#anything that has you taking less narcotics is a good thing

[harmcityherald]

These medical marijuana white chocolate discs are the absolute best for helping calm my stomach or one before each meal. You may not notice right away but you will eat more and be able to hold food down better in the long run. Used in conjunction with protein shakes and other dietary supplements I believe these went a long way in helping me eat again after losing 85% of my stomach to cancer. Through radiation treatments and immunotherapy as well. All I would add is always discuss things honestly with your doctors. They can't make proper diagnoses without correct and pertinent data. Besides, many are interested to hear what may be the pros and cons of medical cannabis from your unique perspective. My Hopkins doctors are always interested to hear about anything that will help their patients. Some are just curious if it works for you or not. We all agree it is an area that needs more study.

[hollyhomburg]

Before I leave you (Pt.67)

(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: You and Hobi bury a dead body (That's a lie, Yoongi buries it for you).

Tags: blood, gore, body horror, death, dead bodies, everyone is pretty beat-up in this, brief implied self-harm but it's very quickly squashed- seriously it's nowhere near as bad as past scenes but i do have to tag it, Dissociation, tae is in the freeze part of fight or flight. hurt/comfort, mental breakdowns, flashbacks, discussions of past abusive relationships, everything is very fluffy until it's not,

W/c: 12.5k

A/N: Are you guys ready for Hoseok's secret reveal??? I'm really excited!!! But also terrified because this whole series has lead up to this point!!! A good number of people have already guessed his secret so congrats on getting it early <3

Previous part - Masterlist - First part

Jimin sits on the stairs going down to the basement. His arm in a sling and bandaged up to the elbow. It aches with every small movement he makes as he peals a tangerine. He hasn't had any narcotics in a few hours and they're starting to wear off.

Jimin needs all of his brain power for this; For covering up the murder.

The fewer things running through his system the less sluggish and fuzzy his thoughts are. Jimin picks his poisons and fewer things make him less coherent than the panic and pain and near constant avalanche of thoughts. Tae, Tae's hurt, Tae's-

Tae's fine, Tae's upstairs with Y/n. he has to remind himself of these facts every few breaths. Tae's going to be okay because you wouldn't let anything happen to her.

There is evidence of that virtually everywhere; In the lines across your hands that Yoongi had dabbed at with a cool cloth, the swollen side of your jaw that he'd cradled. The blood drenching the opposite side of your face that he'd tenderly washed away. Not to mention the blood on the kitchen table, the floor, the ceiling. The blood splattered across your nest-

You don't fuck with an omega's nest; you don't fuck with their packmates.

Jimin quiets his brain with a steady breath as he looks down at Yoongi, Jin, and the body between the three of them wrapped in plastic.

He manages to peel the tangerine in his hand despite how uncooperative his left hand is. Numb at the fingertips just like it’s been since the surgery.

Namjoon had stroked his fingers and tested their give every chance he got, holding onto them and prodding while they waited in the hospital room and then again when Jimin got discharged. He said that they’d probably get better. Probably.

Tae's going to be fine because Namjoon is there too- had checked out her head with that soft alpha grumble croon of his. The most soothing sound in the world, and yet incapable of soothing this.

But Jimin knows nothing’s for certain, he might never get the feeling in his hand back. (This is Jimin's penance; The reminder of these tangled few weeks and how things went will be ever present. The reminder will be the first press of every touch with his non-dominant hand. He will never regain full feeling to the tips of his fingers. Never).

There are a few of noodle paw prints in the dust here, Jimin's ass is no doubt covered in it too from resting on the rickety stairs that lead into the half-finished basement. Little paw print marks that would make you coo and take pictures if you were down here.

But you’re not, you’re upstairs getting the evidence washed off of you.

No one's in that kind of mood right now anyway. No one’s been in that kind of mood for a few hours (or a few days, if he’s being honest, from Jungkook’s seizure, to getting shot, and then coming home to a dead body in their living room).

It’s been 4 hours since you killed someone in the kitchen. 3 hours since Jimin was discharged prematurely from the hospital and the rest of the pack was summoned home via a disturbingly calm call from Jin.

It’s been a tangle of moments even for the people not on hard drugs. Jimin feels like he's doing pretty good at answering the pack’s questions given the circumstances. You'd never know that, given Yoongi's eye roll and Jin's heavy sigh.

"Minnie- we're not asking you how you would have killed him just how you'd cover it up."

