wanted to see another waitress struggle like his mother had, ever.

He was so proud of his mom! It must have been late ~1960s (the 60s! Jesus, Black folks couldn’t even vote yet! Not guaranteed, really. MLK era, we’re talking.) when a real rich guy went to impress a bunch of his friends and ran her RAGGED... then tipped the modern equivalent of maybe ~$2-3 on hundreds of dollars on the cheque. She ran out in front of everyone and told him that he forgot his change. HA! Even now, that’s hard to pull off! I’ve done something like that MAYBE twice, and once I only got away with it because my boss was on vacation and it wasn’t a corporate restaurant! NO WAY someone could get away with it in the 1960s and still have a job. And a single mom doing that at the time? What a risk. Holy fuck. Thank god the guy was so embarrassed that he pulled out a stack of cash in front of people and paid her properly instead of complaining...

The guy’s wife owned a restaurant at one time herself and it was WORK. Never ending, no days off. Not one of these modern “the owner has a bunch of money and takes a tonne of the profits and goes on vacation while taking advantage of their employees, looool” restaurant owners, but a smaller-town works constantly, on-call problem solver, pitches in and does EVERYTHING  restaurant owner. She was proud (and I’m damn proud of her!) for being able to use profits during this time of year to open her restaurant to anyone who couldn’t afford meals to just stop in, eat properly, get the same service as everyone else, and relax. All people are people, and they deserve to get treated like human beings. I found out she’s left-handed like me, really likes flan, and doesn’t like to overwhelm waitresses. >D

They’re the kind of Actual Christians that are so hard to find. They just don’t go around talking about it much. I find people my grandfather’s age often tried to be, but they’re such a minority even amongst their own. I don’t look for our differences; I look for the things we agree on and emphasize them. Like every person’s right to food because we’re a great country and we have abundance. It was hard for him to reconcile how much they tried to do with how much they felt like failing that day (that foster kids in office buildings crisis I talked about on the last Spirit post? that just got way worse because of underfunding and politics, and they do some volunteer work in that field) To put it in Christian terms, didn’t Jesus say “there will always be the poor?” BUT did that stop him from feeding the masses with loaves and fish? So he KNEW that he couldn’t save everyone. But he was still trying, right? Don’t give up. Rest, but come back.

In Jewish terms, “You are not obligated to complete the work (fixing the world), but neither are you free to abandon it.” 

Ahhhh, yes, because they can’t help anyone if they burn out. Exactly! They’ve done this before. They know this already! We all just need the reminder.

We can come together on a lot of ideas. We’re really not that different.

On that note, I explained how other countries don’t just HAVE big, giant, open land like America does, so we don’t have all these big empty buildings everywhere (the ones noted for stuffing foster kids in.) And I mentioned how Spirit stores everywhere have closed this week now that Halloween is over and all the deep discount stuff is pretty much gone. There are programs everywhere in the county where even if you don’t celebrate Halloween, all the branded candy is like, 70% off or lower, yeah? Which led into this common ground of how big companies are abusing restaurant workers and other “little guys” like factory workers. These people work with some of the worst off in the county all the time. They see directly how “little” foundational things completely derail a person’s life- one missed paycheque starts a total mess of loss of vehicle, job, apartment. We’re in a right to work state, so they know anyone can be fired any time, for no reason, no recourse.

So what is this Spirit Store thing they might hear about, “I’ll put a Spirit banner on your shop!”

Relax! It’s not some new age witchcraft thing. The employee is threatening mutiny, the way ship crews threaten mutiny against a captain. It’s a warning that you’re going to disappear the way a Spirit Store folds and disappears. Treat your people right, or we don’t HAVE to work for you! Sometimes we actually pay money to go to work, paying more for transportation and childcare than we’ll make the whole day. Why not just stay home? Florida ranks ~49th in unemployment so in reality, our governor TALKS about us getting BIG payouts but actually, very few people ever see any money. Even so, whatever. Stay home. Pay fair wages ON TIME, don’t abuse us, don’t harass us, and we’ll come to work. Treat us badly all day long, and see how long you last working a big store all by yourself. All of us have value!

And of course because we have the internet now, we can show this idea to people all over the country instantly. Simply. In pictures too, so lots of people can understand it. Will anyone actually put Spirit Store banners up on shops locally? I have never seen one. But the way things are going, the threat might be enough.

#spirit store #mutiny #worker strike #general strike #intergenerational #labor movement

[fullmetalscullyy]

trying something new (with disastrous results)

summary: “It certainly sounds like you’re picking ridiculous facial hair over our dear Lieutenant over there,” Havoc baited. “I’m not.” “Then shave it off. Shave it off right now.”

an: more memes for u all. uhhh ignore canon and military rules completely. this is pure crack and just something dumb i cooked up one night. it's been sitting unpublished for months and i just found it again today lol so time to yeet it into the world. hope you enjoy!

rated: t | words: 1322 | tags: crack, roy’s moustache, bets and wagers, post-canon, humour, its roasting roy hours at central command

read on: ao3 | ffnet

“I don’t think he can do it,” Havoc mused. His chair tipped back, and he swung it gently back and forth. “I think he’ll cave first.”

“I do too.” Breda agreed with his colleague immediately.

“Hey,” Roy protested quietly.

“Sorry, sir,” Fuery added. “But I’m going to have to go with Hawkeye on this one.”

“The lack of support,” Roy muttered to himself. “What did I do to deserve such insubordination?”

