#and some people just cannot fucking see it

[keferon]

The fact that Jazz could think that photochromic lenses are used as a sign of being rude with him because of cybertronian culture. And Jazz complaining to someone just to find out that he need them especially outside in order to see.

Fun fact: Because Prowl have light sensibility, he have above average night vision. The only reason to turn on the light on it's to not spooke other people who are awake at night.

Oh man ahahah

As a mech Prowl is packed with sensors. As a human he has very good hearing + the ability to see better in the dark + he knows what Jazz exactly sounds like.

Jazz has this personal quest of sneaking up on Prowl and he keeps failing MISERABLY. Like by Prowl’s standards he is not fucking stealthy ahahdkjf

Prowl: Jazz

……..

Prowl: Jazz I know you’re here. Again.

Jazz: You can’t hear me you’re wearing headphones!

Prowl, taking off the headphones: I can literally see you

Jazz: HOW? It’s dark as fuck in here. Even I can barely see anything what do you mean you just see me??

Prowl: Uh. Not exactly you. More like dark blurry silhouette that vaguely you-shaped. Also you’re really big. Which is hard not to notice

Some other pilot stumbling in the dark: Why the fuck it’s so dark in here

Jazz: Hey man

The Pilot: WHO’S THERE??????

The most successful attempt would be the moment Jazz decides to try the game of hide and seek with his tiny form. He would hide in some stupid place like under Prowl’s bed and then watch Prowl loosing his mind because Jazz is definitely SOMEWHERE around him but he cannot for the life of him tell where EXACTLY.

[magiefish]

Justine Florbelle is a remorseless sadist and Amnesia: Justine never attempts to devalue or underplay that about her character, but they also provide her with a fair bit of nuance through her backstory and her interactions with her father. Instead of treating her like a child, he treated her more like a science experiment, and in *some* way (that ranges from just off-handed comments to maybe CSA) always devalued and compared her to her mother, at least from her perspective. She's obviously insecure about it -- the whole "my beauty is blinding" bit -- and her egotism seems half-genuine and half-a defense mechanism against those insecurities by bragging about how intelligent and beautiful she is all the time. She also seems to have a close relationship and perhaps genuine affection for Clarice, though this is also tied up to a certain extent in her egotism. Above all else: she strikes me as genuinely lonely. I think its one of the things scrawled on the walls just before you escape the dungeon. She has all of this power and control, this supposed beauty and intelligence, but, at the end of the day, she is still completely isolated because, at the end of the day, she doesn't actually understand other people and they don't understand her.

Other than the horrific murder and violence, she feels like a surprisingly empathetic depiction of someone with low-empathy and/or a personality disorder because the story is genuinely invested in examining how these things not only negatively affect those around her, but also herself, which is absolutely not something you see that often! She conducts an entire batshit amnesia psychology experiment on herself in order to see whether or not there's any good inside of her and literally insults herself via recording while its happening, and even if she immediately reverts back to doing evil right afterwards, it definitely does come from a place, I think, of genuine insecurity and perhaps regret for a person she couldn't be. Furthermore, the game, via this amnesia plotline, does very much raise the question of whether or not Justine was predestined to simply be an evil person because of her low-empathy or if it was her father's treatment of her because of it that made her this way.

But, of course, there is still the horrific murder and violence, and the game never underplays that. For as sympathetic as Justine is, it never takes agency away from her by suggesting it was simply all her father's fault. She is a genuinely evil person who makes awful choices, and she is allowed to own that entirely without the story 'woobifying' or softening it in any way, without ever giving her the option of redemption or a last minute change of heart or some sort of mollifying 'maternal instinct,' while also deftly avoiding just making her a stock femme fatale dominatrix by giving her a degree of psychological complexity and even tragedy. And I cannot emphasize how rare that is for a female character and how absolutely baffled I am that it came out of a DLC for a video game released in 2011. It's fucking 2011 and these guys have more nuanced ideas and depictions of someone who might have ASPD than you guys do now! What are you doing!

STOP this is the feminism checkpoint. you have to comment something you like about a flawed female character. or explode

[7-wonders]

Seeing Ghosts

Dr. Jack Abbot x psychiatrist!reader (gender-neutral)

Summary: A case hits too close to home for you. Jack wants you to know you're not alone.

Word count: 1.9k

A note from the author: "I'm just going to write a little blurb," I say to myself. "Fucking liar!" my laptop yells at me.

I don't even know what I'm doing with this but I'm watching The Pitt and cannot get this old man out of my head! If you're reading this, I sincerely hope you enjoy!

Content warning: Mentions of suicidal thoughts

You’re on night rotations for the first time in years, taking over for Dr. Gibbons who’s out on paternity leave. Night shift has been kind to you with a fairly easy workload as your body gets adjusted to a completely opposite sleep-wake schedule, but tonight, you’re called down to the ER for a 5150. 20 y/o male, brought to the ER after his roommate found him with cuts to his wrists. He's crying as his wrists are tended to, so sure that some unseen entity is on the phone with Pitt's admissions office right now to get his scholarships revoked.

You recognize him, this young overachiever who has the weight of the world on his shoulders for no real reason other than that he feels it will all collapse if he's not the one to hold it up. Not because you've met him before. You recognize him because, at one point in time, he was you.

One of your favorite parts about your job is getting to truly connect with your patients, and you feel that one of the best ways to do that is by meeting them at their level. Sitting next to them, giving them your first name and insisting they call you by that, and, if they allow for it, holding their hands. You catch a fair amount of shit for it from other doctors (mainly those for whom psychiatry isn't their specialty), but there's a reason why your patient satisfaction scores are so high. You know what you're doing, and you know how to accomplish a positive outcome, so when Shaun Gold takes your outstretched hand, you know you've got an in.

“I understand, that you feel like you’re alone in how you’re feeling right now. But can I tell you a secret?" He nods, and you tighten your grip on his hand. "You're not alone. So many people have felt the exact same way. I have felt the exact same way."

"You have?" Shaun's face opens up at this revelation, seeing in front of him a successful (-ish) doctor who's also battled the lowest of the lows.

"Yep. And I'm not here to tell you that I never feel the way I did then anymore, because I would be lying to you. But I have the right skills now to help me combat those feelings. Therapy, and coping tools, and medication. That's what I'm trying to do for you here. Give you the proper skills so that you can be the best possible version of yourself. And maybe one day, you'll be in my position, helping to give hope to somebody who needs it. So?" You squeeze his hand, smiling when he squeezes back. "Can we help you?"

Shaun agrees, and you get him safely transferred up to your ward with a schedule laid out and a promise that you'll be back in an hour. A favorable outcome, which is all that one can ask for in this career. But it doesn't change the heaviness in your chest, which continues to press down on you even after you're back down in the ER to discuss potential care plans with Ellis. Throwing yourself back into work is normally your trick to get your mind off of a tough case—it's not the healthiest coping mechanism, but mental health is nothing if not a balancing act—and you're left searching for relief. Where's a physician to go when everything feels a little too...much? Your fellow dayshifter clued you in on just the place.

The roof of PTMC is quiet at this time of night, no incoming or outgoing medical flights interrupting your stolen moment of peace. Almost immediately, you can see why Robby finds so much comfort in being up here. Leaning against the railing, having the cool breeze on your face and watching cars crawl through the streets of Pittsburgh like ants in an ant farm...it may not comfort you, exactly, but it does help to calm you down enough that you can focus on the things you would tell a patient in your position to do: deep breathing and grounding.

From behind you comes the sound of the rooftop door opening and closing and your slow exhale turns into a harsh sigh, assuming that it's some medical student coming to find you about a drunk experiencing hallucinations. Do people not remember how to use a pager anymore?

"Fancy seeing you up here." You'd be able to pick Jack Abbot's voice out of a crowd of hundreds, and it's no different now when he's standing behind you. Your shoulders, which you hadn't realized tensed up at the threat of being pulled back to work before you're ready, loosen up almost immediately.

It was naive of you to think that Jack wouldn't have picked up on anything out of the ordinary in any of the doctors on the clock tonight. He and Robby are two of the best ER attendings in the state for many reasons, but the way that they look out for those on their teams is one of them. Ellis probably snitched, you think, before realizing that you're not giving Jack nearly enough credit for his intuitiveness.

"I've heard so much about this 'trick' from Robby, figured now was the perfect time to try it out. Sorry to steal your hiding spot," you call out, keeping your eyes focused on the lights of PNC Park in the distance.

"I'm not going to ask you if you're alright, because god knows I would hate if someone came up here, interrupted my moment of peace, and asked the same." You can't help the smile that appears on your face. "But I am...here. Y'know, just in case you feel like talking."

You recognize this language, and it makes you chuckle. "Who's the psychiatrist here?"

"Not me, thankfully."

"Saw a ghost downstairs," you supply, still staring determinedly ahead. "I'm pretty good at compartmentalizing, at separating my work life from my personal life. But every so often, a certain case comes in that just...hits too close to home."

"I completely understand."

What Jack doesn't tell you is that, the moment you saw your ghost in that student, he saw his own ghost in you. He often hears negative feedback from those in the ivory tower about how he could stand to be a little more caring to, well, everybody. Though Robby hosts some of the worst patient reviews, he has more than a few of his own.

But who the hospital administration hears from is the bad seeds. Drunk idiots, antivaxxer mothers, bigots who think they can get away with snide comments to members of the staff—the types of people for whom complaining is in their blood. They're more than happy to fill out the survey provided to them with their discharge instructions, flaming everything and everything about the hospital—but especially about Dr. Abbot, who has been called anything from "gruff and unapproachable" to "a raging asshole."

He doesn't do this for them, though. He does it for the people that can actually benefit from his help, those who likely won't fill out a survey. The young parent frantically making sure that every test and procedure for their sick child is covered by Medicaid before consenting. The unhoused man being treated on his fingers for frostbite (and who will find a warm, sturdy pair of gloves tucked with his discharge paperwork).

The veteran fresh off a tour of duty and having her first real bout of PTSD.

You found yourself caught off guard by how close you felt to this case, and in that moment, he saw himself in you.

"I've been that student before—still am, sometimes," you admit quietly, knowing Jack will still hear it. "I was always too scared of what would happen to me if people found out I was feeling this way. I was sure that I'd be judged by everyone, but especially by doctors. I had no reason to feel that way, of course, but I didn't know any better at the time. I think that's why this case got to me; I needed him to hear me, to know for certain that he wasn't alone in his feelings and that he had friends in those who would be taking care of him."

Jack's silent, but you know that's not a bad thing. When he finally speaks, his voice is closer than it was when he first joined you on the roof. "I think that's what distinguishes good doctors from great doctors. Good doctors study hard, perform quality work, and genuinely care for their patients. But the great doctors are those who allow their experiences to fuel them. Who go through pain, or heartbreak, or grief, and use those feelings to guide their work and how they treat those that come under their care. And you, my friend, are a damn great doctor."

"Thanks, Jack." You don't say what you want to, which is that he's describing himself, too. The man's trying to teach a lesson, after all, and you've seen his disdain when his lessons have been hijacked before.

"Got any plans after work?" he asks.

"Besides still trying to get used to working nights?"

He chuckles. "Can't help you there. But if you're not feeling like the walking dead come seven, I know a great diner in the area. We can share some more ghost stories, maybe. Only condition is that you can't divulge the location after we go, no matter how much you may want to sing its praises. I can't go having my favorite breakfast spot overrun by interns and residents, after all."

It's a good thing that you're still facing away from Jack, because you wouldn't be able to school your face to some neutral expression fast enough. You'd be lying if you said you hadn't carried a bit of a torch for Jack for a while—the kind of crush that's easy to sustain when you work opposite shifts and your interactions are in stolen five-minute interactions before your shift ends and his begins. If this were day shift, you know Dana would be teasing you endlessly and going on about the betting pool that's allegedly been steadily gaining money since you volunteered to temporarily move to nights.

("Garcia has twenty on you both being too chicken to make a move before Gibbons returns from paternity leave," Dana whispered to you last week when she was supposed to be giving you a status update on the Kraken before clocking out for the night. "Don't give her a win."

"I don't know what you're talking about," you claimed, cheeks burning as you focused on reading from the tablet in your hands.)

"Let me guess, the VFW?" you tease.

"Nah, their pancakes suck."

On your next exhale, when the heaviness in your chest seems to have finally abated, you turn around to face Jack. He's closer than you thought he would be, a couple of feet away at most. Close enough that you can see the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles at you. "Alright, we can go to your super secret breakfast spot. But I'm expecting world-class waffles, deal?"

"Deal."

When Jack wraps an arm around your shoulders in a loose hug, he doesn't put it down again until right before the elevator doors open on the ER. You don't mind in the slightest.

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Tomorrow

(Endverse!Dean x Endverse!reader)

Summary Dean catches you with someone else in his cabin and you get the reaction you wanted. CWs Endverse, exes to lovers, imminent death, jealousy, rough sex. 18+. 1.9k words AN I'm messing around with some different designs for my fics, let me know what you think! I think this one's my favorite. In other news, I discovered Pinterest.

Dean Winchester masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist

“Oh my God, I’ve wanted this for so long,” the guy below you – Steve? Stan? – pants as you snap your hips back and forth. Your lips are pressed together as you concentrate on your pleasure, but he keeps yapping, just won’t shut the hell up.

“Fuckin’ seeing you walk through camp,” he says, and you squeeze your eyes shut too, hoping to drown him out. “Couldn’t stop staring at those puppies.”

And just as you wonder what the fuck he is talking about, he gropes your breasts, squeezes them, and you cannot believe that this full-grown man just called your breasts puppies.

You change your angle without answering, lean backwards a little and it actually does something when you start riding him again.

“Yes,” you breath because at last pleasure is building in you.

“Shit, you feel so great,” he says, and you concentrate on the feeling in you with everything you have, but then he opens his mouth again and you simply slap your hand over it.

“Sh sh sh,” you say and keep going. He groans against your hand and then he fucking licks your palm. You pull your hand back, stop riding him and give him a shocked look. He doesn’t realize that he just made you go as dry as the Sahara desert, because he gives you a lecherous grin.

“I knew you were a dirty girl,” he pants.

Just then, the cabin door behind you opens. You turn your head, and watch Dean walk in.

He does a small double take, stares for a moment at the two naked people in front of him, then closes the door behind him. Eyebrows raised, he crosses his arms.

“Really?” he says, voice unbelieving. “In my cabin?” You shrug, expression challenging.

“Kind of had to be quick,” you return.