They used an old shower liner to wrap the body before they carried it downstairs. It makes a squeaky noise against Jin's rubber gloves (The pink elbow-high ones that he uses to do the dishes) as he pulls back the plastic sheet to reveal what's left of the assassin's head and face.

“I already told you, I don’t know his face- not even a little.” I’d have a pretty hard time identifying his face with the state she left it in regardless Is what he doesn't say.

Jimin tucks his chin, unsettled to look at the man's half-blown apart face for long. "I think he might be the spider but I don’t know. I never met him, only heard his name in passing.”

A small tattoo on the man's wrist reveals as much. A small spider tattoo that someone going to have to cut out and bury separately. Someone's going to have to get all of his teeth too- no identifying marks. None.

He’s a little too impressed with the state you’d left him in when he thinks about it. But once he’d seen your face and Hobi’s neck, not an inch of Jimin had felt the kill wasn’t justified. The whole pack feels that way, he knows they must even though they don't say it. Everyone's a little bit in shock right now.

Even Namjoon hadn’t even given the body a second glance when the pack had tumbled into the house. The pack alpha had simply alternated his fussing from you to Hobi to tae and then Jin. Torn between who needed him first. It was the first words Jimin had heard you speak. Your wet gasp, blood that wasn't yours flashing on your teeth. "Joonie- Hobi needs you."

Namjoon had calmed only once he realized that most of the blood on the three of you was the man’s. Yoongi had a similar reaction and so had Jimin, clutching at Tae. Angry at his arm for its uncooperativeness. About ready to tug off his sling and his bandages and stitches if it meant holding tae easier. He'd even tried it, only to be on the receiving end of a disapproving pack alpha growel too.

“Jimin you can’t; your stitches.”

“Fuck my stitches hyung.”

Numb fingers meet numb faces.

He's a bit ashamed of it, but when he first looked up from Tae to you- where you sat crumpled in Yoongi's hold. Your mate laying down a volley of sweet nothings to you to get you to stop shaking. There was only one sentence running through his head.

That’s my girl.

He'd reached over and squeezed your hand, blood and all. That blood has dried now. Soaked into the lines of his palm. Coloring his fate and love lines all rusty while he eats the tangerine. He should probably wash his hands. All of them probably need too.

Jungkook had been the only one willing to speak, closing the door softly behind him, locking it and treading softly closer. Careful to sidestep both the pools of blood and the piece of a skull sitting next to the couch. He looked down at the 7 of you with a surprisingly calm expression on his face.

"Can't we have one normal fucking day?"

Jungkook was the one who’d gone to the kitchen and gotten one of the hand towels to clean your face. His lips tightened to a line when he wiped away the blood and started to see the bruising, the cut across your temple dripping fresh. Lower lip wobbling ever so slightly.

“Kookie-”

Jungkook had turned to Jin and Namjoon, “I don’t want to deal with the body hyung." His hands were already under your arms, lifting you up, helpless. "Help me get them upstairs. We need to-” he’d let out a frustrated noise. Instincts coming to the full front- instincts he rarely feels.

Who knew blood would incur Jungkook's grooming instincts?

The last time Jimin saw Jungkook; He was helping Namjoon and Yoongi herd the three of you upstairs for a much-needed shower. Hobi hadn't been able to do it under his own power. Namjoon had to carry him.

Hobi; who's choked on every word he's tried to speak. Whose eyes are still red from all the burst blood vessels. Who easily got the closest to dying out of the four of you.

Everyone shakes when they touch Hobi and everyone touches him softly. Namjoon just about snaps his teeth at anyone who tries to get close. His hands turning red from the cold of an ice pack wrapped gently around the alpha's throat.

Jimin knows Jungkook's a lot more unnerved than he lets on, shuffling from foot to foot as he bound Tae up with a towel, taking her delicately from Jimin's arms. Carrying her in the same way Namjoon carried Hobi.

Yoongi was all soft helping you upstairs. Speaking in that quiet voice that he saves for Sunday mornings and stolen moments of quiet. Every moment, all of this is stolen.

And now- the beta is down here, leaning over the body and looking at it like it will tell him something that you won't. After your initial demand that Namjoon he tend to Hobi; you haven't spoken a word. Neither has Tae. Jin's done all of the talking.

There isn’t much to say.

Jimin feels the numbness in his hands and looks at Jin. He hasn't apologized for the bullet yet. But the more time that passes the less Jimin wants an apology. Mating marks come in many forms. Jimin has a scar on his body from one of his omega's- so really? What does he have to be upset about?