“No,” Havoc interjected. “The real question is why would you want to keep that God-awful moustache over kissing a gorgeous lady?” Havoc’s arms were thrown up in the air, his question loud and incredulous.

The team muttered their agreement together while Roy’s irritation grew. However, he did notice that Riza had diligently continued to work, but was smirking to herself as she listened in. Her expression had softened after hearing Havoc’s compliment.

“It’s not that –” Roy had started to plead his case but was immediately shot down.

“It certainly sounds like you’re picking ridiculous facial hair over our dear Lieutenant over there,” Havoc baited.

“I’m not.”

“Then shave it off. Shave it off right now.”

“I want to try something different,” Roy exclaimed. “I’m allowed!”

“Something different is fine,” Breda reassured him “That thing on your face?” He pointed directly at Roy, “is not fine.”

Sighing heavily, Roy gritted his teeth. “I want to give it a try. I’ll have it for a week then I’ll remove it if it offends you all so much.” He glared at each and every member of his team.

“Shave it off now,” Havoc fired back relentlessly. “Do my eyes a favour.”

“Listen,” Breda interjected to try and diffuse the tension that was building between him and Havoc. “Keep it a week… but I do think you’ll cave before her in this wager,” he added quickly with a smirk.

Havoc leaned over their desks and gave him a high five.

The “caving in” was referring to a dumb bet they’d created. The team were against him, betting Roy would give in and shave off his new facial hair before the end of the week because Riza wouldn’t kiss him so long as he had it. She hadn’t revealed to the team her thoughts on it verbally, but they’d been able to guess through her looks and raised eyebrows alone. They knew she wasn’t fond of it.

Riza had told Roy exactly what she thought of the moustache over the weekend. Her face had screwed up and she begged him to tell her it was a joke. It hurt his pride, but he still wanted to try something different. Facial hair would make him look older, more dignified. Plus, he thought if he kept it for long enough, they’d all shut up and get used to it. Then they’d come up with this bet and all vestige of hope had gone out the window. After seeing the look on Riza’s face the night before, he didn’t doubt she’d never kiss him again so long as he had the moustache. However, Riza Hawkeye wasn’t that shallow… but now with the prospect of a bet, would she actually agree to it? Did she hate it that much? He couldn’t go a week without kissing her. He was a weak-willed man when it came to Riza Hawkeye.

He’d just wanted to try something different, Roy thought sadly.

“Imagine choosing a moustache over your significant other,” Havoc shook his head.

Roy could see the amusement on his face as he continued to push Roy’s buttons, but it was still irritating him.

“Havoc!”

“Why are you angry at me? I’m right!”

“Lieutenant Havoc is correct, sir,” Fuery cut in. “It looks that way to me too,” he admitted quietly.

“I will fire you all,” Roy growled.

“Do it,” Havoc challenged with a grin. “Then you’ll be up shit creek without a paddle,” he cackled.

“All over a moustache,” Breda mused. Then, he sat back in his chair, turning to face his superior. “I will say though, I really do admire your commitment to it.”

Riza stood from her desk and approached Roy’s desk slowly. She handed him the paperwork she’d worked through. All it needed now was his signature.

“I’m not choosing it over you,” he reminded her. He made his expression earnest, willing her to understand. He hadn’t thought about how his decision would seem until the rest of the team brought it up.

“I don’t think discussions of personal and private affairs are appropriate for the office, sir,” she reminded him.

“It’s okay, Hawkeye,” Breda called over his shoulder. “You can openly admit you hate it.”

“I’ve already shared my thoughts on the matter, sir,” she replied evenly. She was giving nothing away.

“So, do you agree to the bet Lieutenant?” Havoc raised both eyebrows expectantly. "Do you agree not to kiss him so long as he has it?"

“While that is highly inappropriate for the workplace, Lieutenant Havoc, will it at least make you all go back to work?”

Roy’s stomach dropped and dread crept up his spine. He couldn’t go a week –

“Yeah,” Havoc agreed with his shit-eating grin.

“Deal.” Her response was immediate, and Roy’s shoulders slumped. “Now, let’s make our time in here productive, shall we?”

“Gladly.”

Roy glared at Havoc, who looked like the cat who’d gotten the cream.

*          *          *

“You really won’t kiss me if I have it?”

Roy looked like a lost puppy following Riza around her apartment. His expression was forlorn, and he looked crushed by her accepting the bet.

“I won’t lose a bet.” Her tone was resolute and final. Now that the team had made it more interesting, she was invested. Plus, if it got them to actually work instead of them spending all their time teasing Roy, Riza would gladly take it.

“Riza,” he whined, sounding like a child.

“Well, you’ll just have to shave it off,” she shrugged, as if nothing else could be done.

Roy sighed heavily. He walked over to her couch and flopped down. Hayate took one look at him, cocked his head, then went the other way. Even the dog hated it.

Riza felt sorry for him. But it was awful. A thicker moustache would be better, or even a beard, but not that pencil thin one. She’d told him that and he’d haughtily told her he didn’t care what anyone thought. He wanted to try it. So, she’d shrugged and went on her way. After their day at the office today, Riza was sure his opinion had changed.

“I don’t want to lose the bet either,” he muttered. “I have my pride on the line here too.”

“Then your decision is made.” Riza sat down on the opposite end of the couch. She curled her legs underneath her, watching his side profile with a smile as he stared up at the ceiling. “May the best person win.”

It would be interesting to see the outcome. It would be hard not being so close with him for a week, but they’d had almost two decades of practice. She’d be able to last. Roy, however… It would be fascinating to see how he faired. Her curiosity was piqued now that there was a bet involved.