“Oh fuck,” the guy under you – Sal? You could swear it’s something with an “S” – says and you can guess his eyes are wide as saucers.

“I—I didn’t know this was your cabin, sir, it was dark and, and I’ve been drinking…” he stutters, then grabs your hips, starts to wrangle you off him.

With a sigh, you stand, turn to Dean, giving him a brief view of your naked body – his eyes roam over you once and you see his nostrils flare, but that’s all he’s giving you – before you pick up a shirt, one of Dean’s, that’s lying draped over the back of a chair close by. You put it on, wrap it around yourself. It’s probably not covering a lot, but then that’s not really the point.

The guy who only a second ago was balls deep inside you is scrambling, finding his clothes, which are strewn all over the cabin floor. Dean just waits, watches him, and it’s probably the most intimidating thing he could be doing. Once he’s found everything – or most of his stuff, at least – he bunches it up in front of him, only half concealing his quickly shrinking erection.

“S—sorry, sir,” he says, again, and then he opens the cabin door, still facing Dean as if he’s afraid to turn his back on him, and retreats into the night. With that pale ass, people in the camp are probably gonna think it’s a full moon tonight.

When he closes the door behind him, Dean turns back to you. He sniffs, looks pissed.

“What are the chances,” he asks, in that domineering, challenging tone he has that used to make you weak in the knees, “that this asshole isn’t gonna tell everyone he meets that he just got back from fucking Dean Winchester’s wife?”

You scoff at him, and it makes something go over Dean’s face, something that makes heat bloom deep inside you.

“You’re worried about your reputation now?” you ask, in the most condescending tone you can muster. “Kinda ironic, considering you probably still have Risa’s spit all over your dick, no?”

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it, clenches his jaw. It looks gorgeous, but it also tells you you’re not wrong. Since he knows he can’t deny what you just said, he takes a different approach.

“I have a platoon to run here,” he says, and you roll your eyes at the word. Fifty terrified survivors with a shitty survival rate hardly equals platoon. “I don’t need this kind of distraction.”

“I’m so sorry, Dean,” you say, mockery in your voice as you step closer to him, not missing how Dean’s eyes shoot down to the exposed part of your body, how he licks his lips. “If only I had known you wanted a nice little housewife, maybe we would still fucking be together. Now I know what went wrong!” Dean raises his chin, presses his tongue into the inside of his cheek.

“You’re a fucking brat, you know that?” he asks, a snarl coming over him. You scoff again.

“I’m not the problem here,” you shoot back. “It’s you and your fucking death wish!”

Dean’s so fast you barely see him move. He pins you against the wall behind you. The impact hurts a little, in the best way possible.

He’s so close, the rough fabric of his jacket rubbing against you, his expression tense, his breathing barely controlled, distant smell of whiskey on his breath. It makes you dizzy, makes you unable to fool yourself on why you dragged that guy into your former, shared cabin instead of the one you’ve been sleeping in for the last few weeks.

Dean’s hand shoots between your legs and the warmth and roughness he brings with him makes you immediately drop your head back, close your eyes and moan. His fingers explore you.

“That fucking weirdo make you this wet?” he asks, and his breathing’s picking up. No, most certainly not the guy that called breasts puppies. It’s all Dean, angry, pissed off Dean, Dean who’s mad at you fucking someone else, even though you are what for post-apocalyptic standards counts as divorced. But you’re not gonna tell him that.

You blink your eyes open, and Dean’s staring down at you. He’s terrifying and beautiful like this, like the god of wrath. You’ve missed him more than you can say and at the same time you hate him with all your heart.

“At least he had the guts to fuck me like a man,” you spit back. It’s a useless insult. First, because it’s not true, and second, the one thing that always worked well between you and Dean was the sex. It was everything else that you were horrible at.

Still, it works to get Dean more riled up. He presses two fingers into you, and you need to bite your lip because otherwise you’ll scream. It’s too much, the familiarity of his touch, his smell, his face so close. Your hands shoot down to his pants, and his expression barely changes as you unzip them, take out his hardening cock. You stroke it, too rough and Dean presses himself closer to you as a warning, but it only makes you grin.

“Fuck you,” you say and it’s all it takes to break that final barrier.

Dean has you on the bed – which is just a mattress on a shitty old and squeaky frame - within seconds. You’re both too desperate to pay much attention to getting each other’s clothes off, and while you’re already mostly naked, Dean’s clothes are hanging off him in all stages of undress. It doesn’t matter though, when he pushes into you.

You gasp, drunk on him and overwhelmed but finally fulfilled, and Dean grabs your thigh and ass to steady himself, closes his eyes for a second. You wonder if any of the other women in camp he’s fucked make him react like this, and then you stop thinking about anything as you just become a body.

You’re pulling each other’s hair, gripping hard whichever body parts you can reach. The sound of skin meeting skin is loud in the room, and at some point you slap Dean’s face. It only leads to him pinning your hands over your head before he fucks you harder, his hips driving against you so intensely you think it’s going to make your spine collapse.

Because he’s him and because there’s years of love behind you, Dean isn’t selfish. Quite the opposite – he enjoys making you come undone even more than he used to, like he’s trying to prove something. Maybe he is. Your orgasms are so violent that you think you’ll pass out.

By the end of it, you don’t know what is sweat and what is come and what is your wetness anymore. The two of you keep going until you physically can’t continue. You lie next to each other, panting. You want to storm out, but you’re pretty sure your legs don’t work.

And the other truth is, you don’t want to leave. You wish you didn’t want to stay. Wish you weren’t so afraid of being alone. But you are.

So the two of you lie there for a long time, sweat drying and cooling on your skin. Eventually, Dean gets up, but it’s only to walk over to the table, grab a bottle of liquor that was brewed in someone’s bathtub. You watch him walk back, and realize you’re trying to commit him to memory. The realization nearly makes you choke on your sadness.

He lies down next to you again, passes you the bottle first. You take it without thanks, take a long sip. Then you pass it back to him. Dean drinks, but the bottle doesn’t go far when he’s done.

“So,” you say, voice lower than you expected it to. “Tomorrow.” You can see Dean nod out of the corner of your eye.

“Tomorrow,” he says. You reach your hand out, and he passes the bottle back. You drink, then look at him, look at him until he looks back at you.

“You think we ever stood a chance?” you ask. Dean purses his lips, thinks. It’s the face he makes when he’s up against impossible odds.

“Don’t know,” he says finally, “but going up against the devil’s probably as suicidal as a mission can be. So it’s probably not looking too good.” You chuckle as you pass the bottle back to him, and Dean turns to you, confused.

“I meant you and me,” you reply. It takes a second, but a small, rueful smile spreads over Dean’s face. His gaze is soft, for a moment.

“That I don’t know either,” he says, voice low and gentle. You nod as you feel the tears coming. Fear grips you, because you’re pretty sure you are going to die tomorrow, and everyone you know along with you, including Dean. You really were ready to be done with him, but maybe your last night on earth is an acceptable reason to come back to him. Just for a little bit.

You take the bottle from him again, take a long swig, then set it on the ground next to the bed. You push yourself up and climb over Dean. His hand goes into the hair at the back of your neck, and he looks deep into your eyes. If there’s regret there, it’s too late for it.

“Tomorrow,” you say again, and then you kiss him. Dean pulls you in.

As it goes, it’s not the worst way to say goodbye to the world.

[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #16 死

† shooting range and dinner †

"When his insomnia slips out, you decide being a useful fuck buddy is part of the arrengement. Even if sleeping is not exactly what you want to do tonight."

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 9,3k.

content: jeon taking a nap in j-hope’s office and hobi having none of it, verbal fights between friends, bestie plans being cancelled, shooting range practices that feel like lame excuses to touch, insomnia confessions, sleeping arrangements where both of them fail to simply sleep.

☠ author's note ☠

Y'ALL I'M SCREAMING. Look at my boy Jeon being all emotionally constipated and sleepless and GRUMPY! I cannot with him sometimes (⁠╯⁠°⁠□⁠°⁠)⁠╯⁠︵⁠ ⁠┻⁠━⁠┻

So I'm really exposing my kinks here, but the whole "let's sleep together but actually sleep" trope is just *chef's kiss* perfect. Insomnia-ridden boy who can only sleep well with you nearby? GIVE IT TO ME INTRAVENOUSLY, THANK YOU.

And J-Hope being all "I'm your friend whether you like it or not, you stubborn asshole" is everything I needed today. Their friendship is so beautifully dysfunctional I want to frame it and hang it on my wall.

Meanwhile, you guys in the comments are like "show us Jeon's POV!" and I'm over here like "fine, take his whole entire trauma-riddled brain, are you happy now?!" The answer is yes, you're all trauma vultures just like me. No shame in our game.

I had so much fun writing the shooting range scene though! That whole "let me adjust your stance" trope where they're basically just looking for an excuse to touch you? ICONIC. I will never get tired of it. Sue me.

And don't even get me started on that dinner scene. Jeon actually eating with another human being and not hating it? CHARACTER GROWTH, PEOPLE!

Sorry for leaving you hanging with the spicy bits but... actually no, I'm not sorry at all. The slow boil to explosion is the best part and I'm savoring every moment of your collective suffering (◕‿◕✿)

See you next chapter, you magnificent disaster enablers!

⚔ socials ⚔

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

"Again, Jeon?"

J-Hope's voice hits him as soon as he walks in, but Jungkook can't bring himself to care. His body feels heavy, mind foggy with exhaustion.

The medical ward has become too familiar lately—the sharp smell of antiseptic, the soft hum of medical equipment, the way the afternoon light filters through the blinds.

He grunts in response, already making his way to his usual spot. The stretcher's not comfortable, not really, but it's better than lying awake in his own bed.

"You can't come here every afternoon, you know. I have shit to do and your snoring is not precisely helpful."

Jungkook almost rolls his eyes. He doesn't snore—never has—but arguing takes energy he doesn't have.

"Then put some background music."

"You—"

He doesn't wait for J-Hope to finish, just rolls onto the stretcher, facing the wall. The vinyl covering is cool against his arm, and somehow it's grounding... perhaps in a way he doesn't want to examine too closely.

"Are you for real right now? This is the third day in a row you're taking a nap in my office."

"You said yourself I should nap from time to time." His voice comes out muffled, face half-pressed into the thin pillow.

"Yes, but not in my goddamn office!"

The silence that follows is heavy.

He can picture J-Hope without looking—probably pinching the bridge of his nose, that look of exasperated concern he gets whenever Jeon's being particularly difficult. He hears the medic's chair creak as he leans back.

"Look, Jungkook." The use of his real name makes something in his chest tighten. J-Hope only uses it when he's about to say something Jungkook won't like. "I don't wanna be the one saying this to you, but you need to get your shit together."

"Well I am trying to fall asleep right now." The deflection is weak and they both know it.

"That is not what I mean you dimwit." There's that familiar mix of frustration and worry in J-Hope's voice. "Believe me, I'm glad you're finally trying to get some proper rest. But this—in my office? Just why."

Jungkook quiet, hoping J-Hope will drop it. He doesn't want to think about why he keeps coming here, why his own room feels too empty, too quiet. Why he can't sleep unless he can hear someone else breathing nearby.

(He definitely doesn't want to think about how he slept better in that tent, with y—)

"Jungkook."

Not his real name again.

Something in him snaps.

"Fine. I don't fucking know, okay?" The words come out sharp, defensive. He glares at the wall like it's personally offended him. "I just seem to sleep better in company."

"In company?" He can hear J-Hope's brain working, trying to piece together this new information. "Okay, what—? Elaborate right now."

"No."

The word is final, heavy with all the things he refuses to say.

Like the nightmares that wake him up gasping. Or how silence fucking makes his skin crawl. Or how being alone with his thoughts is becoming unbearable.

About how he hasn't had a decent night's sleep since—

"Whose company, Jungkook? This isn't about little bed-hopping habits, is it?"

It's offensive, the question, really.

But all he does is stare at the wall, trying to ignore how his mind immediately conjures up images of you. Of how he actually slept through the night in that tent.

No nightmares, no cold sweats. Just... sleep.

Four fucking years of insomnia, and the solution was this s̶t̶u̶p̶i̶d̶ simple?

"No, it's not." His fingers curl into a fist against the stretcher, leather creaking under fingers—and the sound grates on his nerves, already frayed from lack of sleep. "I ain't talking about it. Drop it, Hoseok."

Using J-Hope's real name now is a low blow, but Jungkook is too tired to care. He just wants to test his theory—see if sleeping near someone, anyone, will keep the nightmares at bay. He doesn't need J-Hope playing therapist, doesn't need him picking apart why this might be working.

Because that would mean thinking about you, about that night, about how for the first time in years he actually felt—

No.

"I'm your friend, Jungkook. And as a member of the Council of Nine, I have to know if anything... or anyone is becoming a weakness."

Jeon almost laughs.

A weakness? No. This isn't about feelings. This is about finally getting some fucking sleep without having to relive—

He cuts that thought off too. Focuses on the antiseptic smell of the medical ward, the equipment, anything but the memories threatening to surface.

J-Hope's concern is misplaced. This isn't about compromising the gang or breaking rules. It's about finding a solution to a problem that's been haunting him for four years.

So if sleeping near someone help? Fucking fine. He'll take what he can get.

Even if it pisses him off that it took this long to figure it out.

"There is no fucking weakness, you got that?" His eyes feel like lead weights in his skull. "I just need some goddamn sleep. I've gotta be sharp for the mission. That's all you need to know."

He can feel J-Hope's eyes on him, searching for cracks where light would shine through.

There's none.

It's been a long time since there's none.

But the medic knows too much, has seen too much. Was there that night when everything went to shit, when V—

"And after the mission? What then? You keep coming back here for your afternoon siestas or are you gonna be sleeping with that company?"

The implication slices through without sugarcoating. There's another word hovering in the air between them, pressing down on the air like a goddamn vacuum.

Traitor.

It sits there like poison, like the taste of copper in his mouth from that night.

Jeon pushes himself up, muscles tense, anger corroding his veins. His head is pounding from lack of sleep, making everything sharper, harder to control.

"I'll deal with it when it comes. Besides, who the fuck will notice? You gonna bitch about it to the rest of the crew?"

"Watch it, Kook." The use of his nickname is a warning, one that would mean more if he wasn't so fucking tired. "I'm trying to help you, not rat you out. But if you become a liability..."

"I ain't no fucking liability."

He's on his feet now, wrath burning through the exhaustion. His fists clench until he can feel his nails biting into his palms.