The whole house needs to be deep cleaned, and then deep cleaned again. There's blood everywhere; on the couch, the ceiling, the curtains. It's a lot to clean. It's going to be a lot to hide.

That's the only reason why Jimin's not upstairs helping you and Tae clean up right now; the body is unfortunately the biggest threat to the pack's safety at the moment.

There’s a bloodstain on the stairs too, a droplet next to where Jimin sits. he makes a mental note of it but doesn't move to wipe it up. He puts a tangerine slice on his tongue and chews before he answers Yoongi’s next question.

“I don’t know how to dispose of a body, I never dealt with this part. My only job was to kill, not take care of them after. I know there’s a way that you can do it with soap.”

Jin snorts, “You only know that from breaking bad-“

Jimin’s a little miffed, “We already have a plastic tub upstairs-”

“Lye,” Yoongi corrects, looking down at the body before he stoops to retape the plastic over the man's face. It was a bitch to wrap him up, the body stiff and heavy from rigor Mortis. The blood beneath it bubbles and darkens, coagulating. Yoongi's long hair falls over his face and he tucks it behind his ear.

“We could use the soap, but it might take a few days.” Jin clarifies.

“Do you think we can wait that long?”

“Absolutely not,” Jin’s got a similar ice pack to his wrists, the skin there bruised and red and swelling where he fought to get free from the handcuffs, where he eventually ripped down the banisters and broke through them with brute strength and panic.

You’d found the keys on the man’s body soon after and released him from the handcuffs, they're wrapped up in the plastic along with the frying pan, the gun that killed him, and a few other items from the living room that were just too bloodstained, every big piece of evidence will lie right beside him where he rests.

Jimin eats another slice of the tangerine, and Jin shrivels his nose at it. “Isn’t that a little gross?”

Yoongi mirrors his disgust. “Yeah Minnie, weren’t those covered in blood?”

But Jimin just shrugs, “I washed it and peeled it hyung” And keeps eating. After a few days of hospital food, the tangerines taste divine.

Yoongi stands from where he’s kneeling on his knees with a faint crack. “One part kitty litter, two parts concrete should keep out the smell,” Jin says, eyeing the 6 by-six-foot hole in the basement's foundation, already there from the plumbing that needed replacing.

Most of Yoongi's tools are down here too. His scrap pile of wood and the dozen bags of concrete. His hack saw and his circular saw that none of them are looking at. Yoongi had only just fit in the plumbing a few weeks ago. He'd been about to re-pour the foundation anyway.

“I’d rather not have a body buried in our house.”

Yoongi touches Jin’s wrist, so feather-light, removing the ice pack to check the swelling to see if it’s gone down. Jin's left hand is just as useless as Jimin's, the knuckles bruised and ballooned.

“It’s just for a few weeks, we can deal with this once it’s all calmed down, but we absolutely can’t go try and bury it. Who knows what the neighbors heard?”

They're all silent at that, silent at the idea that these few hours might be the last few that the pack spends free.

But over the next few hours, there are no blue and red flashing lights outside or concerned neighbors that come knocking. Your one saving grace is that this all happened during the middle of the day and all of your nearest neighbors have nine to five's. Is it so simple to hope that everyone was just at work? That no one heard the gunshots over the nearby roar of the passing train?

(Maybe they're just too used to the pack next door; the one that has the noisy ruts and noisy noisy packmates. The one whose alphas have a habit of opening the windows in the back room and let the sound of their roughhousing and video games flood the street. The ones who have extra loud movie nights. They're just a bunch of kids, how harmful could they really be? At least the pack alpha and omega look respectable.)

It's a good thing that no one comes; because Namjoon has more important problems, more important things to handle beyond the body in the basement or the police at the door.

Namjoon’s hands cradle Hobi’s neck. He wheeze as he tries to speak, his mouth falling open. He's mostly clean, but a rusty trickle of water from his hair trails down his shoulders.

Jungkook tugged him into the shower first and gave him a rough clean before handing him back to Namjoon. They sit on a towel together on the edge of the nest. they only moved him in here to give him some privacy- to distract him because Hobi kept reaching for you. you'd kept reaching back, tae was already in the shower under the stream.

"Pup- your hands- you're going to hurt yourself."