“Yeah, yeah,” Roy muttered to himself miserably, staring up at the ceiling.

*          *          *

He lasted two days.

“Pay up, sucker!” Havoc whooped, holding his hand out to Roy.

“I may be a sucker,” Roy agreed. “But at least I’m with someone,” he snickered.

“That was a low blow,” Havoc pouted after a brief pause, looking hurt.

“So was making fun of my moustache,” Roy countered. He gave them their money then sat at his desk. “Now, it’s payback time,” he grinned.

Havoc and Breda’s shoulders slumped while Fuery just laughed quietly to himself.

“No,” Hawkeye warned, “now it’s working time. Get to it.”

They all scrambled for their pens.

#royai #royai fic #royai fanfic #royai oneshot #emma writes #more writing for the memes #u love to see it

[bigskydreaming]

This isn't a meme thing or anything but I was wondering if you had a top ten favorite characters from books? I actually end up getting a lot of good book recs from reading your blog so I was just curious lol.

LOL I wasn't going to do this ask because I was like ugh I suck at top ten lists because I can never pick just ten. But then I thought about it for like, five whole seconds and realized I DO have ten standout characters in answer to this so its like oh hey, learned something new about myself today! Lmao.

Anyway, in no particular order:

1) Anyanwu - from Wild Seed by Octavia Butler - Can not stress how like fucking...formative Anyanwu's character was for me as an abused kid who first read this when I was like 12. The book heavily deals with the back and forth across centuries between these two immortals, Anyanwu and Doro, as Doro basically tries to control her every which way he can, and Anyanwu just defies him at every turn, and it just....you love to see it. She's a bad-ass and I adore her.

2) Prince Corwin and Merle Corey/Merlin - from Chronicles of Amber by Roger Zelazny - Yes I'm cheating but its me so you should have seen that coming. Another fave series from when I was in middle school, its ten books in total, and the first five are in Corwin's POV and the second five are in the POV of his son Merle/Merlin. So I maintain it counts. And is fine. Shhh, let it go, Elsa said so. ANYWAY, I actually probably like Merle better than his dad, because I mean, lbr, Corwin is a total asshole. But he's MY asshole, y'know? Wait, that came out wrong. Don't quote me there. But you know what I mean. Merle is a lot more level-headed, and quick-witted I think, and I like his supporting cast of relatives who want to kill him and he sometimes want to kill more than his dad's supporting cast of relatives who want to kill him and he always wants to kill, but like. Both are Valid. Also shout out to Fiona and Rinaldo, with a side shout out to Flora, who are probably my next three favorites from the series. Dara would be up there too but she knows what she did.

3) Elric/Corum/Dorian/etc - from the Eternal Champion books by Michael Moorcock - Look I'm already cheating so why not continue on a theme. But basically this counts too, I'm just saying. See Michael Moorcock's big project going all the way back to the 60s was he created a fantasy multiverse of different dimensions where this one Eternal Champion, meant to balance the scales between the Lords of Law and the Lords of Chaos, like, is reborn over and over again in different incarnations but who are all essentially him. So Elric of Melnibone, Dorian Hawkmoon, Corum I can never remember his last name.....they're all essentially the same guy.....but they're all at the same time very very very different, and they have extremely different storylines. But I maintain if you're gonna read one you kinda gotta just read them all, all Pokemon like and such forth, because the real beauty of these books is seeing the familiar traces of the Eternal Champion threaded through each of these incarnations but also contrasting how different they are from each other and like, looking at what makes them so different each time and how much it stems from their environment and situations, etc.

4) Civet - from the Dragons of the Inland Sea series by Laurence Yep - This is a kids' series, like for ages 10-12 kinda, but easily my favorite from when I was a kid. I reread them so many times, and I love pretty much all the characters from Shimmer to Thorn to Monkey, but Civet was always a standout. She's essentially a tragic character and her ending is bittersweet, but like.....she fully knows who she is and what she's about and makes no apologies for that, and she ends on exactly the note she wants to. Like, her story and her characterization was pretty damn dark for such a young-aimed series, but that's part of what drew me to it, it managed to capture the tone it set out to convey but in a completely age-appropriate way, and in an era when most books aimed at kids dumbed down most of their story concepts and themes, this one was refreshing for just being....real. Despite being blatantly fantasy. Also the Boneless King is one of the best villains ever, despite being deliberately over the top a lot of the times....idk what it was about him, but he was just chilling.

5) Jack the Bodiless and Diamond Mask - from the Galactic Milieu series by Julian May - These are linked as well because they're a couple and their stories intertwine so much that there's no real point in separating them y'know? That's my story and I'm sticking to it. But anyway, they're a weird choice for me because Julian May is hit or miss for me overall....I HATE her Saga of the Pliocene Epic, which is technically in the same universe as her Galactic Milieu series, but they have totally different vibes and the latter series doesn't contain any of the elements from the Saga of the Pliocene that I loathe, so it just works. Plus it has Jack and Diamond Mask, and like.....I don't actually know why I love them so much? They're just so different from pretty much any other characters I've ever read. Like, May does a lot of really high concept stuff across the board, but Jack and Diamond Mask are like.....high concept character wise? If that makes sense? Its okay if it doesn't. I'm literally just spitting words out here. Honestly, its hard to say anything specific about them because so much of their characters conceptually just doesn't make sense without knowing the in-universe concepts that led to them even existing, but like. They're weird and off the wall but still astoundingly human for all that and I love them.