The suggestion that he'd risk the gang again, that he'd let himself be compromised like that... He does not appreciate it.

It makes something dark and ugly twist in his chest.

"You think I don't know the stakes? You think I'd let myself become another Sylvia episode?"

"Surely you're more intelligent than that."

The words hit exactly where J-Hope means them to. Because yeah, everyone thought he was intelligent back then too. Look how that turned out.

Jungkook holds J-Hope's gaze, something ugly settling in his chest.

For a moment, he considers telling him about you, about this arrangement that's purely physical—no strings, no complications, just a solution to his sleepless nights.

But the words catch in his throat. Because J-Hope isn't just asking for himself, is he? He's asking for AD too. AD, who still carries Sylvia's ghost like an open wound, who took her death even harder than he did.

Who trusted her, protected her, only to watch her choose Jungkook—and then watch her die for that choice.

The guilt sits like lead in his stomach. He can't do that to AD again. Can't make him watch from the sidelines as another woman gets tangled up with Jungkook, always wondering if history's about to repeat itself.

The weight of Sylvia's death is still a chain around his neck, dragging him down every time he closes his eyes.

So he swallows the truth, lets it burn on its way down. This thing with you—he'll handle it himself. Keep it contained. Control it before it becomes something he can't take back.

His face settles into careful blankness as he meets J-Hope's searching look.

"I fucking am. I don't need your nagging."

It's not even a lie. This isn't like Sylvia. He won't let it be. You're different—safer. You know exactly what this is.

"You sure you don't?" J-Hope's voice rises. "Because from what I recall, you've been a messy piece of shit ever since she's gone."

Something dark and ugly coils in Jeon's chest. "Watch how you sling that shit at me, J-Hope."

"Keeping an eye on it, always. Seems we all gotta tiptoe with our words 'round you, huh? Drop one mention of her, and you're all about throwing punches, no thoughts, just rage. Done you a lick of good, has it?"

"Shut your mouth!"

The words rip out of him before he can stop them, raw and ragged.

Because J-Hope's right, and that's what makes it hurt so much.

Four years, and he still can't hear her name without feeling like he's drowning in it all over again.

"Pull yourself together, Jeon!" J-Hope's voice cracks with frustration. "You've been haunted by those fucking nightmares since she died, and now what? Using someone else's body to quiet them down? Jumping from one disaster straight into another and expecting me to just watch?"

Jungkook's eyes feel like they're burning. "No one's asking for your fucking two cents. Always sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

He wants J-Hope to hit him, to hate him, to stop looking at him with that mix of concern and disappointment.

So his next words are not something he's proud of. But something he feels he needs to do.

"Why don't you go find a bottle to crawl into?"

It's a low blow, and he knows it. Watches J-Hope's hand shake, sees the muscle jump in his jaw.

"Don't you fucking go there, Jeon." The warning in his voice is clear. "I see what you're doing—spiraling because you're losing control. But I'm not playing that game. I'm not V."

"Right, you're not." Jeon's laugh is hollow, bitter. "At least that bastard's honest about not giving a fuck about anyone but himself."

"Jesus fuck, Jeon. You're not the only one carrying shit, you know that?" J-Hope's laugh is all broken glass. "Is that what you want? Me to knock your teeth in? You think that'll fix whatever's going on in that fucked-up head of yours?"

"Whatever. I don't give a shit."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day you'll actually believe it. Pushing everyone away—that's about the only thing you're good at anymore."

"Don't need anyone. Do just fine on my own."

"Really?" J-Hope's voice is sarcasm. "That why you're trying to sleep in my fucking office?"

"Fucking hell, man. Just drop it and let me rest. I'm not digging into your shit, am I? Let me handle mine." His voice comes out raw, desperate, and he hates it.

"You might not see it, but some of us actually give a shit about you, you stubborn asshole." J-Hope's voice softens, and that's worse somehow. "I might share that council seat with you, but I'm also your friend—whether you like it or not. I'm worried, okay? This isn't how you deal with your demons."

Jeon closes his eyes, exhaustion settling into his bones. "Maybe it's exactly how I deal with them."

Maybe he deserves them.

He doesn't say that.

"It's a shit way of dealing with anything, Jungkook." The softness bleeds out of J-Hope's voice, and something in Jeon's chest loosens.

Anger he can handle.

Concern?

That's harder to dodge.

"Fuck, I'm not watching you spiral down that rabbit hole again. You can hate me all you want, but I won't stand here and watch you self-destruct. Not a second time."

"I get it. Like I said—not your cross to bear."

Jungkook can feel J-Hope's eyes on him, cutting through his bullshit like always.

"Fine, Kook. Hoard your secrets. But the moment it fucks with the mission, you're answering to me—and the Council."

Jeon knows that tone. It's not just a threat—it's a lifeline J-Hope's throwing him, begging him to get his shit together before everything falls apart.

The anger sits like acid in his chest, but he swallows it down.

This isn't about him and J-Hope anymore. This is about the mission. About the gang. About not letting his f̶e̶e̶l̶i̶n̶g̶s̶ weakness compromise everything like last time.

"Got it," he mutters, dropping back onto the stretcher and turning to face the wall. The stone is cold against his face, grounding in its indifference.

Behind him, J-Hope's chair scrapes against the floor as he turns back to his work. The sound is harsh, angry.

But it's okay if he's angry. Better that than worried. Better that than watching Jeon like he's a bomb about to go off.

"Fucking Sylvia," J-Hope mutters.

Then, silence drops.

For all his crankiness, J-Hope won't kick him out. Can't, maybe, because under all that anger is the same guy who dragged Jeon's drunk ass home after Sylvia, who patched him up when he picked fights he knew he'd lose.

J-Hope's right to be worried—secrets in Kkangpae have a way of turning lethal. One wrong move, one slip, and everything goes up in flames.

Again.

(But this thing with you isn't like Sylvia. It isn't. He just needs to figure out how to sleep through the night without—)

Jeon closes his eyes, lets the antiseptic smell of the medical ward fill his lungs.

Maybe if he lies here long enough, sleep will finally come.

Maybe this time, he won't dream.

𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝟻. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛.

The message glares at you from your phone screen, all business and no explanation. Typical Jeon.

𝙹𝚎𝚘𝚗?

．．．

𝘚𝘦𝘦𝘯

Great. He's seen it and can't be bothered to reply. Fantastic.

You stare at your phone, trying to will a response into existence. Nothing. Just that stupid "seen" mocking you. It's like talking to a brick wall, except the wall probably has better communication skills.

Jeon and his one-word texts. The man's got a gift for saying absolutely nothing while still managing to ruin your plans. You had a whole evening of doing absolutely nothing planned, and now? Now you're apparently going to the shooting range. Yay!

You toss your phone onto the bed; angry, petty. It bounces once, screen still lit up with Jeon's oh-so-eloquent message. His profile pic is just a blank space. Of course it is. God forbid he show an actual human emotion. Or, you know, a face.

With a sigh that could probably be heard three floors down, you drag yourself to the bathroom. For once, it's empty. Small mercies, right?

You tie your hair back into a ponytail, all business. Can't have stray hairs getting in the way when you're handling firearms. That's a safety hazard or whatever. Plus, you know Jeon would probably lecture you about it.

Mr. Safety-First-Unless-It's-About-Emotions.

The mirror shows you a face that's equal parts annoyed and resigned.

This is your life now—dropping everything because Jeon decided to grace you with a whole six words. Six! He's feeling chatty today.

You stare at your reflection, wondering for the millionth time how you ended up here. Not just in a gang, but at Jeon's beck and call. The man's like a black hole—impossible to ignore, drawing you in whether you like it or not.

(You like it. You hate that you like it.)

Time to go play with guns, apparently. Because nothing says "fun night out" like potential bullet wounds and Jeon's silent judgment.

This better be good, you think. But with Jeon? It's always a toss-up between mind-blowing and mind-numbing.

Guess you'll find out which one it is tonight.

You finish tying your hair back and grab your phone, typing out a quick message to Yunjin. Your fingers hover over the keys for a second because ugh. You were actually looking forward to dinner with her.

𝙲𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛. 𝙶𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖. 𝚁𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔?

The card reader beeps when you swipe your ID, sound echoing through the empty hallway like some ominous warning bell.

The elevator ride feels like you're being delivered to your doom, each floor passing with total indifference to your impending crisis.

Ding.

Third floor. You step out into a corridor that feels way too quiet. Your sneakers barely make any noise against the floor, which just makes your heartbeat sound louder in your ears.

You reach the shooting range and—because you're not a complete idiot—you don't just barge in. Instead, you peek through the reinforced glass window like some s̶t̶a̶l̶k̶e̶r̶ cautious person.

And fuck.

There he is, in his own little world of violence.

He's wearing his usual dark t-shirt, fabric's stretched across his shoulders in a way that's honestly unfair for every other man. His combat pants are doing that thing where they show off every muscle without being obvious about it, and his boots are planted like he owns the ground he's standing on.

He hasn't spotted you yet. He's too focused on the gun in his hands, handling it with the kind of familiarity that reminds you he does this for a living. The protective gear—ear muffs and glasses—should make him look dorky, but nope. In your brain that simply catalogs as hot.

Each shot he fires is like... well, it's like watching someone who knows what they're doing. Which, you suppose, makes sense.

The recoil doesn't even phase him—his body just absorbs it like it's nothing. Spent casings hit the floor with little metallic pings, and you find yourself weirdly fascinated by the way his fingers adjust on the grip between shots.

(You're definitely not thinking about what else those fingers can do. Absolutely not. That would be unprofessional.)

You watch him reload—movements quick and methodical—like he could do this in his sleep. Probably has, honestly. This is Jeon's comfort zone, after all.

You step inside, and it hits you again how different the air feels in here. Smelling like gunpowder and that underlying tension that always shows up when you're around him.

Jeon doesn't turn around, too focused on whatever target he's destroying. You can't help the little smirk that tugs at your lips because finally—a chance to catch Mr. Perfect off guard. He's so zeroed in on his shooting that he might actually not notice you for once.

(You should know better by now, but hope springs eternal or whatever.)

Your sneakers don't make a sound on the rubber floor as you creep closer. You're already planning it—maybe a sudden clap, or yelling his name. Something to make him jump, even just a little. The thought sends this weird thrill through you, like you're about to get away with something.

You take a deep breath, ready to execute your master plan, when—

"Don't even think about it."

Motherfucker.

He doesn't even turn around. Doesn't move a muscle. Just keeps standing there like some statue of Perfect Shooting Form, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

It's not fair how he does that—makes you feel like you're being predictable without even looking at you.

"You got radar in your head, or what?" you ask, trying to play it off like you weren't just caught being an absolute child.

Your voice comes out light, playful, which feels kind of wrong in a room designed for practicing how to kill people efficiently. But that's kind of your whole thing with Jeon, isn't it? Finding these little moments of tomfoolery in between all the violence and duty.

Sometimes you wonder if he lets you get away with it because he needs those moments too.

Jeon turns around, and as usual, there's this look in his eyes. Could be the fluorescent lights, could be him being a smug bastard.

He sets down his gun with this final-sounding click that somehow makes the room feel too quiet.

"Let's just say I've got a good sense of when someone's lurking in my blind spot."

The corner of his mouth twitches, and you're starting to think he practices that almost-smirk in the mirror.

You watch as he moves to the gun rack, all fluid movements. He picks out this pristine semi-automatic that gleams under the shitty range lights like it's showing off.

"Come on." His voice drops the playful edge. "If we're going to have your back in the field, you need to be able to hold your own. No hesitation this time."

This time.

The words bring back memories of your first shooting lesson with him—how your hands shook, how the gun felt too heavy with the weight of what it could do. You weren't ready then.

But now, with this mission hanging over your heads like a guillotine, you don't have the luxury of not being ready.

You step forward, closing the gap between you. When he hands you the gun, his fingers brush against yours, and even that tiny contact sends electricity up your arm. The metal's cold against your palm, but you grip it like you mean it. Like you're not thinking about how those same hands felt on your skin just days ago.

"Good." He nods, and something warm unfurls in your chest at his approval. "First, your stance—it's all about balance. Feet shoulder-width apart, one foot slightly ahead of the other."

You follow his instructions, hyper-aware of his eyes on you. It feels like being under a microscope, but like, a really hot microscope that you maybe want to kiss again.

You plant your feet, trying to look like you know what you're doing.

"Now, grip. Not too tight—imagine holding someone's hand. Firm, but you're not trying to crush it."

He moves closer, and suddenly the air feels thicker. His comparison makes your brain short-circuit because now all you can think about is holding hands, which leads to thinking about holding other things, which—yeah, nope.

Can't think about that. Not while you're holding a deadly weapon.

His hands come up to adjust your grip, and it should be clinical. Professional.

But there's this undercurrent of something between you, like static electricity looking for a place to ground itself. Like every little touch is loaded with meaning.

You find your rhythm with the breathing, in and out, as Jeon steps back to give you space. He's watching you with that unreadable expression of his, but his eyes are intense, like he's trying to will you into not fucking this up.

"Align the sights." His voice drops low, and fuck, it shouldn't affect you when he's teaching you how to shoot people. "Focus on the front sight—everything else is just background noise. Breathe in, breathe out, and on the exhale—that's when you squeeze the trigger."

You narrow your eyes, zeroing in on the target downrange.

It's not just a paper outline anymore—it's a test.

Another thing you need to prove you can handle in this life you've chosen.

You let out a slow breath, and with it goes some of that nervous energy that's been making your hands shake.

Right now it's just you, the gun, and this need to show Jeon—and yourself—that you're not out of your depth here. That you belong in this world of his, even if it's just at the edges.

The shot cracks through the air like a whip, and the recoil hits your palms. It's jarring but real, solid proof that you're actually doing this. That you're becoming whatever it is you need to be to survive in Kkangpae.

Jeon gives you this little nod, like yeah, okay, maybe you're not completely hopeless. But then—oh. Then his mouth does this thing, curling up at the corners into what might be the most dangerous smile you've ever seen.

"Good job."

Two. Words.

Just two fucking words, but the way he says them—all low and pleased—makes heat pool in your stomach.

It's not fair how he can do that, turn a simple phrase into something that feels like innuendo, voice wrapping around you like smoke, seeping into places it has no business being.

You're starting to think weapons training with Jeon might be hazardous to your mental health. And not for the obvious reasons.

Because the fucker is not just hot—though fuck, he absolutely is—he's something else entirely.