The Nestroom is dark and quiet. Every single blind in the house is draw. Only the christmas lights illuminate Hobi's injuries. Namjoon will tend to Tae and then you after he's checked out Hobi's injuries. will send him downstairs with Jin for some cold water to soothe his throat once he's done. once he's been cleaned again probably.

Hobi was covered with the most blood, having been just under the man when Tae had blown his throat apart while you- Namjoon doesn't want to think of it, doesn't want to see it.

(Namjoon thinks of every moment, sees them behind every blink. Blink and he sees you sitting in his lap over breakfast squirming happily. Blink and you're kneeling in a bloody puddle looking up at him.

Blink and you're curled up in the nest wearing the first pajama pants he'd given you. Blink and he's watching Jungkook dab at your bloody cheek, blink and you're turning into his hand to nuzzle as he wakes you for sunday morning breakfast. Blink and there’s sunlight spilling across your face and blood slipping down your chin. Namjoon's smallest and most sensitive pup not so innocent anymore.)

Namjoon touches Hobi's throat with no small amount of reverence. it cools the anger in his throat. Namjoon's anger has no good place to go.

When Hobi closes his eyes, he sees it too; the explosion of the bullet and the splat of blood pouring down his face. The shower earlier felt so similar- he almost couldn't handle it. He had to concentrate on Jungkook's voice narrating everything.

"Here Hobi, I'm gonna use some soap now. I like Tae's body wash. You know she always just picks whatever bottles are pinkest because she wants all her toiletries to match. It smells good, doesn't it? Can you take a deep breath for me? Through your nose?"

Endless meaningless Jibber jabber to distract all of them.

Now he shivers and shakes in Namjoon's hold. One part terror and one part near frostbite. Namjoon turns the heat up but Hobi still shakes as Namjoon checks his throat. "Open for me baby- that's a good boy."

He flashes a light down there, listening with his stethoscope. The cold metal end of it presses against his collarbones and the bruises too. Finger-shaped that lace over his jugular like a collar. Over Hobi's heart. Every thump ba-thump ba-thump music to Namjoon's ears.

Namjoon’s growl is soothing as he scoots closer to gather the injured alpha close to his chest. Shushing Hobi as he tries to speak for the dozenth time in the last hour. “Don’t try it, careful- I don’t think he did any lasting damage but-”

Namjoon breaks and his forehead drops to Hoseok’s shoulder, fingers rub out soothing circles on Hobi's wrist even as he starts to cry. Namjoon already stitched up the deep puncture wound there. He had to hold his wrist still as he dabbed the stingy antiseptic, the impulse to pull it away too great. The wound wasn't from a bullet but from the piece of the door that embedded itself in Hobi’s wrist. Blown apart the way he could have been.

Namjoon was so close to losing everything, to losing them.

The bruises, Hobi’s eyes, and his little raspy breaths. Everything both punishment and payment for every violent thing Namjoon wants to do. He feels powerless to do more than hold the smaller alpha right now. The strength in his arms doing little to protect Hobi from the hurts he's already nursing. Hoseok leans his head on Namjoon's shoulder and Just lets the alpha hold him.

If he’d come home to the four of you dead what would he have done? more accurately- What wouldn’t he have done?

Namjoon imagines it- the same way he's imagined it thousands of times. Tae's blood on her lips as pretty as any lip stain. Jin on the floor, his little big love wrapped up in permanent stillness like a mating shroud. Your body turned small and quiet the way you'd been when he'd met you- only so much worse. Hobi with his heart slow and absent of his near-constant music. Bodies stiff as statues, turned alters meant to worship both grief and love.

He’d probably have demanded Jimin and Yoongi tell him everything they knew. And then he’d have gone hunting.

Namjoon lets out a shaky breath and pulls away from Hoseok only to continue dabbing at his wounds. The violence of his alpha's instincts calmed by the sanctity of this- of making it better. of being gentle even when namjoon wants to be anything but.

Hoseok’s mute. Throat too swollen to make more than a soft hissing sound on command. Vocal cords not damaged just swollen. Leaving his brain to hurdle through the last few hours. Eyes closed but his mind wide open.

He sees it all behind his eyes; your hand descending with the frying pan, the explosion of wood near his head. The splat of hot blood against the wood floor. Gasping and getting blood in his mouth accidentally. Choking in it- drowning a little. Everything. The sting of smoke on his eyes. Your words ring in his ears like the final notes of a symphony.

“You can take me. I’ll go with you. Willingly. That’s what she wants isn’t it?”