6) Naomi Nagata - from the Expanse books by James S. A. Corey - I mean, if you've seen me ramble all the Naomi love in my live-watches of The Expanse TV show, this should be no surprise, but my love for her in the books like, exists manifold. She's great in both, but the books cover so much more content-wise, that her character has so much more room to breathe and be explored in all kinds of directions the TV show never touches on. The funny thing is, I actually prefer the TV characterizations overall....I think the authors of the books are actually pretty shit at characterization a lot of the time, but the basic thread of Naomi's character is consistent and the sheer abundance of story material she has in the books like.....keeps me going back to them even just for her. Her conflict with Marco in the books in particular just has so much more depth than in the show....like, I don't hate the show's version at all, anyone who's seen my posts there knows that lol, and I'm not actually even sure which version I actually like more in terms of that particular storyline.....but I just love that both versions are so different, while still being recognizably the same, y'know? I don't even know. Nobody knows. Its a mystery. Just nod and say yes, shh, its fine.

7) Locke Lamora - from The Lies of Locke Lamora/The Gentleman Bastards series by Scott Lynch. This is an odd one for me, because in one sense Locke is a very contrived archetypal character from an author that doesn't always pull it off as successfully as I feel he thinks he does.....like, what I mean is Locke is inherently that type of character that is SUPPOSED to push buttons and straddle a line between likable and unlikable....and to be fair, that is VERY hard to pull off without at least some of the time falling on the wrong side of that line and alienating at least some readers. But there's something very genuine or sincere feeling about the character underneath all that, which is ironic for a character who is an acknowledged pathological liar and hardly ever tells the truth....like I said, its an odd one for me because I can't actually put my finger on what makes this particular character work for me when so many similar characters just bug the crap out of me.

8) Damien - from Black Sun Rising/The Coldfire trilogy by C. S. Friedman - This one is a whole fucking lie because I don't actually even like Damien that much lmao, but the thing is, I don't have a particular fondness for any of the characters in this series? But I gotta put it on the list anyway because I just love the world in this series so much, and its practically a character in and of itself. Like, so this was a science fantasy series set on a distant planet in the future but otherwise steeped in fantasy archetypes about spirit creatures that only Adepts could see, and like, Fae and life energy and sorcery that had roots in scientific principles but was otherworldly all the same. And that's like.....all literally my jam, and so I can't deny that this series was very formative for me even if its not the best example of those concepts. Its just the one I tend to go back to the most in my mind, like....the world and its characters are very standout and larger than life for me, even if they don't specifically APPEAL to me? They're impactful all the same. Its another odd one. I'm odd. You just kinda gotta roll with it. Its a thing. Its factual.

9) Yeine Darr - from The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms by N. K. Jemisin - This was a tough one because I love literally everything by Jemisin and all her characters are just so....ooof. They're very very real, even in the most fantastical of settings. I have mad characterization envy every time I read her stuff, but like. Its so good. So really the struggle was picking one character or even two, because I mean, The Fifth Season and its sequels are easily her best known works and have a ton of fantastic characters, and I think her Dreamblood duology is vastly overlooked but in the end I had to go with The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms even if just cuz of nostalgia. Its the first of her works and when I first started reading her and so its just.....anyway, if I was gonna go with that, it had to be Yeine, because she's so central to everything and also just....fantastic. Nahadoth and Sieh are also standout characters who get mentioned a lot in talk of this trilogy, and they're both such big personalities that at times they kinda overshadow Yeine, but Yeine has such a compelling.....undercurrent to her that she never actually gets lost in the shuffle even when surrounded by all these larger than life gods, and just. You love to see it. I do anyway. And its my list so nyah. But also if you're gonna read Jemisin, read everything Jemisin. It just makes sense, y'know? Good for the pores.

10) Cayal and Arkady - from The Immortal Prince/The Tide Lords by Jennifer Fallon - All the other Tide Lords can rot, but Cayal is hilarious in a depressing way. He's a ten thousand year old immortal whose greatest wish is just to die, which is how he meets Arkady who is a historian who just wants to like....know everything he knows once she realizes he actually is the figure of legend he professes to be and is so mad at him for not really giving a shit about all the weight of history he's been present for, but Cayal's just like, umm, I LIVED it so that's why I don't care, I'm allowed to not care, that shit hurt. Did you miss the part where one of the other Tide Lords threw a fucking meteor at me? And Arkady, distinctly unimpressed, is just like....I thought YOU did that, to Jasper. And Cayal's like, no that doesn't sound right. And Arkady's just like, you literally JUST told me that story. And Cayal's like, huh. I must have been lying. I do that sometimes. And Arkady's like, I thought you never lie, that's your whole thing? And Cayal's like, ahah, but what if THAT was a lie too? And Arkady's just like, bitch I hate you so goddamn much, how are you the worst of all the Immortals while still the only one who will actually talk to me and answer my questions. Cayal's like, we may never know.

Anyway, there's my list but like there's a lot more obviously because I'm me, I don't do moderation, its against my religion, but also I have to stop some time and the ask was for ten and those were the ten that popped into my head so they must be the right ones! Probably. Until I change my mind at least.

[skrltwtch]

Muse

Prompt 1: Just like some people sleep-walk, you tend to paint or draw while in your transformed state because it calms you down. And apparently, people really like your art.

Prompt 2: A is a popular artist, and B messages them without thinking one day. They didn’t expect to become friends, and they definitely didn’t expect to become more. Person B just felt that connection between the two of them.