The way he handles a weapon, the easy confidence, how he makes everything look so effortless? It's doing things to you. Things that have nothing to do with training and everything to do with how his hands looked wrapped around that gun.

"Let's try again. This time, focus on consistency. You want to be able to replicate that shot every time."

He moves behind you, and suddenly breathing becomes severely underrated.

You try to focus on the target, but your brain's too busy cataloging every tiny detail—how his breath stirs the baby hairs at your nape, the way his chest is just shy of brushing against your back.

You take a deep breath to steady yourself, but that's a mistake because now all you can smell is him.

Pine and wood and leather.

Jeon.

The gun feels heavy in your hands as you line up another shot, and your attention is split between the target downrange and the way Jeon's presence seems to fill up all the space around you.

The shot immediately cracks through the air, perfect center mass.

You should feel proud—and you do—but mostly you're trying not to think about how close he is, how easy it would be to lean back just a little...

Because you know he's all business, laser-focused on getting you ready for the mission. Completely professional. But there are these tiny tells—the way his fingers linger when he adjusts your stance, how his eyes sometimes drift from the target to your face, staying just a second too long.

It's driving you insane.

Like there's this invisible line neither of you is willing to cross first, even though you both know exactly where this tension is heading.

You've been there before, after all. That night in his tent wasn't that long ago.

You lower the gun, trying to ignore how your hands are shaking—partly from adrenaline, mostly from something else.

The way Jeon's looking at you right now.

"Just like that. Keep it up."

You manage a nod because words? Not happening. Your throat's too dry, and honestly, you're afraid of what might come out if you open your mouth.

Another shot rings out, and you can't help wondering if Jeon feels it too. This crackling tension that makes your skin feel too tight. Or maybe you're just losing it, getting all hot and bothered over a man who's literally just teaching you how to shoot people.

"Reload. Keep your focus sharp."

He hands you a fresh magazine, and your fingers brush against his again—and honestly?

This isn't fair.

You're supposed to be learning important gang shit here, not mentally cataloging how good his hands feel.

Your brain keeps replaying every tiny touch, every moment his body was pressed against yours while "correcting your stance."

Which, by the way? Totally unnecessary.

You're pretty sure proper shooting form doesn't require his chest being that close to your back.

Focus, you tell yourself. You're here to learn how to handle a weapon, not daydream about handling... other things.

You need to prove you belong here, that you're more than just another recruit who can't keep it in their pants around the hot Chief.

(Even if said Chief is making it really hard to think straight right now.)

You grip the gun tighter, channeling all that frustrated energy into your next shot. The bang echoes through the range, and you pretend it drowns out the voice in your head that keeps suggesting alternative uses for this private training session.

The magazine clicks into place with maybe more force than necessary, but whatever. You're determined to get through this without embarrassing yourself. More shots follow, each one a desperate attempt to focus on anything except how good Jeon looks when he's in instructor mode.

(It's not working, but at least you're hitting the target.)

You're about to take another shot when something catches your eye.

Jeon looks... off.

There are shadows under his eyes that makeup can't hide, and his movements are slower than usual.

Most people wouldn't notice, but you've been trained to spot weaknesses.

"You look like shit."

The words slip out before your brain can filter them. Because you're such a professional, apparently. But now that you've started digging this hole, might as well keep going.

"When's the last time you actually slept?"

Dark eyes snap to yours, and you swear something raw flutters behind his eyelashes. Doesn't last long-as never anything really does with him. The walls come slamming back up.

"I'm fine."

His tone screams drop it; the voice in your head screams 'don't.'

Good thing you've always been good at hearing yourself first.

Besides, this isn't exclusively about him anymore.

You set the gun down, turning to face him fully. "Look, I get it—we all have our shit. But if you're walking around half-dead, that's not just your problem. That's how people end up getting killed."

He gives you a death stare, and you're pretty sure he's about to pull rank and shut this conversation down. But then he exhales, and something in his posture just... gives.

"Insomnia's an old friend." An admission that comes out rough, like he had to force the words past his defenses. "Been dealing with it for years. It doesn't affect my work."

"Bullshit." You shouldn't push, but your mouth's apparently on autopilot today. "You slept fine in the tent—"

His eyes narrow, and okay, maybe that was too far. But you're not wrong. You remember how peaceful he looked that morning, no trace of the tension that's radiating off him now.

"That was different."

His voice drops low, warning you away from this topic.

But there's something else there too—like maybe he's trying to convince himself more than you.

He doesn't deny it though.

So you nod, letting the subject drop. But you tuck that little piece of information away like a secret—Jeon sleeps better when he's not alone. When he's with you, specifically. You're not sure what to do with that knowledge yet, but it feels important somehow.

Silence falls. You turn back to the range because it's easier than trying to decode whatever's happening here.

The gun in your hands is simple, straightforward. Point, shoot, repeat. No complicated feelings or midnight revelations to deal with.

You cycle through the weapons Jeon's laid out, each one different but serving the same purpose. Pistols feel natural now, like they belong in your grip. Shotguns still kick like a mule, but you're getting better at handling them. Each shot echoes through the room, filling the space where words should be.

It becomes almost meditative after a while. Load, aim, breathe, squeeze. The routine helps quiet your mind, pushes away thoughts of Jeon and sleep and whatever's going on in that cold brain of his.

You're here to learn how to stay alive, not psychoanalyze your Chief's sleeping habits.

When you switch to the rifle, you can't help sneaking a look at him. He's lurking in the shadows like some kind of sexy gargoyle, watching your every move. Even exhausted, he's still intimidating as hell.

But there's something different about him now—like seeing him tired makes him more... real. Less Chief of Tactical Assassinations, more just Jeon.

The rifle's recoil brings you back to reality. You line up another shot, remembering everything he's taught you.

Breathe in, hold, squeeze, exhale. The bullets hit close together, forming a tight group that would definitely ruin someone's day. Jeon gives you this tiny nod that shouldn't make your stomach flip, but it does anyway.

The sun's starting to set, painting the room in long shadows. Empty casings litter the floor around your feet like tiny brass confessions. Neither of you has said much, but somehow it's not uncomfortable.

You've learned two things today: how to shoot better, and that Jeon trusts you enough to show you some of his cracks, even if he doesn't mean to.

You're not sure which lesson is more dangerous.

(Probably the second one.)

You start packing up, going through the familiar motions of cleaning and storing the weapons.

"It's getting late," you say, mostly to break the silence.

When you turn around, Jeon's standing there with his arms crossed, staring at nothing. Or maybe at something only he can see. He doesn't react to your voice, like he's been aware of every move you've made since you started cleaning up.

The lighting in here is shit, but it's not bad enough to hide how exhausted he looks. The shadows under his eyes are getting deeper, more obvious. You think about what J-Hope would say if he saw Jeon like this—probably something cranky and concerned wrapped in medical jargon.

"If it helps," you start carefully, like you're approaching a wild animal, "we can sleep together again. No bullshit—just sleep. Seems like you could use it."

For a second, his face goes completely blank. It's that perfect mask he wears when he's processing something he doesn't want to deal with.

Then—there.

His shoulders drop just a fraction, like someone's loosened a wire.

"I don't need charity."

The words come out defensive, but they're missing that sharp edge he usually uses to keep people at a distance. You recognize deflection when you hear it—you work in the Seduction Division, after all.

"It's not charity." You click the last weapon case shut, buying time to choose your next words carefully. "Consider it... part of our arrangement. We're no good to each other tense or half-awake."

The silence stretches out so long you start to wonder if you've fucked up. Maybe you pushed too far, got too personal. But then he nods, just barely, like he's trying to convince himself he's not giving in to anything.

"I'll think about it."

His voice is gruff, but there's something else there—a hint of relief, maybe. Like you've given him permission to want something he thinks he shouldn't. You pretend not to notice how his eyes linger on you as you finish packing up, like he's already made up his mind but isn't ready to admit it yet.

You glance at the clock, and shit—it's really fucking late. The castle gets quiet around this time, most people already finished with dinner or working night shifts.

Speaking of dinner... you were supposed to meet Yunjin, but someone had to drag you to impromptu target practice.

A thought hits you, and you can't help the little smile that tugs at your lips. It's probably stupid, definitely pushing your luck, but...

"By the way," you say, closing the weapons case with a satisfying click. "Since it's already so late... How about grabbing some dinner together at the cafeteria?"

Jeon looks at you like you've just suggested robbing a bank in your underwear.

There's this tiny flicker of surprise in his eyes that would be funny if it wasn't kind of sad. Like the concept of eating with someone is completely foreign to him.

"Dinner? I eat alone."

His voice is flat, but it's as though he's actually considering it, even if he'd rather die than admit it.

"I know, but it's late." You shrug, going for casual even though your heart's doing this weird skippy thing. "Few people will be there, and I had plans that got... rearranged."

You give him a pointed look because hey, this is technically his fault.

"Don't feel like eating by myself."

He stares at you for what feels like forever, face doing that blank thing he does when he's processing something unexpected. Then his mouth quirks up at the corner.

"I don't usually do dinner dates."

You actually laugh at that. "You wish.Think of it as a tactical debriefing over food. Can't strategize on an empty stomach, can we?"

His smirk gets a fraction wider—the Jeon equivalent of a full grin. It's rare to see him look actually amused, and something warm unfurls in your chest at being the cause.

"Tactical debriefing, huh? That's a new one."

"Come on, Jeon. It's just dinner." You try to sound nonchalant, like you're not weirdly invested in his answer. "Besides, you're probably starving after all that shooting."

He does that thing where he goes all still, like he's running risk assessments in his head.

Finally, he nods. "Alright, but this isn't a habit we're starting."

"Of course not, you have a reputation to maintain, thundercloud."

You can't help the smirk as you head for the door. The nickname slips out before you can catch it, but whatever. You're already in deep.

"Not like anybody would believe you anyway, sunshine." He rolls his eyes, but follows you out.

The way he says sunshine—like it's both an insult and something else—makes your stomach do a little flip. But you're not going to think about that.

This is just dinner. Just two gang members having a totally normal, professional meal together.

The walk to the cafeteria is weirdly peaceful.

Neither of you says anything, but it's not that awkward silence that makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

It's just... quiet. Your brain's still processing everything—the training, the arrangement, the fact that you're actually going to dinner with Jeon of all people.

The cafeteria's practically empty when you walk in. Just a few night owls scattered around, most of them looking like they're running on coffee and spite.

It's nice, though. No curious eyes, no whispers. Just the soft hum of the air conditioning and the distant clink of dishes.

The buffet spread looks like heaven. Your stomach reminds you that you haven't eaten since lunch, growling at the sight of steaming bulgogi and kimchi jjigae. The castle chefs don't mess around—everything looks magazine-worthy, even at this hour.

You load up your tray like you're preparing for hibernation: bulgogi because duh, japchae because the noodles here are actually insane, kimchi fried rice because comfort food is a thing, and those spicy braised potatoes that make your mouth water just looking at them.

Jeon, for his part, goes straight for the protein—galbi ribs, bibimbap loaded with meat, and bossam like he's got something to prove.

You're about to head for a table when you catch him adding even more bulgogi to his already meat-heavy tray.

"Got enough protein there?" You can't help the teasing tone. "Or are you planning to feed a small army?"

Jeon's mouth does that thing where he's trying not to smile but failing.

"I need to keep up my strength." His eyes flick to yours, dark. "Never know when I might need to pin a smartass against a wall."

The laugh that escapes you is only partly nervous. You lead the way to a corner table, far from the few other diners. It feels weirdly intimate, having dinner with someone who usually eats alone.

The food works its magic. You feel the day's tension melting away with each bite, and even Jeon looks more relaxed. That permanent frown he carries around is smoothing out as he tackles his galbi like it's his division's target.

"Holy shit, this is good," you mumble around a mouthful of noodles.

The chefs here could probably work in any five-star restaurant, but instead they're cooking for a bunch of criminals. Life's weird like that.

Jeon makes this little grunt of agreement, cheeks full like a hamster's. He swallows before speaking because apparently assassins have table manners.

"Only decent perk of this place."

You fall into comfortable silence after that, both focused on demolishing your food.

It's strange how normal this feels—just two people sharing dinner, like you don't kill people for a living, like you haven't had your hands all over each other hours ago.

"That rifle technique you used today was solid. Got good instincts."

Coming from Jeon, that's practically a love letter. You hide your smile behind another bite of food, but can't resist poking the bear.

"Well, I have a good teacher. Even if his people skills need work."

He snorts, stabbing another piece of meat with maybe more force than necessary.

"I don't coddle. You get better by doing, not talking."

"True, but positive reinforcement helps too." You gesture with your chopsticks. "I'm only human, thundercloud."

The look he gives you could melt steel. One eyebrow goes up, and there's something dangerous playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Hmmm. Almost sounds like you want to be coddled, sunshine."

The way he says it makes heat pool in your stomach. Because that wasn't about teaching at all, was it?

You laugh to cover the way your breath catches. "In your dreams, Jeon."

You ball up your napkin and throw it at him, which he catches without even looking because of coursehe does.

Show-off.

"Still," he says, ruining the moment like he's allergic to peace, "your reaction time needs work."

"I'll keep practicing." You shrug, aiming for casual. "Can't have you worrying about me in the field."

"Who said anything about worrying?" But his eyes give him away—that split-second flicker before his face goes blank again.

"Oh please." You wave your chopsticks at him. "You were watching me like a hawk in there. Probably counting my breaths or something equally anal-retentive."

He just shakes his head, suddenly very interested in his food. But you're on a roll now, feeling brave or stupid or both.

"Admit it, you care about my progress." You lean forward, grinning. "It's almost sweet."

Jeon looks up then, and oh. His gaze is intense.

"I care about not getting shot because you can't handle your weapon, sunshine."

You can't help yourself. Really, you can't. "Mhm? Thought I was getting better at handling weapons, thundercloud."

His lips twitch, just barely, but you catch it. It's fascinating, really, how you've somehow stumbled into this easy back-and-forth with him. How beneath all his sharp edges and your sass, there's this... thing.

This rhythm that shouldn't work but does.

Dinner's winding down, and you notice something different about Jeon. The tension he usually carries—the one that makes him look like he's ready to snap someone's neck at any moment—has eased up. Even his face looks softer, less murder-y than usual.

"This was... not terrible," he says, like admitting it physically pains him. His eyes meet yours across the table. "The food, the company... both exceeded my low expectations."

"Oh my god." You press a hand to your chest, going for maximum drama. "Was that a compliment? Should I call J-Hope? Are you feeling okay?"