Hoseok’s brain teases through what you might have meant with that. The unnamed she that you mention. Who, why, and what aren’t you telling them? Is it the woman that Yoongi talked to you about before?

He's unable to say anything to Namjoon even as the alpha softy cradles his damaged throat. Unable to even whisper it out through the swelling that threatens to cut off Hobi's airway. It feels like he's breathing through a straw. Namjoon says he's not going to choke, that it only feels that way. The panic is hard to let go of.

But who do you have to go back to there? You've never talked about the family like you wanted them, like they were your pack. Who have you run from? What monsters are here to haunt you? Who is after you? Or is it something darker- more sinister?

Maybe Hoseok's heart has never truly healed from Yoongi leaving them. Maybe a wounded heart remembers. Yoongi always had them to go back to that Hoseok had never questioned. But he's never wondered about you or stopped to consider that maybe, Yoongi's not the only one who left something.

The family doesn't exactly seem like something you can walk away from unscathed. Yoongi managed it, but Jimin didn't.

Hoseok should warn Namjoon, should tell someone but- it's impossible. His airway protesting with an agonizing twinge with every attempt he makes at speaking. He wonders if this is what being nonverbal felt like for you.

The pain pulses dully without adrenaline to dilute it as Namjoon so lovingly examines the marks, again and again. But he shouldn't be spending so much time. You and Tae are bruised and battered too- even if Hoseok’s are by far the worst; you need tending to.

Jin’s hands. Your face. Tae’s head. Hoseok’s throat. Each of you has lost the thing most necessary to your survival.

Hoseok thinks of the body, not the one that sits downstairs, but the one that you found months ago in the ocean. Maybe this wasn’t a coincidence. Maybe none of this was. How far back do the coincidences go? Between Jin and Yoongi who wouldn't have a relationship to stand on without Yoongi's family- how many other things in the pack are because of this?

Hoseok struggles to speak, to talk to Namjoon about what you'd almost done, what you'd almost bartered- but nothing but air comes out, and the pack alpha shushes him. His hands grip Namjoon's shoulders hard.

Namjoon wishes he had more than just numbing cream and sutures for Hobi’s hurts. Jimin’s already offered up some of his opioids for Hobi to sleep and as much as Namjoon hates the idea of anyone swapping medication- Hobi might actually need them.

Jimin’s doctor had been a little bit liberal with them, sure that his 6 on the pain scale had to be at least a 9. He could spare one or two. The truth is that nothing hurts more than this- seeing the people that you love in pain. Jimin and Namjoon save their 10s for days like this.

With the blood cooling, Namjoon’s anger has nowhere to go. The body in the basement has already gone cold.

In the quiet of the house they can audibly hear Seokjin and Yoongi start mixing the concrete. The dull scrape of a shovel against a bucket and the sound of a faucet dripping.

Namjoon wipes at Hobi’s throat, and Hoseok tries again- futile in his efforts to speak. Namjoon shushes him.

In the basement it goes; drip, scrape, drip.

~-~

Jungkook holds Tae up underneath the warm spray of water. The glass is foggy in places and clear and others, occasional spots of red water joining the constellation of them. She rests against Jungkook's chest, her body is prone and almost lifeless. Eyes vacant and glassy.

So shaky and tired as her body rockets down from its adrenaline high. A drop so abrupt that she could hardly hold herself up. A drop so terrifying that Jungkook must do it for her.

He doesn't mind, none of him minds as he cradles the back of her head oh so gently. Tae flinches, whether from pain or the sudden movement. Jungkook meets Jimin's eyes through the foggy glass and then yours. Biting his lower lip before Jimin nods and tells him to keep going.

Evidence is evidence. Washing off can’t wait.

Jimin has joined you upstairs with the body already packed away and on its way to being buried under the foundation of the house. Jimin watches on from outside the shower as he instructs Jungkook in a quiet voice on how to clean Tae of evidence properly. He's been quiet since then. Staring at them while Tae stares blankly back.

You watch them from where you sit. Mostly you just watch Tae. When Namjoon's body doesn’t block your view. He stitches the gash on your forehead, hands pulling the sutures closed in a gentle and practiced way. The pass of the needle through your skin a distant sensation.

The wounds on your hands are in that awkward place of not being deep enough for stitches but still a little too deep to not need something. After a brief debate, Namjoon sealed them with a bit of non-surgical glue that stung terribly and then regular gauze over the top.