Prompt 3: A/Werewolf has a tendency to curl like a dog in front of the fireplace a lot (usually in their werewolf form, but it’s not uncommon for them to do it as a human). (Sources in master list)

Word count: 3,721 words

Genre: Fluff, romance, supernatural

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

I put up with the long commute to and fro between home and work for two reasons, and two reasons alone: the decent rent for a place with a picturesque view and that catered to my monthly needs, and the glut of time to catch up on my reading. And by ‘reading’, I meant ‘scrolling through the handful of social media feeds that survived my latest cull of shit that was taking up my time and storage space unnecessarily, and occasionally attempting (and failing) to pay attention to my Kindle’. Hey, at least I was aware I had a problem …?

Instagram was my first hit of the day. I flicked past images of makeup, friends in situations I wouldn’t be finding myself in anytime soon, and cute animals. The occasional meme and comic draw out an exhalation of air from my nostrils. I marvelled at artwork and photography, half wishing I were half as good as the people I followed and admired, half chiding myself for not practising either enough and losing interest quicker than I’d dropped money on new equipment in the name of my new endeavours. You could say one of my hobbies, the ones I’d been consistent about, was amassing gadgets obtained to indulge my whims and fancies.

My heart skipped a beat — or was it the pothole the bus went over? — when I came across a new post by George. I didn’t know him personally to refer to him by his first name like that, but hadn’t social media broken down boundaries between people, making them seem closer to each other than they really were? He was an illustrator whose work I chanced upon on Reddit a while back. His portfolio was a patchwork of subjects, often portraits, rendered mostly in traditional media like watercolour and oil paint. He sometimes shook things up with abstract, contemplative pieces. He had something for almost everyone. For me, it was his attractive, angular yet distinctive faces and statuesque figures, use of watercolour, and versatility: one piece could be superhero fanart, followed by a collection of moody, atmospheric paintings of the English landscape with some fantastical additions.

It also helped that he seemed to be a nice, chill person, and a handsome one at that, too, based on the smattering of pictures he had of himself on his feed. Please, let me imagine a world in which someone as ideal as him — or what I knew about him — wasn’t beholden to anyone for a moment.

His latest post was a drippy bust of a snarling wolf with full moons for eyes. The caption simply read: ‘Mood.’ I smirked as I hit the like button. Did I mention that he drew wolves a lot as well? Sometimes his wolves were feral; sometimes they were humanoid, but still wild. The latter featured heavily in his conceptual works, albeit as hazy, indistinct forms, like blurry photographs. In any case, I liked that he had a fondness for wolves and werewolves, as the constant presence of the full moon in art of the latter would suggest. Anyone who liked wolves was a-okay in my book. Anyone who liked werewolves was even more so. Because.

An interrupted connection between my brain and my reflexes led me to visit his profile. Instead of returning to my feed, my thumb gravitated toward the message button at the top of the screen. Not a single cell in my body resisted this turn of events despite the restored connection. Oh, what the hell. Why not? Like, what were the chances he’d read my message? He had tens of thousands of followers, a likely considerable chunk of them being bots aside. He must receive DMs every other minute. I’d be another sycophant in his sea of fans. Or he’d see my homely mug and locked profile, and he’d think I was driven to add to his never-ending count of unread messages simply out of misguided thirst.

The beauty of the Internet was that it made ‘out of sight, out of mind’ fairly easy to put into practice.

I got the following out of my system and into his inbox: ’Hi! Hope you’re doing well. I’ve been following your Instagram for a while, and your latest post just made me want to say your art is amazing. (I can totally identify with the sentiment behind it.) I especially love your more abstract pieces. There’s something so … raw about them. And I like that you seem to like wolves a lot, too. They’re beautiful animals, and your art really captures that about them. Anyway, keep up the great work! Take care.’

I exited Instagram, not caring about the rest of my feed anymore and not wanting to feel like I was stalking my notifications for something that’d never come. My phone buzzed with several notifications as I went down my Reddit homepage. I swiped away the banners with green icons that pelted the top of my screen. Those could wait. What couldn’t were the banners stating that I had a new message and a new follower request from —

‘Oh, my God!’ I said, loudly enough for me to hear my own voice above my music (the chorus of Walk the Moon’s ‘Shut Up and Dance’ at half of maximum volume, so … loud). Not one soul on this lightly populated bus acknowledged my exclamation — not even the woman sitting next to me. (Come on, lady, the front was mostly empty.) Thank God for technology making hermits of us all. Or my sudden outburst paled in comparison to the shit that could happen and had happened on public transport. When you took long journeys as I did every day, you’d see some real shit in due time, too.

I launched Instagram for the second time this morning (stop judging, Screen Time) and the first time ever with trembling hands. The notifications were real. I approved his request first. My mind raced to recollect anything on my profile that might make him regret his decision to let my piddling photos of food, myself, my cat, and random junk take up precious space on his feed. Nope, couldn’t think about that now, because I was now staring at an actual, honest-to-God message from George:

’Hey! Thanks for reaching out, and thank you for your kind comments. They mean a lot to me, especially what you said about my experimental stuff and wolves. They are stunning creatures, aren’t they? And yeah, I drew that last picture after a particularly rough night. You could call it a self-portrait of sorts, I suppose.’