He snorts, and there's this little uptick at the corner of his mouth that you're starting to recognize as his version of a smile.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't get used to it."

"Too late." You stand up, gathering your plates. "I expect this level of praise at every meal now. Maybe we can work up to actual sentences by next week."

"Don't push your luck, sunshine." But he's still got that almost-smile as he gets up too.

"I mean, you already admitted you don't hate my company. That's practically a love confession by your standards."

Jeon shakes his head, but there's something soft in his eyes.

"You're really something else, you know that?"

"So I've been told."

You drop off your dishes, and both head for the elevator, falling into comfortable silence.

You reach for the elevator buttons, aiming for the fourth floor where your room is. But Jeon's arm suddenly appears in your peripheral vision, his chest almost brushing your back as he leans forward. There's this tiny pause—blink and you'd miss it—before he hits the button for the fifth floor instead.

You turn your head just enough to catch his eye, raising an eyebrow. No words needed.

You both know what this is: him taking you up on that offer to help him sleep. Simple as that. Like picking up takeout or scheduling target practice.

The elevator starts moving, and holy shit why is it so slow? The silence should be awkward, but it's not.

Maybe because you both know exactly what this is. No bullshit, no complications. Just sleep. Like you said in the training room—you're no good to each other half-dead from exhaustion.

It's probably stupid, spending the night with your Chief. But you've already crossed that line in his tent, and honestly? If sleeping next to you helps with his insomnia, then whatever.

You're already fuck buddies—might as well be helpful ones.

The doors finally open to the fifth floor, and Jeon steps back. He's giving you space, making it clear this is your call. Which is... weirdly considerate, actually. You step out because why not? This isn't some dramatic decision. It's practical. Logical, even.

The walk to his room feels longer than it should. Your feet are dragging because yeah, you're fucking tired. Today's been a whole thing—training, dinner, and now this weird arrangement that somehow makes perfect sense.

Jeon stops at his door, giving you one last look. Checking if you're sure, probably. You nod because duh. This isn't complicated. You're both adults who sometimes fuck and apparently now sometimes sleep (just sleep) together.

The door clicks shut behind you, and you get your first look at Jeon's private space.

So this is where the Chief of Tactical Assassinations sleeps. You can't help but snoop—it's basically in your job description as a member of Seduction Division.

The room is... exactly what you'd expect from Jeon, honestly. It's like someone took his personality and turned it into interior design.

Everything's black, white, or gray, like he's allergic to color. It matches his whole aesthetic—the guy who sees the world in shades of gray, making calls about who lives and who dies. Maybe the monochrome thing is some kind of metaphor. Or maybe he just really likes black.

There's this massive king-sized bed against one wall, all black sheets and dark gray duvet. The bed's made diligently, but you can see the slight wrinkles that mean he's actually slept in it. Unlike some people who just have fancy beds for show.

Next to it is this super minimal nightstand with just a lamp and—oh. An ashtray. Right. His stress-smoking habit.

The furniture could be from one of those fancy minimalist catalogs. Everything's black wood, clean lines, no fuss. There's a dresser that probably holds his endless supply of black t-shirts, a desk that looks barely used, and a chair that seems more decorative than functional.

What really gets you is how empty it is. No photos, no personal stuff, nothing that says "someone actually lives here."

It's like a really expensive prison cell or one of those model rooms in furniture stores.

You spot a door that has to lead to a private bathroom, and fuck, that's not fair. You're sharing a bathroom with like five other girls while Mr. Chief here gets his own shower? The perks of rank, you guess.

The floor's spotless—like, you could probably eat off it. Not a speck of dust anywhere. The whole place is as buttoned-up as Jeon himself, like maybe if he keeps everything perfectly ordered, the rest of his life will fall into line too.

"Well, it's very... you," you say, because what else can you say about a room that looks like it was decorated by a very organized ghost?

"I don't need anything else." He shrugs.

You hover by the bathroom door, suddenly feeling weirdly out of place. Being in Jeon's private space is... different. Not bad different, just different. Like seeing your teacher at the grocery store, except your teacher is a hot assassin you occasionally fuck.

"Hey," you start, trying to sound casual, "mind if I grab a quick shower first? I always wash up before bed, especially after training." You scrunch your nose. "Pretty sure I don't smell like a spring meadow right now."

Jeon's eyebrow does that thing—that infuriating arch that makes you want to either kiss him or kick him.

"What, you saying I stink, sunshine?"

"We both worked up a sweat today, cloud." You roll your eyes, but you're fighting a smile. "No judgment, just stating facts."

He jerks his head toward the bathroom door. "Go ahead. Towels and shit are in there."

You can't help yourself—really, you can't. As you pass him, you throw out: "Maybe take a page from my book and grab one yourself after. You know, freshen up a bit."

The snort he lets out is almost a laugh. "Watch yourself. I don't take orders in my own quarters."

But his eyes are doing that thing where they get all dark and playful, and you know that look.

Intimately.

"Just a suggestion between... friends."

You draw out the last word, letting it hang there like bait. Because that's what you are now, right? Friends who sometimes sleep together. And sometimes fuck. But tonight's just for sleeping.

(Sure it is.)

"So pushy." His smirk should be illegal. "What, you wanna shower together now? Could've just asked, sunshine."

You roll your eyes because it's easier than admitting how tempting that sounds. "You wish, thundercloud. I can handle washing myself just fine."

You head for the bathroom, but pause at the door because apparently, you hate yourself.

Glancing back over your shoulder, you add: "But you know... my back is kind of hard to reach..."

"Nice try." His voice has dropped lower, rougher. "But we said only sleeping tonight. Go get cleaned up. I'll be here when you're done."

The way he says it—like a promise and a threat wrapped in one—makes you seriously reconsider this whole "just sleeping" thing.

The bathroom is exactly what you expected—black and white everything, minimalist as fuck. It's like the room outside but with more tiles and chrome.

You turn the shower on hot enough to steam up the mirrors and step under the spray, letting it pound against your shoulders.

The water pressure is amazing. Of course it is—Chief privileges and all that. Your shared bathroom on the fourth floor can barely manage a decent drizzle, but this? This is heaven.

You take your sweet time, enjoying the luxury of a private shower where no one's going to bang on the door telling you to hurry up.

When you finally emerge, wrapped in one of Jeon's obscenely fluffy black towels (seriously, where does he get these?), steam billows out behind you like you're making some dramatic entrance. Your hair's twisted up in another towel, water still dripping down your neck.

You feel Jeon's eyes on you before you see him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, and the weight of his stare makes your skin prickle.

His face is doing that careful blank thing, but his eyes? They're giving him away.

"Shower's free," you say, aiming for casual even though the tension in the room is thick enough to choke on. "You know, if you want it."

He just makes this low humming sound that absolutely does not make heat pool in your stomach.

Instead of moving, he just... looks at you.

His eyes track down your body, slow and deliberate, like he's memorizing every inch.

Like he's thinking about what's under that towel.

You refuse to squirm under his gaze. Two can play this game.

"Like what you see?" You cock an eyebrow, channeling your inner seductress (which is technically your job, so).

His mouth curves into that dangerous almost-smirk. "Maybe I'm just waiting to see if you'll drop that towel."

"You wish."

You turn your back on him (which is definitely not just an excuse to give him a better view) and head for his dresser.

The drawers are organized because of course they are. You find his t-shirts, all neatly folded like some department store display.

"I'm borrowing this," you announce, grabbing a shirt that looks big enough to work as a dress. You glance over your shoulder, catching his eyes again. "Unless you'd prefer me naked?"

His smirk grows, and fuck, that should be illegal.

"Be my guest."

The invitation in his voice makes your skin feel too tight, but you're not giving in that easy. This is a game of chicken now, and you're not about to lose.

Even if losing sounds really, really tempting right now.

You unwind the towel from your hair and toss it at Jeon, aiming for his face but hitting his chest instead.

"Just sleeping, remember? Go shower."

The towel slides down his front, and you catch this tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth—like he wants to smile but his reputation won't let him.

He stands up in that way he does, all fluid grace and barely contained power. Without a word, he heads for the bathroom. The door clicks shut, and soon you hear water running.

You grab his brush (because of course he has one, Mr. Perfect Hair) and start working through your damp hair.

It's weirdly domestic, sitting here in Jeon's room, wearing his shirt, using his stuff. The brush is probably expensive—it glides through your hair like it's made of silk or something.

Speaking of his shirt... You pull it on, and fuck. It smells like him—pine, wood, and smoke.

The fabric drowns you, hanging off one shoulder, falling to mid-thigh. There's something stupidly thrilling about wearing his clothes, like you're getting away with something.

Once your hair's somewhat tamed, you twist it up into a bun. The mirror catches your eye—one of those full-length ones that probably cost more than your monthly salary. You can't help checking yourself out, tugging the shirt down a bit because apparently, you still have modesty or whatever.

That's when you see him in the reflection.

Oh.

Jeon's fresh out of the shower, water still beading on his chest, towel riding low on his hips like it's trying to start something. He's got another towel in his hands, drying his hair as he sits on the bed, but his eyes?

His eyes are locked on your ass like it's his favorite meal.

The mirror gives you a perfect view of his face, and holy shit. The way he's looking at you—it's not subtle. At all. His gaze is heavy, hungry, like he's thinking about all the ways this "just sleeping" arrangement could go very, very wrong.

(Or very, very right, depending on your perspective.)

The temperature in the room spikes, and it's definitely not from the shower steam. You can practically feel the heat of his stare through the mirror.

So much for keeping things platonic tonight. A smirk tugs at your lips as an idea forms. Because if Jeon wants to play this game?

Well, two can definitely play.

You reach up to your bun, pretending to mess with the hair tie.

Oops—it "accidentally" slips through your fingers, falling to the floor with a silent grace that would make your Seduction Division trainers proud.

"Oh no," you say, channeling your best innocent voice. The one that fools absolutely no one but works anyway. "How clumsy of me."

You turn your back to Jeon, and fuck, you can practically feel his eyes burning into you.

Bending down—slowly, because you're nothing if not thorough—you give him a view that you know from experience he can't resist. The borrowed shirt rides up just enough to be interesting.

You take your sweet time "looking" for the hair tie, even though you can see it right there. Your fingers trail across the floor like you're putting on a show, which... yeah, you absolutely are.

When you finally grab it, you throw a look over your shoulder.

Jackpot.

Dark, obscure eyes pin you in place. Absolutely hungry. You'd bet good money that towel isn't hiding much anymore.

"See something you like?" Your voice comes out honey-sweet, but there's nothing innocent about the way you're looking at him.

Before he can compose himself enough to answer, you straighten up and sashay over to the bed. The sway in your hips isn't natural, but who cares about natural when it makes Jeon's breath catch like that?

You slip under the sheets, turning away from him because you're evil like that. The mattress dips as he lies down next to you, and you have to bite back a smile.

"We should get some rest." You keep your voice light, casual, like dismissing every inch of space between you. "Long day tomorrow."

He makes this grunt that could mean anything, but you know him well enough by now to recognize the sound of him wrestling with his self-control.

You can picture his face—brow furrowed, jaw clenched, probably glaring at the ceiling like he wants to shadowbox with it.

You wait, barely breathing.

Maybe you read this wrong.

Maybe he's actually planning to be good tonight.

Maybe he really does just want to sleep.

That's fine. Totally fine. This was his idea anyway, right? Just sleeping.

You're about to give up, admit defeat, when the mattress shifts.

Jeon rolls toward you, and suddenly his chest is pressed against your back, all heat and hard muscle. You fight back a shiver as his hand finds your hip, his thumb drawing lazy circles that make your skin buzz. His breath fans hot against your neck, and fuck, this is so much better than sleeping.

"I need to ease some tension, sunshine."

His voice is pure sin, rough and low right by your ear.

Heat pools in your stomach as you roll onto your back, meeting his gaze. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel how much he wants this.

"Oh?" You hold his stare, watching his control slip. "I thought you'd never ask."

You're definitely not getting much sleep tonight.

But hey, that was kind of the point, wasn't it?

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[tuttle-did-it]

That’s fair. I was talking specifically about the iconography and image of Dietrich when I was talking about queer-coding. Sorry if that was not clear. Because Janeway is using the image of her— in this case, an identical suit that at the time was quite a big deal for Dietrich’s character. So I was saying Janeway is using the queered IMAGES of Dietrich and K Hepburn— the images so recognisable as queered. They are both so queered they infused their characters— and therefore images— into queer-coding. And their iconography— their IMAGES within popular culture —-not just the actors themselves, but the instant images people tend to think of when they think about the actors— are queered.

It doesn’t help that both Dietrich and K Hepburn were immaculate Dandies. So their imagery— a mere picture of either of them— is automatically queered. This is what I meant when I said the line you quoted. Because these iconographies of these actors are beyond what the actors perform them as. Even in an image— or even just social memory of them— it evokes specific queer-coded imagery.

And I’m glad you enjoyed the post. Killing Game is certainly worth reaching after you’ve watched a few of Dietrich and K Hepburn’s films. Mulgrew knew what the fuck she was doing as soon as she put that suit on. NO ONE can convince me Mulgrew did not realise how much she looked like K Hepburn, and I’d be dumbfounded if she didn’t know her suit was a Dietrich replica. Because her body language, her affected speech, her eyes drilling into people’s souls in the space of an atom— it’s all too intentional in these episodes specifically. Does she do it elsewhere? Yes, but not to this extent. It was absolutely performative.

And by using these famous queered images, Janeway/Mulgrew as Janeway— queer-codes herself.

If you’ll forgive a metaphor, and you’ve seen Pleasantville, and seen the people in Technicolour— and the moments where some people are in colour and someone right next to them is monochrome. That is what it is like for me to see queers in old Hollywood. Main character, guest star, background actor— does not matter.

Watching old Hollywood queers in film, it’s like everyone else is in monochrome, but because the queer actors have so much more to dig into, and bring so much more to their characters, it’s like they are the ones in colour in a sea of monochrome. They just inject their characters with a little more life in them than most of the straight actors do. They’re not trying to be in colour— they just are.

Their characters just ARE more visible, more layered, more of a spectacle, more evocative. You cannot look away from them.

At least, I cannot.

the white suit tho

[biancadoes1]

I've seen a loooot of people say that Luke is just living his life with A and none of the leaks/pap walks were staged. While Nicola is a bit too obvious so people can see through (and Jake just cannot give off more than friend/lil bro vibes)

this is obviously a theory, but I think Luke had some kinda relationship with A at one point, and based on his response to not wanting to be in touch with exes, I don't think he's super comfortable with having to continue this fake relationship with A anymore so we get the weirdest PDA/pap walks and he has to recruit family an friends to help.