Your hands are swelling and clotting. Scabbing although trying to touch anything is too painful. Closing your fingers at all hurts. Namjoon holds you so lightly it hardly feels like he's holding you at all.

Namjoon apologizes after every wince.

The second he’s done he tosses his suture kit into the bathroom sink with a clang the second he’s done. Namjoon gets on his knees before you. The plastic that covers the whole bathroom crackling as he does.

Jimin had the great idea to cover the bathroom with sheets of plastic to cut down on the cleanup. Hoseok's bloody footprints join Tae's trailing from the doorway to the shower. Join the trail that you left. Parts of you are still dripping.

"It's going to scar," Namjoon says, a little sadly. Thumb skimming over the mark on your forehead.

You swallow hard. You still taste blood. You want to brush your teeth; you want to shut the lights off and go to sleep. You want Noodle and you want Yoongi you want everything from the past few hours- the past few years to be gone and over with. You want-

You want to snap at him and tell him that it doesn't matter that it will scar. That you're covered with scars already and you don't care but-

Namjoon kisses your forehead. A lingering brush. The one spot that's not bloody.

You look over at Tae and her eyes flicker blankly to you. Jungkook keeps bringing the boar bristle brush up and down her back in soothing little circles.

When you turn back to Namjoon he's pursing his lips and blinking away tears as he looks down at your hands. You resist the urge to say you’re sorry. You’re not sure what for. The terrible feral hunger in you gone as quick as it's come.

Namjoon’s fingers wrap around the hollow of your knees, and you meet his eyes, even though you don’t want to. It feels too much like a confession already.

“I’m going to say this now, before you get any ideas; This is not your fault and I am not mad at you and Tae for doing what you did-”

“Namjoon-”

He continues on, words rushing out. “I’m proud of you pup, so proud. I’m sorry that I wasn’t here. I promise I won’t disappoint you again as pack alpha-” You cover his mouth with your hand, gauze and all.

The bit of gauze over your palm is already turning bloody. It's hard to tell if it's your blood or if it's his. You’re the last one to shower. The last one to get clean. Namjoon shouldn’t be touching you at all.

And yet he does, yet he cradles your face, brushes the tears from your cheeks, gets blood on his hands. Evidence is evidence, but love has a steeper sort of price if you don't express it when you can.

When you take your hand away, Namjoon doesn’t try to speak again. someone says something that you don't hear, that you can't hear.

Namjoon stands and when you look up, Jungkook has the shower door open for you.

Because the bandages and the glue on your hands can’t get wet Namjoon binds your hands with Ziplock bags and duct tape. The plastic rustles, and you follow Hobi's bloody footprints into Jungkook’s arms. Namjoon closes the door behind you.

Every bit of plastic is going to get melted down later, until all the blood and terror evaporates through something as simple and trivial as fire. Fire will cleanse it of all evidence, as sure as the burning water you step under.

You're not quite sure what you're going to do about the bullet holes in the walls or the blown-apart door to the upstairs bedroom, but Yoongi’s always had a handle on the home improvement stuff.

Jungkook helps you disrobe off your bloodied clothing. Lifting your shirt over your head and stooping, telling you to hold onto his shoulders so that he can take off your sweatpants. You're pretty sure they're Yoongi's but there's no time to get sentimental as he puts them inside a garbage bag along with Tae's and Hobi's clothes.

Everything on your person is evidence. When you look back Namjoon's gone, summoned by Jin's distant call from downstairs. It's just Jimin outside of the shower. watching you, but mostly watching Tae.

You’d be more self-conscious of your nude body if your brain wasn’t still racing. It’s hard to do much with the bags on your hands. But Jungkook squirts out a healthy dollop of your favorite shampoo and gets to work once the conditioner is in Tae’s hair. She sits like a discarded ball-jointed doll on the built-in bench. Her long hair hair stuck like a sheet over her eyes.

Nothing is as important as making sure you’re not found out. And the frothy shampoo turns rusty around Jungkook's fingers. You have to have a lot of blood on your face. All the water that rolls off of you goes pink.

Jungkook is gentle even by your hairline scratching against your scalp with his fingers. The skin there is tender. Namjoon taped a bit of gauze over the sutures too. You don't remember when he did that.

You make a noise. “Too rough?” his voice has something unreadable in it, something soft and concerned.