I snorted. Change the fur colour and make the eyes normal, and it was a portrait of myself every full moon. Okay, not something I could tell someone I just met, let alone a popular artist on the Internet …

Before I could recover from the shock that my inbox held an actual, honest-to-God message from George Holden (that was his last name — the oxygen made it to my brain for me to remember that he had his last name on his profile), he sent another one: ’Anyway, how are you? I took a look at your profile, and it looks like we have quite a number of things in common.’

What, really? No way. Was it the lashings of sweet treats I subjected my stomach to every weekend? The horror and science fiction titles, celebrity memoirs, and comics, sometimes paired with an iced coffee at either a café I put down roots for the afternoon or the one-bedroom house in Waltham Forest I called home, I showcased to put forth some form of air of intellectualism? The cross-stitch projects featuring memes and popular culture icons? His profile was quite barren of anything that could provide insight into what else he enjoyed doing besides his art. Which, hey, was perfectly fine: no one was obligated to share their personal life online.

I replied, ’I’m fine, thank you. I’m on my way to work. Favourite part of my day, really. And really? Like what?’

Most of my notifications that day were from him.

✦✧✦✧

I was a bustling hub of activity in my seat: A sip of my drink. A shake of my knee. A lift of my phone. A turn of my neck. A shift of my weight from one butt cheek to the other. I was certain I was generating enough electricity to power a lightbulb in five-second intervals. I couldn’t help it. I was so, so excited — and so, so nervous. This was my and George’s first time meeting each other in person. There’d be no screen between us. Actually, what difference would that make? We’d been talking to each other for months, either through text or video calls, the latter more common in the weeks leading up to today. We’d seen each other even on our ‘I’ll put on a clean shirt, brush my hair, and hope for the best’ days. What could either one of us do in person that would irrevocably alter our friendship for the worse? Well …

The sound of someone entering the café stopped me from starting on a list of things that I could do to fuck things up. I looked up, probably the seventh time I did so in the last ten minutes. This was on me. I grossly overestimated the amount of time it’d take me to get somewhere as usual; a natural by-product of living far from the city. Seventh — probably — time was the charm: it was George — and right on the dot, too. His punctuality added to his attractiveness, which had already gone through the roof and was heading straight into the stratosphere. I bit my lip to suppress any unfortunate exclamations. He was a friend, Evelyn … just a friend, and I had no illusions otherwise.

I called out to him. He waved at me and joined me at the table I picked out for us. And the second our eyes met, devoid of any barrier between us, everything about him — and everything about us — clicked.

He was just like me.

And I was just like him.

And he was as astonished about it as I was, going by the long silence that passed between us, a first since we got to know each other.

‘Hi! Oh, my God, it’s so good to finally meet you!’ I said with a grin to break the tension. He broke out into a smile, his posture relaxing. Success. Should I go in for a handshake? No, that’d be too stuffy for a months-old friendship. A hug? No, that’d be too intimate for a months-old friendship, and an online one, too, no less. Was it obvious this was my first time meeting someone I met online?

‘It’s good to meet you, too,’ he said, his expression of cheer unabating. ‘I’m going to get myself a drink first, and then we can shoot the shit.’ His smile turned into a grin. ‘Do you want anything? My treat,’ he added as he spotted me reaching for my wallet.

‘I was thinking a red velvet muffin, please.’ I didn’t know why I didn’t get one earlier. ‘Thank you.’

‘No problem. I’ll be right back.’

As he left, my nerves turned into happiness that I met another werewolf. It was rare to meet other werewolves just about anywhere. What were the odds that two werewolves, one of whom was Internet-famous, would become friends because the other one had a brain fart one morning to send a message to the Internet-famous one? You couldn’t make this shit up. In all the years I’d been a werewolf, George was the first one I knew. I didn’t even know the one that turned me. I got bitten one night, and that was my life changed forever. I figured everything out on my own — I had to. And my puny social network of werewolves made sense: this wasn’t exactly the kind of thing anyone would advertise about themselves.

Once George settled down and courtesies were out of the way, the first thing out of his mouth was ‘I never thought I’d meet another one like me’.

I moved my chair closer to him so that we could speak at length about what we were without the fear of being overheard. ‘Me neither.’ Then it hit me, and I quickly said, ‘It’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it, though.’ Personally, I was okay with what I was. No existential dread here, contrary to what one might expect of a werewolf. It happened. I learnt to manage it in a way that made it not have any kind of significant impact on my life. I refused to let it define me. And honestly, I lived for particularly bad days that coincided with full moons.

‘Are you kidding me?’ His face lit up with boyish glee. ‘I’ve been waiting for this day for so long! As in, us meeting up in person for the first time and me getting to know another werewolf. Two birds, one stone: the only kind of killing I endorse. And I’m so fucking chuffed it’s you. I always felt like I could talk to you about anything, and now that really, really means anything.’ It was his turn to be able to power a light bulb, but in twenty-second intervals this time.

‘Same. How were you turned?’

‘I was bitten during a camping trip with friends a couple of years back. You?’

‘Secondary school. I was walking home from the library.’

‘Shit, that was some time ago, huh?’

‘Almost half my life a werewolf.’

‘Do you know the werewolf that did it?’

‘Nope. How about you?’