Nicola on the other hand seems like she actually enjoys Jake's company as her friend, he's worked with her pals before so it's easier for her

Luke doesn’t seem like he’s into this at all and that’s why we rarely see anything. Like I said before it’s more believable when he doesn’t show up with Antonia at all because when he does, he looks mad uncomfy.

Nicola and Jake are actually friends so it’s easier but the vibe is straight up siblings.

Sorry, the longer this goes on the more fake it looks. I seriously have to consider that they know this and they’re working towards a conclusion to the side piece narrative because it’s become a fucking joke atp.

I also think Nic and Luke are the ones being held back rather than them willingly holding it back. Because atp all they have to do is say “we’re together we want privacy though” and then proceed with life.

So there’s something involving them and Antonia and Jake are legit just getting perks and payment.

Which, honestly? Get your bag. That’s a sweet gig. I fully believe it’s on a time limit though.

[sinisterexaggerator]

OK, my main issues with the Bane arc are as follows, while some can be explained away with headcanons or critical thinking skills, lol. Still. They bother me because it left US to do the work and did not properly elaborate on the how or why, or the who these people are even?!

Bane takes his style from a mentor who we don’t see his relationship with him at all yet are supposed to believe he cared about him within his five minutes or less of screentime. Cared enough to take up his hat and his mantle. I get he was left in charge of the gang, but they didn’t show that either, yet his guys come to pick him up once the transport arrives?? Then it’s straight to the Police Station? I have no doubt Bane would look up to someone who gave him a roof over his head when he was homeless and was starving, but I just wish we had seen more. Why he cared so much about his passing.

He ditched his friend right off the bat for a guy he just met. I mean, I guess it makes sense he could do that for his love of credits, and his fear of the cops, but that was the first betrayal, and it was Bane betraying Niro and not the other way around.

Arin was cool enough in her own right but the very first scene we see her she is already holding her stomach like she preggo. She was worried from the outset about telling Bane she’s knocked up, and that’s all she was there for—to serve as a plot device between two men.

The fact she leaves Bane for his best friend turned enemy after they meet one time. Did you even love Bane? And of all the people to marry, why Niro? Is it because of closeness to Bane you chose him? Is it because you didn’t want your child to grow up a bastard and fatherless? Smells like teen pregnancy and a shit situation for a girl caught between a rock and a hard place.

Thug / cop / good guy / bad guy trope with a love interest caught in the middle so cliché and overdone and did not like, tbh.

Why was Bane so delulu about Arin wanting to see him after being in prison for so many years and no one heard anything about her or seen her? Yeah, we can say he didn’t get messages in prison, but really?? No one told him anything??

Niro says she died a few years ago—did she die while “giving birth?” Did passing that huge ass egg kill her?

WHY DID THEY HAVE TO KILL HER OFF SCREEN?

Colby. I cannot get behind the name Colby, I am sorry. I see people’s reasonings for their acceptance of it and just no, not for me.

Why was he already called Cad? Why no backstory as to why he renamed himself Cad Bane? Shouldn’t there have been a lead up to that? It’s literally just a nickname he goes by? How unoriginal. I expected more.

They did not show how he got so good with blasters. Did Lazlo teach him offscreen somewhere? I suppose we’re supposed to guess or use inference here, but not all viewers are that smart HAHA.

Where did he get the accent from all of a sudden? Did he steal that from Lazlo too? Kid Bane didn’t talk that way but all of a sudden young adult Bane does.

The whole “you took everything from me” bit is still kind of a weird thing to say. I know fandom is explaining it in different ways. I just have to assume he means his freedom, his girl, his right to vengeance, his right to choose in terms of Arin stopping him from another duel and that it was stolen out from under him. But that’s not Niro’s fault??

They never explained “why” Arin couldn’t tell Bane. Was it because she was afraid of what he would say? Again we have to assume here. Of course the man would be conflicted, and he’s a known hothead.

Why did they say he got off on a technicality?? Are murderers not given life sentences in Star Wars?? Why not a prison break scene—much more fitting. Lazy writing, imo. But. They only had so much time I guess.

What the fuck was the point of making him a dad?? Are they going to revisit this in the future? Is he going to have—god forbid—a redemption arc?? Is he going to have to face-off against his own kid, and maybe show just how much more of a bastard he is ( hope so )?

This story in and of itself did not convince me of why he is the way that he is. If anything it showed he does care about people, like Arin, and even briefly his “son” before he is turned away. So how does that explain how he is so ruthless, coldblooded, a baby kidnapper, etc? Of course I guess that is up for us to decide, and decide we will. I can only imagine it erodes his psyche overtime, what with regret and all, and that lingering knowledge of fuck I have a kid out there—unless yeah, no big deal. Didn’t actually give a fuck about his girlfriend beyond her being some kind of prize to be won, and he just … writes him off. We can INFER it is for the best; he thinks he would be terrible as a dad; he knows he couldn’t raise the boy for the lifestyle he chose .. but again. Why. Just why. This wasn’t needed.

WE SHOULD HAVE BEEN GIVEN THE BOBA VS. BANE ARC. IT WAS RIGHT THERE.

AND IF HE CAN'T EVEN TAKE HIS OWN KID UNDER HIS WING, WHY WOULD HE TAKE UP JANGO'S?? Because he owed him a favor?? So he didn't owe Arin anything then?? HmMMmMM

[crazylittlejester]

rambling out some thoughts about my modern au war for anyone who wants to hear em (as an apology for not writing anything for that au in a Hot Minute. also sorry for spelling mistakes im dyslexic and the brain fog is Bad today)

ive been seeing a lot of that tiktok trend with skaters dropping to their knees on the ice to ‘the winner takes it all’, and not only would my modern au War absolutely have done that trend, I genuinely think that whenever he’s feeling some big emotion he will choreograph something to a song he’s actively obsessing over, record him skating, and post it, because thats like the only way he has to express himself. thats how he communicates and that is quite literally the only way he knows how to tell people he’s upset or pissed or grieving because he cannot say those things in words

i haven’t talked about him in a while so “lore drop” to anyone not super familiar with this au lmao, but he did NOT come from a good home. he was not raised in good environments (between home and strict ballet studios that taught him that it is more important to be perfect and excel and progress than it is to properly take care of your body and learn its limits) and he is very bad at verbally communicating how he feels (partially because its hard for HIM to properly dissect the issue himself at this point). Like he’s gotten better at it because Twilight and Sky have been putting in WORK for the past eight years, but it’s still hard for him a lot of the time and skating is his outlet. It’s ALWAYS been his outlet, he throws every feeling he’s ever had into every single performance he gives and that’s what makes him so mesmerizing to watch because there is so much genuine realness from him behind WHATEVER he does. like yeah he does have natural talent and he is flexible and his lines have always looked good because of his build and coaches instructors and judges have always liked him for that, but what made him a world champion and what consistently won him gold medals was how terrifyingly powerful and impactful his performances were because he made people feel whatever the fuck he was. ability to do the jumps and turns only gets you so far, the life you breathe into your art takes you the rest of the way

he was so used to being ignored and neglected as a kid that his brain came up with the conclusion that it has to let out EVERYTHING it’s feeling when War finally is the center of attention in his performances and nobody’s looking away and people CANT ignore him. he has their attention, they HAVE to listen, they have to SEE him. and the performance that won him the equivalent of an olympic gold medal, that last performance he ever gave that he quit skating immediately after because of his coach (Cia) will absolutely end up going down as one of the most emotionally powerful programs in Hyrule history because he threw everything he had, everything he is and was, into that. all his anger at feeling helpless, all his anger at not being able to admit what happened to him or even seek help, all that sadness and loneliness and isolation he carried with him for so so long, and he put that out there in front of the entire world as basically a cry for help and while that alone obviously could not tell people what exactly was wrong, that performance DID end up getting him the help he needed because another coach (Impa) recognized there had to be something going on

as terrified as he is to ever return to skating because of what happened and because of the toxic mindset he’d had that he just FINALLY broke out of, War genuinely cannot live without it because it’s been so important to him for so long, it’s his outlet, and losing it forever would destroy him. dance is similar, but its just not the same to him and he misses it so badly and thats why his dumb ass hits the rink for a few hours every day on top of everything else because he can’t let it go

and the rare tiktoks from him where he’s skating out his negative emotions (and not just being silly and fucking around to lady gaga or whatever) still have quite the punch to them. he may not have a coach, but he’s maintained the same level of skill he had when he left because he still practices, and ofc his ability to put life into his performance is never something he’s struggled with because he feels so so much and he has no other way to release overwhelming emotions but through art

there are people in the skating community who do genuinely mourn losing him to retirement, there are so many people who want him to come back

i like showing the silly sides of him in this au (like the side of him that saw the weather was warm for the first time in months and decided to wear a crop top to class and not bring a coat just for it to rain and he was miserable, or the side of him that almost had a heart attack and died when lady gaga released a new album) because the whole au is supposed to be a bit silly and just fun, but he has sooooooo much more going on and so many other layers and i (insane) have put way too much thought into him and this au lmao

[booksandabeer]

Thunderbolts Ramblings

Hi hey hello, I am back after a short self-imposed hiatus. Can I interest you in 2500 words of chaotic ramblings about the Thunderbolts movie? Fair warning: I only just saw it for the first time last night, so I'm still sorting through all my many, many thoughts. This is not a review or meta or anything really. I guess this is what people call A Reaction Post? Ew.

Maybe it's a little bit of everything.

First things first: I really enjoyed watching this movie. Yes, it is flawed. Yes, there are things that I would change, but it is a coherent and cohesive creative work that actually has ideas, features great performances, and that was obviously made with love and care—and that alone makes it easily the best thing the MCU has put out in years, and I'm glad I decided to go and see it in theaters.

(I will put the rest under a 'keep reading' for length and spoiler reasons)

TB is a good, very competently made movie that manages to be incredibly entertaining and funny, and at the same time takes its themes and characters seriously. It has great pacing and momentum, is tightly plotted (a lean 2 hours runtime; imagine that!), finds smart and organic ways to deliver exposition, and all the actors have great chemistry with each other. The score by Son Lux fucking slaps! Practical effects and stunts! Real locations! No 30-minute CGI slop battle at the end where the majority of the audience checks out after ten minutes and starts looking at their phones!

I have to say that for all the promo noise that was made in advance about how the movie was basically made by an all-star team of A24 below-the-line people, it is not able to shake the ugly-ass Marvel “house style” completely, but we get a sleeker, more stylish version of that dreaded flat grey aesthetic and it does actually work here because it makes sense within the context of the film’s plot and more importantly as a visual representation of its themes. The effect of the void looks extremely cool and scary—people actually gasped out loud in my theater when it took the little girl. (Honestly this was horrifying in the very best way because it interrupts a scene at the exact moment when I started to roll my eyes at the cheesiness of it all…and then it did THAT and HOLY SHIT.)   

Like I said above, this is a very funny film. It’s also a very sad one. It’s about sad, broken, lonely people and it deals with depression, isolation, and suicidal ideation in a way that is surprisingly nuanced. Could it be more nuanced? Of course. Is it at all subtle about its central metaphor? Absolutely not. But maybe let’s all calm the fuck down for a second here and remember that this is still a superhero movie in the Marvel Cinematic Universe and there are limits to what they can and are allowed to do within the narrative and commercial restraints of that world.

And honestly? The world is on fire right now and we are going through a real bleak fucking moment in time (to put it mildly), so I cannot find it in me to be a cynical asshole about a movie in which the Power of Friendship saves the world and evil is defeated via the most dramatic group hug in the history of ever. That said, while I loved this as the climax of the movie and the solution to the Bob/Void conflict, I wasn’t fully convinced as to how all of the characters actually got there. Yelena, sure. But that’s because they did some excellent character work to establish her connection with Bob, and it’s similarly very understandable why Alexei would follow her into the void immediately. But Ava? Walker?? And least of all, Bucky who has never even met Bob and just knows him as that weird Sentry dude with a bad bleach job and a suit that even Homelander would deem too tacky, and who, oh yeah, almost killed him literally five minutes ago? I don’t buy it.

And speaking of my pal, my buddy, my Bucky…I don’t really know what to say here, so let’s just get it over with. He’s barely in the movie. Seriously, it’s a CA:CW situation all over again. If you’ve watched the trailers then you’ve already seen 95% of his scenes. The remaining 5% of his screen time he pretty much spends standing around in the background making reaction faces. Look, I had no great hopes or expectations, so I’m not mad or even surprised at all, but I am still a little disappointed and, frankly, just confused as to what the thought process is here. I simply don’t understand what’s the deal with Mr. Baseball Cap and his Marvel Parliament (cannot believe I just typed that out, what a truly ridiculous & self-important name) continuing to refuse to give Bucky anything of substance to do in these projects. Just…why? You have this widely beloved character with so much juicy narrative potential, so much fascinating backstory to explore, whose own harrowingly traumatic journey makes him uniquely suited to the very story you’re trying to tell with this movie, AND you have a very popular and incredibly charismatic performer playing him who also just so happens to be riding an absolute career high at the moment…and you give him almost nothing meaningful to say or do? Why???

That said, every time he shows up and he actually gets A Moment? He’s fucking electric. I of all people shouldn’t be surprised by Sebastian Stan anymore and admittedly I am very biased—I’m not that far gone down the fangirl rabbit hole not to realize that—but it is truly wild how every time the camera is actually on him it’s like oh ok, hello, the movie star is here now, everybody else can shut up and melt into the background please. Every other actor just looks small by comparison (with Pugh being the only real exception). He brings both a razzle-dazzle and a gravitas to the role that feels completely at odds with the ridiculously little narrative weight that is afforded to his character. What a waste. No wonder Sebastian has seemed monosyllabic and quiet at best and listless and lowkey shady at worst during interviews. Because what really is there to talk about for him? Not much, really.

Let's just run through the other characters quickly because this already getting so long.

Yelena: Florence Pugh is the undisputed lead, and Yelena the beating heart of the movie. I love that she got such a central role here and got to show so many different facets of her character. She’s on fire. I don’t care how fucking cool and how checked out of the MCU you are (while simultaneously talking about nothing else and seeing this on opening weekend, lol), but if you seriously want to tell me that you don’t feel anything at all when she says “But I have so many [regrets]!” in a devastatingly tear-choked voice, then I think you’re either a liar or dead inside. I would also like to once again express my gratitude that they are dressing her in clothes that she can actually move and breathe and fight in. And guess what? She still looks unbelievably fucking hot. 