You don't respond because Yoongi makes his reappearance at the doorway. The black shirt he wears is dusty at the front from the concrete. His eyes single focused on you the second he enters the room. You stare at him the way that Tae stares at Jimin. Jungkook just huffs and pulls you a little more snugly against his chest.

Tae stands in the corner of the shower, still staring at Minnie. Minnie who stares back, practically not blinking. Both of their anguish are hidden behind glass. Like fish in tanks that could never get out. Not really.

Part of Tae gets washed away down the drain. Swirling and gurgling down and down with no one to notice.

Tae stares off blankly into space. Sometimes Jimin talks to her and sometimes he hums through the glass, he'd be in there too if his bandages couldn't get wet either. If Namjoon hadn’t yanked him back from the doorway and told him that he couldn't.

Jungkook takes the boar bristle brush to your body too. Everything has to be scrubbed multiple times until your skin feels nearly raw from it. Tae’s fingernails, her arms, your neck, the side of your face, the hollow at the inside of your arms. Your knees. Everywhere.

He apologizes when he goes over bruises, wincing, clutching you a little tighter, a little closer to make up for the pain. But Jungkook is meticulous as he cleans of evidence until you feel groomed clean. Until there’s no more blood swirling down the drain just clear water, and the light outside has turned pearly and blue in the twilight.

Tae's still silent. She's been quiet beyond the occasional heartbreaking whimper since you both killed that man. Eventually, You push at Jungkook's hands with a pointed look in her direction where she's slumped and he goes with a soft nod. Two omega's taking care of their alphas.

Jungkook’s delicate with Tae’s head, gentle in the way he cradles the bruising, half hidden by her hair. Washing out the conditioner with a quiet hum. Namjoon had diagnosed her with a concussion pretty quickly, it's not a crack in her skull plate but she's not going to go putting her hair up in a bun any time soon.

Jungkook alternates from you to Tae. One moment you're standing, the next Jungkook is taking you up gently from the floor and Yoongi is at the glass, hand on the door- looking at you anxiously. Letting out a volley of cursing. You can't remember the last time you heard him use language like that.

"Hyung she's fine- she's just slippery, I've got her."

Their voices are so soft and grave and so quiet. Or is it just that you can’t hear it? Why are their voices so far away and muffled? Sometimes Yoongi is here and sometimes he isn't. Sometimes Jungkook is holding you, talking to Namjoon about something, and other times he and Yoongi are talking. Keeping their voices low. Your ears ring. It's so loud it deafening.

“Do you need me to take over?” Yoongi asks Jungkook. Jungkook has blood on his feet, from you or Tae you’re not sure, it soaks the hair there. Jungkook’s got hairy fucking feet for an omega- you’re not sure why you’re concentrating on it. Why you’re noticing all these things now. Cataloging little things about them like you might never get the chance to notice them again.

Your heart beats quick, fear still consuming you even though the danger has passed. You look down at the tiled floor and the room spins.

You don’t feel a thing when you close your eyes. You don’t feel anything when you think of the man that you just killed. You don’t feel anything but roaring, like the crashing of the ocean or the sound when you lift your ear to a shell. The hearing in your left ear where the gun went off feels…off, muffled. You put your hand up to toy with it and freeze when you realize it isn't right.

"Guys" You paw at your ear. But they don't seem to hear you.

"No, I've got them.”

“We need to clean up the downstairs. Kookie, where do you keep the oxyclean?”

"Guys"

They still don't hear you. Maybe you're not making a sound at all just mouthing the words. Your movement gets Tae's attention and her eyes focus for the first time in hours. Slumped on the bench, her hand grips the tiled edge hard as she tries to stand but can't. Jungkook hands Yoongi something through the steam, the black trash bag full of bloody clothes.

The notice Tae trying to get to you first. she hits the floor with a small thud and tugs her way over to you. You make a noise in your throat- a distressed chirp that makes the alphas flinch. Tae cups your cheek as you dig your finger in, slippery from the plastic- and pull something small and fleshy out of your ear.

It's soft and squishy. A curved piece of pink and white brain matter. A little bloody but bleached from the water.

You try to stand to your feet but teeter, shaking, staring down at the chunk of person that you just got out of you, that was just in you.

For a second, no one says anything, but then-

“That’s so fucking gnarly.” Your head jerks up in Jungkook’s direction.

"I think I'm going to be sick," Tae actually does look a little green, but it's good to hear her voice at the very least. She hauls herself over to the drain and starts to dry heave.