He shook his head. ‘Nah. Kind of sucks, doesn’t it, that you’ll never get to know the person who’s changed your life so … deeply? They won’t remember either that they turned someone. If only having kids was like that, yeah? Absolutely no sense of responsibility whatsoever.’ He gave his teaspoon a lazy twirl, causing a faint plume of milk to rise and sink into the dark, bittersweet depths from whence it came. ‘I struggled with what I’d become the first couple of months. The transformations were one thing.’ Oh, yeah. ‘I felt … grotesque. God, the amount of self-pity, like, why was I the only one who had to go through this every month when there were four other guys ripe for the picking? So, I decided to start incorporating wolves in my art to get to know and reclaim that part of me. I didn’t want to see it as something ugly. I mean, you get to experience a kind of rebirth every month. That’s extraordinary if you think about it. And I told myself that like myself, the wolf didn’t ask to be born. Ha, ha. Millennial humour. Anyway. Then the most miraculous thing happened one full moon: I woke up next to a coherent painting that wasn’t there the night before.’

‘Oh, my God.’

‘Right? My more artsy stuff? The ones I hate coming up with captions for? Almost all done while I was transformed. I’d started some of my art — bet you can’t guess which one — on full moons, too, and I finished them after I changed back. It’s as if the wolf knew we were now cool with each other.’ He took a big chunk out of his apple crumble and jammed it into his mouth. ‘Sorry if that sounded like spiritual woo-woo. I’ve been wanting to tell someone about this forever.’ Crumbs fell out of his mouth as he spoke. ‘Shit, I’m such an’ — he shot me an impish look as he swallowed — ‘animal, aren’t I? Fuck, I can make stupid references like that now, and someone would get it!’

I laughed. He was such a dork. ‘It’s not “spiritual woo-woo”. It’s amazing. How is that even possible?’

‘I have no idea.’ He held out his hands in front of him. ‘So thankful we get to keep our hands and not have them turn into paws.’ He waggled his thumbs. ‘Fuck, yeah, opposable thumbs. And I want to say it’s like when artists get high and make stuff. I do know artists who do that, and hey, no judgment. To them, I do the same thing, too.’

‘And here I am, feeling accomplished whenever I make it through another full moon without waking up in a trashed place. Seriously, that’s amazing.’

‘I think that’s what’s keeping me from losing it while transformed. I was surprised people liked those pieces when I started posting them, considering they’re such far departures from what I usually post.’

‘That explains why they’re so … visceral.’

‘Yeah? I figure you’d appreciate them even more now.’ He smirked. ‘And you know, no one really talks about my wolf art, and especially my werewolf pieces. Maybe if I didn’t make them blurry and made them more explicit …’ Oh, he’d get a different breed of followers altogether. ‘But that’s fine. I don’t want my lycanthropy to define me and my work. It’s just a part of who I am.’

‘My turn to say something possibly corny: I like your wolf art because … they make me feel seen, because they’re drawn by you.’

He put a hand on his chest. ‘That’s not corny. I’m happy my art makes you feel that way. You know I don’t care about the likes or comments. It just so happens I like drawing things that make me get likes and comments.’ He pushed his plate toward me and motioned at me with his fork to try some of his apple crumble. I obliged him. ‘Did you ever suspect anything? Not that, you know, I purposely drew wolves and werewolves as a kind of signal for other werewolves to pick up on. That’d be giving me way too much credit.’

‘No, I just thought you like wolves a lot.’

‘Same here. What you said about wolves being beautiful creatures when you messaged me the first time … that made me feel something, too.’

‘Then I’m very glad we got to be friends,’ I said. Born from the same blip in brain activity that set us on this path, my hand found itself on top of his. His touch had a pleasant, almost familiar heat to it.

‘Me too.’ He turned his hand over and clasped mine.

‘I have an idea,’ I said, mostly to distract myself from how right this felt. ‘Do you want to meet on the next full moon?’

‘Sure. I can’t wait to see what kind of inspiration will strike with another werewolf around.’

‘Your place, then?’

He nodded. ‘Unless you’re cool with me possibly trashing your place with paint and stuff. That hasn’t happened before, but who knows? What if wolf-me doesn’t like change?’

I stared at him in disbelief.

‘I can’t help it. You have no idea what kind of beast this has unleashed. Oops.’

We sat and talked in the café the entire afternoon; we took turns treating each other to food and drinks to justify our occupancy. Our conversation moved on to other topics besides the one special, biggest thing we had in common. Just like we didn’t want it to define who we were as people, we made a promise to each other, and we did so over a strawberry custard tart, that we wouldn’t let it become the foundation of our friendship from this point on. It’d be unfair to the moments we shared before this. We were friends because we cared about each other, we brought out the best in each other, we could truly be ourselves around each other, and, honestly, I didn’t think anyone else would have the patience for his goofy in-jokes.

✦✧✦✧

I lay in front of the fireplace, rejoicing in the warmth it offered on this cool night, while George was working on his newest painting. Since getting to know each other in these forms, we’d been able to exercise better control. For me, that meant greater peace of mind; for him, that meant a more refined grasp of his artistic sensibilities. As with much about our condition, we didn’t question this. What could possibly be a drawback of us spending more time in each other’s company? I now understood why animals curled up by a fire was a common sight in media and real life, too. Wait, what if this, and not George’s presence, was what I’d been missing all my life?

My tail wagging like a fiend when I felt his breath on my skin begged to differ. I licked his face. He gently parted my lips and slid his tongue onto mine. Our tongues engaged each other in a playful scuffle; the fire crackling in the background could only dream of coming close to causing the rise in temperature in the pit of my stomach. The tussle between our tongues didn’t get to turn into something more: he’d had a long night. I nuzzled him to convey reassurance. He lay down beside me and wrapped his arms around me, his hold firm yet tender. We fell asleep like this, keeping each other warm long even after the fire had died out.