Ava: I’m not a big Ant-Man person (I’ve only seen the first two movies once and the little interest I had in the third one died the moment I saw that disastrous trailer), so I barely remembered her and therefore had no great expectations, but I liked her, I thought she was really interesting and a great counterweight to the more impulsive and abrasive Yelena. Hannah John-Kamen seems to be a graduate of that very particularly British School of Jaw-Acting. You know that kind of jaw-forward type of performing…very jaw-y…jaw-based? See also: Keira K., Hayley A., etc., you know the exact type of actress that people on this website keep insisting is somehow both uniquely and universally appealing to all bisexual women…and I just cannot confirm that. Sorry. Anyway, H J-K is good in the movie, I look forward to seeing her again and also congratulations to her agent for negotiating that special “with” billing in the end credits because…what. How? But hey, good for her.    

Bob: This is maybe unfair to the character, which is quite well-written, and to Lewis Pullman, who does a great job portraying the wildly different personalities (?) of Bob/Sentry/The Void and yet manages to hold on to an emotional throughline AND be endearingly funny at the same time, but all I could think about while watching this was that this guy is tailor-made (or, you know, genetically engineered…ha!) for the tumblr/AO3 whump girlies. The fanfic is going to be wild. Good character, good performance, GREAT decision to immediately depower him and therefore set him up for an “learning to control/balance your abilities with the darkness inside of you” arc in the next movie(s). Still, I will always wonder about what could've been if my beloved Steven Yeun hadn't had to drop out of the role.  

Alexei: I have very complicated feelings about this character. Objectively, he is an awful, awful person who has done terrible things to people—including the ones that he claims to love. Thanks to David Harbour, he’s also got a big boisterous personality, a striking physicality, and he’s legitimately and wildly hilarious. He made me laugh out loud multiple times! And yet, I cannot help but be very skeptical about this #GirlDadification of a character that literally trafficked human beings and was ultimately fine with handing his “daughters” over to an organization that enslaved them, mentally and physically abused them, groomed them to be child soldiers, forcibly sterilized them, and had them kill other little girls when, again, they were still children themselves. Idk, kind of makes the bile rise up in your throat while you’re still laughing at cute jokes about Wheaties boxes and pee wee soccer teams.      

Walker: Speaking of complicated characters…I have to say, I enjoyed him immensely in this movie. Which, mind you, is very much not the same as liking him. There’s already a lot of heated discourse about the character and if he deserves a redemption arc and whether or not he’s actually given one in this movie. I honestly neither understand the Walker stans who truly think he’s a poor little meow meow with a heart of gold and is really just misunderstood good guy nor his haters who are up in arms because they seem to think that the movie also genuinely believes that and portrays him as such. I think they’re both wrong and that the movie actually does a great job of showing that he’s a pathetic little asshole who blames everybody but himself for his failures and takes out his insecurities on other people that he perceives as weaker than him, while also not forgetting that he is still a human being worthy of some empathy. And bless Wyatt Russell for leaving behind any vanity and throwing himself into portraying this character as a deeply, deeply unpleasant person. Even his fighting style is ugly—all brute force and no finesse. The fact that any of the team members can stand to be in a room with this insufferable man for even just a few minutes without throwing a punch at him says much more about their humanity and innate goodness than it says about him and his supposed redeemability.        

Valentina: I realize that I’m probably the only person in the world who thinks so, but both Valentina as a character and Julia Louis-Dreyfus, as an actor, were the weak links for me in this movie. Despite having seen her appear in one tv show and two movies now, I still do not understand Valentina’s motivations in the slightest—there’s never any explanation given for why she does what she does or what she ultimately hopes to achieve with it (see also her assistant Mel, a complete non-character, whose reasons for working for her evil boss—and continuing to work for her even after she clearly recognizes her as evil and sort of kind of but not really "betrays" her to Bucky et al—are even more opaque). Valentina's shame-room scene only makes her less legible as a person and a villain, and except for one brief moment, she herself doesn’t seem to be bothered or affected by it at all, so I don’t even know why it was included. JLD did not work for me here, not because she isn’t a very talented actress, but because she’s simply miscast and/or misdirected. She clearly has a lot of fun dialing it up to eleven playing the hubristic comic book villain, but since all the other actors give performances that are at least to a certain degree grounded in an approximation of realism, she just comes across as tonally off and like she’s in a different movie than everyone else.    

Sidenote: I have to say that it did amuse me endlessly to see this awful woman who carelessly uses and abuses enhanced humans like they are little more than glorified dolls for her to play with under the guise of wanting to “protect the world” (lol) standing behind the bar of Avengers Tower pouring herself champagne in the very spot where a certain someone mixed his cocktails and monologued about his own greatness. Was this intentional? Honest-to-god lèse-majesté in an MCU movie? Please be serious, that’s never going to happen. But my god, did it make me cackle with glee!

Stray thoughts because omg this is so long:

If I was a Taskmaster/Antonia fan, I would be rioting in the streets right now. Why even bring her back if this is what you're going to do with her? I know the MCU iteration of the character wasn't exactly popular, but wow, to give her such an unceremonious and meaningless death was just mean, bordering on cruelty.

I was pleasantly surprised that aside from the dishwasher joke, the "disarming" Bucky scenes were handled sensitively and seriously. Yeah, sorry I just do not find disability jokes funny. Bonus points to Ava for immediately picking up Bucky's arm to return it to him.

I'm not going to touch the final end credits scene with a ten foot pole because the discourse about what happens in it and how a certain character is referenced/talked about is already absolutely bonkers unhinged in many different ways and I have no desire to wade into that. Folks are being real normal about it, that's for sure, and I would remind them that these are fictional characters, who cannot be blamed for stupid things they say or do or don't say or do. Blame the writers, directors, producers, executives, who are the ones who actually have agency and authority over what is shown and said on screen.

Ok, one thing about that scene because I was so distracted by it that I almost missed everything else: WHAT in the everloving 90s bodice ripper cover model hell is THAT HAIR??? I mean he looks good, because he always looks good, but wow. Yes, yes, I know most of you like that hair. It's fine. The new suit is badass though.

I have so many more things to say, but I will stop now. I'm not even sure if anybody will read this far, but hey thanks if you did and let me know what you thought of the movie.

Just to reiterate, in case this wasn't clear: I liked the movie. I liked it a lot, even. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to go shout from the rooftops that Marvel is so back!!! or something like that. But. This is a giant step in the right direction. More of this please.

[heartsforfolklore]

scrolling through Pinterest and found the most pre-crash nat core pic of Sophie to exist so now I’m gonna do dating hcs except it’s just me projecting….

sorry

— This pic would be taken by you, her lovely gf, on your your Polaroid or some other camera idk, and that is YOUR CAT in her lap mhm yup yup

— mostly would hang out at your place bc… well yes! she doesn’t want to deal with Vera

— so basically, your room is her safe space. She’ll sneak into your room, maybe climb the tree by your window or throw pebbles at your window till you open up idk

— she has a drawer/closet space in your room

— you are her opposite (this is me projecting btw) like she’s punk, a riot grrrl, kinda snobby when it comes to alt music and culture and you’re like… soft(er) like, Mazzy Star, The Cocteau Twins, Jeff Buckley, The cranberries, The Sunday’s—dreamy/dreamlike music, you read Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf, and Dostoevsky, you’re snobby with literature—prob in AP Lit too, (projecting again, sorry) and… she hasn’t touched a book since freshman year LMAO

— you started talking bc you’re a fucking loser loner in PE (haha me) and she’s low-key like Cookie Monster pajama pants girl coded or like the random alt baddie who also doesn’t want to try in PE and like adopts the strays. But like… she’s really athletic so you don’t know why she doesn’t try in PE. Says she’s saving her energy for soccer (it’s like… November, Soccer doesn’t start till the Spring babes..)

— FEMINISTS YUP YUP YUP, ranting about the gender pay gap and the sexist pigs at WHS, (lowkey misandrists but that’s another topic..)

— and if I say bi4bi couple then what? You can both appreciate beauty when you see it.

— she gets you into Hole and Courtney Love

— IF you’re on the soccer team too, you drive her home from practice (and to school, and… like everywhere)

— passenger princess Nat you are real to me. That bitch does NOT have her license 😭

— you mistakenly take her kleptomaniac ass to the mall… she doesn’t get caught but you’re flabbergasted when she pulls out three eyeliner pencils from her bra cause she “ran out”

— makes fun of you the first time you get high together. See, she’s a seasoned professional… you’re not, the most you’ve done is smoked a cigarette because you thought it made you more “mysterious” or like you just came out of an old film noir

— you do the thing where you press the lit ends of the cigarette together to light the other (huzz idk I’ve never smoked but it’s what Stein and Spirit do in Soul Eater 💀)

— cannot hold a job to save her life, and you keep telling her to apply to Hot Topic or Spencer’s but she thinks it’s too cliche

— so basically you have to sugar mama her till she actually gets a job

— she comes over to your house to watch SNL with you and your family, who welcome her like a second (or third, or fourth, or however many siblings you have idk, I’m projecting again) daughter (they don’t know you’re together) and she riffs with your dad and it EMBARRASSES YOU SO BAD.

— you become her rock, it’ll take a while for her to completely open up to you but when you do, know that she intends to keep you around for a long time because she wouldn’t just spill her guts like that to anyone

— she kisses like it’s a sport, sometimes it’s soft and sweet, but not often. Most of the time she’ll just grab your face and kiss your lights out—it’s agressive at the same time as it’s playful. Like, she gets cuteness agression and she just wants to squeeze your cheeks and kiss your puckered lips. SOMEBODY SEDATE ME!!!

— “I’m boredddd” final boss, and maybe it’s unchecked ADHD

— you’re both sat, front row, when The Craft comes out (May 3rd, 1996, trust, you two will be there.)

— furthering the Van and Nat childhood bsfs agenda: they still hang out and Van is the only person she’s told about her sexuality and relationship.

— she was really nervous to kiss you for the first time, like yeah, she’s kissed and gotten cozy with people before but, this was you, and she actually gives a shit about you, because you aren’t just a distraction

— let’s you write your name on her converse

— making zines with each other and cutting up magazines and old newspapers to make the fonts/letters with ransom letters

— back to the mall, you have so many photo booth photos with her, are half of them you guys kissing or her biting your cheek? Well, yes. But who cares, nobody is seeing them but you two.

— on the same note, you use the photo booth as an excuse to make out

— you guys probably got your freak on to Fade into you

— during the fall, you guys go to the Football (American football btw) games to heckle and boo at the players and probably get kicked out of the stands so you guys end up at some shitty fast food place near by

— hitting up the grimiest thrift stores, flipping through racks while Natalie criticizes every basic band tee. She makes fun of you for buying a floral slip dress, then stares way too long when you try it on. (can’t stop staring at her t-t-t-face)

— doesn’t out-right say “I love you” often but has many ways she shows she does; memorizing the lyrics to your favorite songs, getting your favorite drink from the vending machine, eye contact while she kisses the back of your hand/your knuckles. Deffo an “actions speak louder than words” kinda girl.

— she thinks you’re too good for her & often needs reassurance. One of her love languages is words of affirmation.

— historians will say you two are just best friends! It’s the 90s in some no-name town in New Jersey, so things are kept under wraps…

— if you’re a poet, she’s your muse. If she’s a musician (nat band!au??) you’re her muse.

— calls you “pretty�� like it’s your name; pretty girl, pretty thing, pretty baby, “hey, pretty” IM SCREAMING!!!! That, or Angel, or My Girl

— call her “my girl” and she’ll melt. She prefers just Nat from you, but doesn’t mind “babe” or “baby” from time to time

— “I don’t believe in god, but I believe that you’re my savior” yeah, shout out Gigi Perez

— will pull you into a bathroom stall during passing period just to kiss you, then will walk out like nothing happened, leaving you stunned

— kiss her scars

— doing her makeup, her painting your nails or her dressing you in her clothes and vice versa

— date nights at shitty fast food places (Taco Bell, White Castle, Checkers, etc.) or drive in movies(lowk greaser!nat vibes w this one..)

— you either help her do her homework or just do it for her, no in between. It’s not that she’s not smart, she just doesn’t try

———⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

sorry if these are bad, like, holy yap fest on my part

[shieldfoss]

I was about to formulate how I'd explain to the person making the rule that they're an idiot (in death note. the death note rule. this is not about laws about homosexuality) and my first example I could think of for why that wouldn't make sense actually landed on a very similar rule that would totally make sense.

"It is neither possible nor permitted for an unpowered craft to fly into space"

... well shit that's actually true isn't it?

It's just that the "not permitted" rule isn't "you're not permitted to fly into space unpowered," it's "you're not permitted to fly into space if you don't have radio contact with ground control." Which requires power.

So maybe it's the same for shinigami? Do we ever see a shinigami touch a human?

\-\-\-

Shinigami neither can, nor may, fuck humans — not possible because shinigamin cannot fuck at all, not permitted because shinigami aren't allowed to touch humans.

\-\-\-

You neither can, nor may, eat a nuclear explosion in space — not possible because lmao, not permitted because you're not allowed to set nukes off in space.

\-\-\-

You neither can, nor may, walk naked to the center of Antarctica — not possible because you'll freeze to death, not permitted because you're not one of the people allowed on Antarctica. There are some humans that could try, but you're not one of them. (If you're one of the people allowed to try, congratulations on the permission. Still don't actually try though :)

dont feel like reblogging this serious post with my silly fandom shit but i always think of this whenever i am reminded of the death note rule that it is "neither possible nor permitted" for shinigami to have sex with humans

[beauty-grace-outer-space]

So I'm at Versailles and it's the end of the day and I decide fuck it, lets try to squeeze in those last few fountains I didn't see, and I start wandering over to that area.

I get to one of the fountains and aw, cute, there are little baby geese swimming around in there. So I'm watching with all the other ooh-ers and ahh-ers and everyone is cooing about how cute it is when I have the realization...

These goslings are too small to get out on their own.

I watch them try a few times and listen to their chirping get more frantic and their mom and dad circling anxiously. I'm spinning around like an idiot trying to determine if any of the other five people watching this might speak even a modicum of English so I can communicate that we need to try to get them out. I determine that there is a German couple, a French couple, and a very confused Polish woman who managed to get herself locked into one of the groves but that's a different story.

I can tell that the German couple has at least kind of clocked on to the fact that the babies cannot get out and have some concerns so I immediately identify them as my allies. I'm looking around frantically trying to figure out if there's anything I could possibly use to try to scoop these babies up and out of water over the wall of the fountain and not getting anywhere because boy, do they keep it clean at Versailles.

I start racking my brain to see if I can think of any kind of German or French word that might mean hat and see if somebody might be willing to sacrifice one as a catching device to my now manic cause of saving these baby geese.

Eventually I just abandon all reason, step over the barrier, lie down on the side of the fountain, and start trying to use my map to fish them out like some sort of soggy fishing net.

At this point anyone who hadn't clocked onto the fact that they were stuck figured it out and jumped into action.

The French man has gone off to find a large stick, one of the few things to be found in a series of Gardens that may be useful in this instance, and starts corraling the babies towards my side of the pond whilst simultaneously trying to see if he can scoop them from underneath. No dice.

I am being hissed at like those geese are cursing me out.

The nice German man follows my lead, lies down on the side of the fountain, and like some sort of superhero manages to just scoop up three of the babies after a while. I got close with one but they're fast little guys.

The German man's girlfriend found a smaller board and propped it up against one of the shallower parts of the fountain to try to make a ramp for them. However, baby gees are not the most intelligent or creatures and while they jumped on top of it a few times they never quite figured it out.

On top of that, the three that had been successfully retrieved got spooked and jumped right back in.

It's at this point that the security team rolls up and my best guesses that they asked the French equivalent of, "what the hell are you all doing?" Because simultaneously it comes to my attention that would be grounds have been closed for over two hours and here we are, having illegal he crossed over a barrier touching art that we are certainly not supposed to be touching.

The German man starts explaining that there are baby geese in the pond that we are trying to get out. Security does not understand him. The Frenchman runs around the fountain and hastily explains in French. Now we've got a security team also standing watching this baby geese trying to determine what to do.

They advise that they'll return with somebody to handle it, and speed off like a bat out of hell. The Polish woman is released from her garden prison.

I stick around until I am sure that they are handling it and now I am walking the mile and a half back to the train station which should round out a nice 20 miles walked for me on nothing but a few choquette and a handful of strawberries.

TL;Dr: the goslings are ok.

[clownshifting]

Reclaiming Myself

I think myself reasonable. I believe me to be a beast with understanding.

Thought into word, word into action - that is who I am. I say I will and I do. I say I will, then I do. Thought into word, word into action.

Now, let me tell you this. When do you believe you will be crushed enough to step down? Not just from an argument, but from your own community - from a place you thought would be easy to fit into. How many times have you thought about leaving?

I do not have to think, thought into word, word into action. I am leaving the alterhuman, holothere, transspecies, or whatever community you wish to place me into. No, I do not tuck tail like I am a sore loser, no, no, no... I am hissing and I am screeching and I am clawing and I am ripping them out of my way because I know what I want and I am going to get it and no one is standing in my way. For they will not have the vigor to match the animal I am. The vengeance for which I raze their lives to the ground with, the magick on my hip stronger and embedded into my bloodline from generation to generation - each stacking hex and blessing upon those less fortunate to not wield magick.

I am not powerful nor am I a deity. I hoped I was in the beginning, that would explain my magick. I hoped I was sunkissed by godhood, explaining why I felt so alone. No - no - I was just in my head about how it would all go down, the delayed gratification of pondering and waiting in the weeds to strike. I have nothing against my allies or my benefitting partners, but I am turning my flank to their faces and I am hissing and I am reclaiming my territory as mine and you will not label me in a way that contrasts who I am by using your definition - a definition built upon metaphorical existences - against my pelt. No, how dare you.

I only used alterhuman as a way to include everyone, while that very term's people sought to exclude me. I helped found holothere alongside many others who wanted a hand in the creation. I called myself transspecies out of spite for those who didn't see my gender transition as entirely "realistic" enough. I was in shifter communities because I know deep down that I am a shapeshifter. But I cannot be there. I will not betray myself with labels that are being twisted to defy the label itself, to include but never differentiate. I cannot hold a label that serves no different than the others. They might as well be obsolete, blank slates to apply experiences onto.

But even then, I claim so and am seen as if I am reclaiming or taking labels from others. I bare my fangs and hiss. Then leave. I am not a brooding chimera for no reason, I am bulky and I am big and I am a challenge who keeps to himself. I am reasonable, yes, and I jest and bellow laughs, yes, but I am not someone who is to be talked or walked upon.

I'll be nice once, then, I won't.

I'll tally your mistreatments and express them to you once, and if you turn tail and never see my eye, it's because you won't have the chance to. I will always be nice once, then, I won't.

I no longer wish to engage in spces that treat every misunderstanding as an act of war. Where no one asks why they must fight but instead believe the word of their own as truth and begin to declaw and tear without diplomacy. You claim to be so better, with little failings unlike the humans, but make mistakes and create strife at the littlest problem. Reactionary beasts. Stubborn beasts. Humanity must have gotten you too. Or will you recognize that you are one in a single cycle, together, as animals, and not as enemies.

Past my rather blunt demeanor, I am a being of kind nature. I have put my money where my mouth is and I have paid family and friend and have supported goals and transitions. I have done much, I am not a bum online who sulks because some rat fuck had the wrong intrpretation of my pelt. I do not care. What I care about is not expressing genuine want for conversation and spearing your neighbor for asking or proposing their feelings in an earnest way on a small blog. I am not betrayed or entitled to such treatment, I had simply thought better of a beast who's been here longer than I have. I had thought you smarter.

So I am leaving these communities and I am building my own; deviae.

I recognize some have already seen and heard of the term and know it's goal; awareness to deviatypal traits, transition, and physical beasthood. Most importantly, to replace sour language (altersex, salmacian, etc.)

I am deviae, I have deviatypal traits, I am a deviæ being. No longer will I obey by the rules of labeling myself by gender, sex identity, or species - but rather by my act against those and in spite of the conditinal human body, described only as such to benefit society by giving one personhood when they comply. No, I am a beast and I will act as one. Instinct is the only thing that makes me move and I will not hinder myself in the alterhuman community when those beside me don't even want me there.

I have fought for years to be included in alterhuman spaces and discussions, this year has taught me that none of you have changed, ever. I will be building my own spaces as a deviae beast, my own terms, my own opinions and feelings about my own plans and life. I recognize how my words and posts affect my mutuals and friends, yet I cannot sacrifice my own happiness in deviatypal expression in order to be nice to those who never liked what I am - physically transitioning, physically a beast, physically else. I cannot be myself while faithful to the alterhuman community, especially now where anything is an excuse to behead or strike arguments as the "less immature" one. I have grown past such fighting, I wish to become a better beast. And I will.

Deviae Links:

@deviae-culture-is

@deviae-support

[bvnneyrabbet]

Since I'm seeing so much content revolving around people dunking on Forsaken for it's fandom, I am hoping SO HARD that the Forsaken fandom gets outta the trenches.

I am hoping SO HARD that the Forsaken fandom becomes better in the eyes of outsiders.

From what I can see, it's largely due to the amount of suggestive, sexual, and disturbing content revolving it. I'm not talking about disturbing as in horror, I mean disturbing as in "what the fuck is WRONG WITH YOU?!" But even so, the amount of disturbing content is small in numbers, but the sexual stuff isn't so small.

And this problem is not a Forsaken exclusive problem, it's a problem in the Phighting and Regretevator fandoms too, it's just that while Regretevator and Phighting have died down a bit Forsaken is extremely popular as of now, and as well as how stereotypes often get applied to fandoms.

For example, the Regretevator fandom is stereotyped to be "uwu cutesy kawaii fujoshi," and it has an entire stereotypical "style" named after it, referred to as "Regretevator avatars." Regretevator avatars are just stylized, often cutesy but not always applied, cosplays, and most of the time aren't even related to Regretevator. Anything that people deem too different in a cosplay is basically a Regretevator avatar.

The Forsaken fandom is stereotyped to be full of creeps, hypersexualizers, idiots, and mentally deranged folk, as those types of people are often the loudest. But I think we need to remember that Forsaken has almost 450 million visits and has a giant fandom, some of which don't even PLAY the game.

And as for the Spawn Cult IRL thing... Barely anyone in the fandom supports it other than the people participating in it. The developers of Forsaken itself don't support it nor do they want it to happen. From my own guesses, the Spawn Cult IRL is likely very small, probably being under 50 in members, hopefully less.

I genuinely hope that nobody in that Spawn Cult actually do such things regarding it, whether being hurting themselves or hurting others. We cannot have another Slenderman Stabbing situation.

In my eyes, the smut in Forsaken isn't a problem as long as it's kept in private and consenting adult spaces, it's only a problem when it gets pushed into public view with no warnings.

If you open the fridge to find a bag with a very obvious warning on it saying "dead dove: do not eat" you do not have to look inside, you can throw it away, and it's understandable. But if there's just a rotten dove carcass in your fridge with zero warnings, just a plain ol' dead dove laying on the shelf, it's understandable too. Who wouldn't be shocked and disgusted?

And no, I do not mean this in a "ignore those disturbing freaks," I am very much against things such as that, and even if I'm super desensitized to smut content I can see why other people do not like it especially if it's smut in plain public with no warnings.

Fandom is not pretty. Fandom is not as sweet and clean as you want it to be. All fandoms are messy, and if they don't look like it on the outside, you're bound to find it on the inside.

As a mutual of mine said, "purity culture in fandom is also ruining so much." And I agree with that completely, it's like having someone barge into your kitchen and berate you on how you cook. But in my eyes it goes to an extent to where things are acceptable and where things aren't.

But things like that are subjective, and everyone's moral compass is different. But I think we can all agree that having smut out in the open for everyone to see is not okay, especially genuinely traumatizing shit. I've been heavily effected by sexual content as a child, and I do not want anyone, especially minors to become hypersexual like I am. It ruins you, it really does.

I think a way to at least make the Forsaken fandom "better" is making your own rules on what one could and could not do, and having others apply to them if they want, not forcing but a mere suggestion. One of the things I often do is, mostly by accident, make my own little circle within fandom with people of the same interests, and over time it builds up and more people will follow those same rules.

Another thing I could suggest is changing yourself and the things you do. Do you post suggestive content? Try to keep them to yourself and consenting friends of the same age. Wanna post something suggestive? Put obvious warnings and try keep it away from where minors can view.

It's really easy, truly.

The Forsaken fandom is still growing in culture and in-fandom rules, even if it's super popular as of now, so of course it's gonna be haywire for a while. But it can indeed change, but you need to do it yourself if you want to see it happen.

[rhea-is-bored-again]

I LOVE YOUR WORK RAHHHH!! I WAS WONDERING IF YOU COULD DO ANOTHER ONE WITH DALLAS? i’m going back to lowercase i was wondering if you could do dallas x famous reader?

here’s the story

she’s a movie star. a big movie star. and she’s dallas celebrity crush. the drive-in was showing a new movie she starred in and she just so happened to be there. dallas goes over and chitchats with her and he somehow gets a date with her? and maybe. MAYBE. (i don’t want you doing more than you have to) make it two parts? one of the drive-in and another of the date? once again, i love your work. you’re incredibly talented and you’re just over-all incredible!!!❤️❣️

you're soooo sweet i cannot stress this enough and RAA I LOVE THE ENERGY AND THIS IDEA IS SOOO PEAK!!

the hood and his star

as soon as he found out your newest movie was being aired at the drive in, he immediately dragged ponyboy and johnny along to watch it with him.

"c'mon dal, it's some squishy romance film. we can skip out on this one" johnny complained as dallas handed him a lit cigarette.

"i heard from two-bit that it was good." dallas grumbled. lies.

ponyboy simply sighed and went along.

once they were at the drive in, there was a huge crowd down by the screen, which had the opening scene projected onto it. "miss y/n! will you sign my shirt?" "y/nnn!!! will you take a picture with me?" "y/n my love, touch my hand and i'll never wash it again."

dallas spotted you; you, your gorgeously nervous face. he felt his heart skip.

johnny tapped on dallas and pointed. "think she's here. why'd you think she's out in public?"

you, in the midst of all of it, were just know figuring out how bad of an idea it was to go out in public, just to watch your own movie.

in the chaos, some kind of fight broke out, causing the security guards to get involved.

dallas saw his chance and grabbed your wrist, johnny and ponyboy lost in the commotion. he tugged you behind the concessions' stand. you were breathing hard, eyes wide and your hair a little messy.

"thanks. i hated that, i should've never left the house, huh?"

dallas, with his weed still in his mouth, admired you in your natural state. sure, you were pretty all dolled up for your films, but dallas now realizes that he likes you better raw. it makes you human.

speaking of human, you were standing so close, so close to him.

"who are you, my hero?" you say, as a joke of course, but it makes dallas' ears go uncharacteristically red.

"dallas winston. heard of me?"

you squinted at him before grinning a little. "that hood that was dragged in for some kind of shoplifting? that's you?"

"sure is, sweets."

"you flirtin' already?"

"can't help it when i got a movie star in front of me."

you picked at the sleeves of your jacket, feeling a tad shy. the fuck? you have your movies premiered all over the States, and you're shy?

"sure. you here to see my movie too?"

"nah." dallas lied. "just walked by with some of my boys and saw a commotion. and a pretty girl sweatin' buckets." he narrowed his eyes at you. "you good now?"

"yeah, thanks for that." you murmur, looking down at your heels and kicking the dirt.

dallas gave you a dirty grin. "uh huh."

"you got a boyfriend?"

"oh, shut up." you muttered, but you were smiling.

dallas tried to hide his growing smile. "jus' askin'. someone as pretty as you oughta have a boy by now, huh?"

"miss y/n!" a security guard called, turning the corner and spotting you with dallas. he looked the hood up and down, then swung his gaze over to you.

"your car is here, we gotta get you back. too many people here."

you sigh, waving him off. "be there in a minute."

as the guard ran off, you turned back to dallas, quickly scribbling something onto a gum wrapper you found in your pocket.

you shoved it into dallas' hands, shooting him a winning smile.

"gimme a call, yeah?"

and just like that, you bustled off, wind rippling through your hair as you left him there, dallas holding the paper like it was a bomb.

he smiled, looking down at the heart you drew next to it.

"i will."

a/n: im so in lovee with this idea. i reallyyyy hope it's what you were looking for!! PART 2 WILL BE UP SOOOOON!!!!