We wished each other a good morning with a kiss — no, two kisses, and we got ourselves ready for the day. As we were having breakfast, George piped up, ‘Do you want to see what I painted last night, love? I’m really proud of it, and I think you’d love it, too.’

I nodded excitedly, my mouth too full of scrambled egg to speak.

He returned as quickly as he’d left the table. His hands held on to a painting … of me curled up by the fire last night. The figure was the clearest, most detailed he’d ever done; the lighting was phenomenal. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, tearing up a little, frankly. ‘I love it. It’s going to look so good in our new place’, along with the recent paintings he’d made of a similar nature. He’d come so far from the gauzy forms that once populated his attempts at capturing his — our — condition on canvas.

‘Of course, when I have the most stunning model.’ He gave me a peck on the cheek. ‘I love you, my muse, my mate.’

#exophilia #terato #werewolf #monster love #monster romance #mine #fun fact #I wrote this story in early october last year #and it's kind of truth in television for me now

[beautifulterriblequeen]

How is this that everyone thinks Ethari is the messy one and Runaan is the tidy guy?

I was thinking about this while making a stupid meme. But I finally recieved my book today (*Hallelujah chorus inserted*) and of course I already started to read it.

And what am I seeing? Rayla doesn’t know a thing (well, let’s say at least one or two) about the binding ritual, or the shadow hawk. She never saw it, only “heard” about this, she’s talking about it like legends she heard of and wasn’t even sure it was real. 

And yet, Runaan told her “you know it doesn’t work that way”.

But… arf! I may have the feeling Runaan could have, maybe… forgot to fill her in? Like “hey, little moonray, you’ll have to bind yourself, and once it’s done, you can’t cut it off. Nothing can, so beware, if you ever think about letting your target go or find something who could change everything…

And now I’m comparing this with the superbly tidy forge of Ethari, with every weapons in order, and all…

Unless you have something to prove me wrong, my new HC is that Runaan is only tidy in appearance but a real mess privately (and not only in his head when Ethari is around :3), and that Ethari is the the real one who keeps everything in order. 

:D

(sorry, two post in one day, didn’t mean to spam you but it just hit me and so I came here again)

________________

Come by all you like, @lily-lilou​. It’s all good! I’m so glad you got your copy of the book, yay!

It’s kind of a lot, huh, the difference. I feel we’re still kind of shuffling through it as a fandom, making notes in margins, flipping back and forth, maybe setting it down and watching the show again for another look at some scenes.

I think we infer Ethari’s messy habits because of his hair, which, man, he really doesn’t deserve. Look at that workshop! It’s immaculate! His desk is so perfectly tidy! Everything is so beautifully organized and mounted. This elf is a whole-ass nerd who plans his projects down to the nth degree. And then covers them in swirlies.

But everyone has a weakness. Ethari’s seems to be his hair. And his unbridled affection for his husband, really, it seems genuinely more than he can handle, since it seems to be literally killing him to have lost Runaan.

I’ve headcanoned Ethari as da Vinci-esque since before we knew his name, because his trick weaponry creations were so fabulous. But true geniuses aren’t any bigger people than anyone else. Their brains are exactly the same size. They just put all their points into INT. There’s always a trade-off somewhere. So: messy hair and uncontrollable attachment, and maybe stuff like self-worth issues, but it seems like a lot of Moonshadows suffer from that. 

The messiest thing about Ethari is his feelings, and I think a lot of us can relate to that.

On to Runaan: His appearance is indeed meticulous, but we been knew his gay disaster ass was freaking out on the daily while trying to court Ethari. Runaan only looks like he has his shit together, and he seems to work very hard at that illusion. Partly because I’m sure it’s heavily expected of him.

We also know that he’s not the sort to care about much other than his few interests. A true hyperfocusing boi here. Rayla’s history grade? Meh. Only PE matters, and she excelled at that. It does seem odd that if Runaan is so into his assassiny ways, he wouldn’t pass all that knowledge on to Rayla. Did he just leave pamphlets lying around and expect her to read them?

And here we start to tiptoe into dark territory: the book and the show don’t have to match up, and weren’t meant to match up. They deliberately changed some book scenes when they could’ve written it exactly like the show, because they had a different approach to the plot and the characters. A Unified Theory of TDP isn’t a thing. We have the show. We have this book. We have fanfic and fanart. This story isn’t a single-trunked tree. It’s a moonberry bush. Will that be confusing? Probably, here and there. I see it as getting a taste of being Moonshadow elves and having to get used to the illusion of things. Sometimes we dive all the way down into deep dark theories. And sometimes it’s okay to just enjoy the pretty reflections on the surface.

There’s probably quite a bit to your headcanon that Ethari is the more organized one, but I think each husband has his strengths and organization in different ways. Maybe Ethari keeps the house tidy because Runaan genuinely can’t grasp the purpose of a clothing hamper and goes blind around piles of unfolded laundry. Shopping lists? Probably Ethari. And he’s definitely the one in charge of the couple’s social calendar. Runaan doesn’t even want a social calendar.

But Runaan’s gonna be the one who tells Ethari to go to bed on time. He needs his sleep or he might get hurt working. Runaan’s got their garden organized precisely and keeps everything watered and fertilized, because life is precious. He’ll harvest their carrots and pick the moonberries and bring it all to Ethari to prepare.

They definitely sit together to shuck corn and shell peas, though. Teamwork makes the dream work.

Thanks again for the ask!

#asks #runaan #ethari #ruthari #runaari #elf husbands #tdp speculation #submission