"Oh tae don't-" the sound of vomit hitting the floor joins the sound of the shower. You don't look at her. just at the lump of person in your hand.

"Someone please take it from me," Jimin is already there opening the glass door and holding out a cloth for you to place it in.

Yoongi presses his hands to the glass as he watches you struggle to grab the brush that Jungkook was using on you from the floor after finally getting your feet under you. Jungkook is torn, his hand on Tae's shoulder as she wretches turning from her to you like he doesn't know what to do or who to help first.

You don't care about the state of your hands you just need to get clean. You Ignore the twinge of pain in your hands as you try and get the bottle of body wash open. Ripping off the plastic bags that cover your hands when you can't unclick the cap immediately. frustrated and panicking. You ignore Jimin calling your name. The gauze falls to the floor with a wet thwack and you take the boar bristle brush to your hands. Cuts and all.

Big hands stop you. Hands that dwarf yours. Hands that you'd know blind.

Yoongi's standing under the spray fully clothed, the water pinning down his hair and quickly soaking him. His hands tangling with yours, taking the brush from you. Wordless as he grabs your wrists and jerks you forward hard.

He holds on until you stop shaking. resting against his chest. guiding your face to his scent gland. "Take a deep breath for me now sweetheart- there you go- just like that."

Jungkook doesn't say anything and neither does Jimin, not as Yoongi starts to wash you again. Jungkook just stoops to lift Tae and place her back on the bench. She goes easy, limp, and doll-like. But she's almost done- she's almost clean. Tae pushes at Jungkook’s shoulders.

"I’m fine. I need to wait for the nausea to pass before I try getting out of here.”

With you, it's going to take a little longer.

Jungkook has already shampooed your hair, but he does it again. The telltale signs of rusty red in the peach-scented shampoo. Bubbling orange-pink. Yoongi does it slower, gentler- it feels more normal. Like the slow loving you're used to.

“Do you ever feel like-” your voice is a little crackly from all the screaming you did earlier. You hate how the terror makes you not remember all the details. Did you make any sound while you killed him? Did you say anything through the rage?

The others are looking at you but you have eyes for just Jimin. his hand tightens to fists, knuckles pressed against the glass. eyes darkening ever so slightly. “Do you ever not feel guilty? About killing people Minnie?”

You are nude, as bare as you’ve ever been before him, it's hard to be self-conscious about it. Maybe this would be a little sexier- showering with Tae and Jungkook and Yoongi with an audience if you weren't literally trying to cover up a very violent murder.

You remember the words Jimin had said to you weeks ago now. “Would you kill for me?” “I’d do worse” you wonder if this qualifies as worse. You can’t imagine what would be much worse than this.

Jungkook's hands are rough as they massage a bit of soap down your back but instead of being comforting, it feels like you’re going to vibrate out of your skin.

Jimin hums. Eyeing Tae still sprawled on the built-in bench. Jimin gathers his thoughts before he speaks. “In my contract, at the beginning-” He starts but cuts off as you start to slip. Jungkook's hands find you, helping Yoongi hold you up more properly. Your mate doesn't let Jungkook take you entirely just moves a bit to the side to give him space. Any other day you'd love to be in the middle of a yoonkook sandwich but-

“Your contract?” he nods, blond hair bobbing. Yoongi meticulously removes the dried blood from under your fingernails, careful to hold your glue sutures out of the direct spray.

“I specified that I’d only ever kill bad people. of course I got a little lazier after I got used to it." He shoots an anxious glance in Tae's direction, but she's still just sitting. "But at the beginning, I’d go back and look through their files to try to find out what they’d done to warrant a hit getting taken out on them. I couldn’t always find a reason but most of the time I did."

You can see it in his face, that Jimin doesn't want to say that they deserved it. Because if they deserved a violent ending then you could say the same about the 8 of you. Jungkook's hands get a little close to the nape of your neck and you turn to him and snap.

"Don't scruff me."

"Sorry." You need it. Is what he doesn't say.

“Most of the time it was worth it?” You cling to his words. With Geumjae you’d never had to guess if he deserved it or not but this-

Jimin’s eyebrows are brought into a hard line, “Karma is a fickle thing. Sometimes it never comes but-” his eyes are downcast, "Sometimes it's a good thing, being the karma."

You sit quietly, digesting his words. Your lower lip trembles, and you don’t know if you feel terrible or better when the tears just won’t come. Yoongi delicately cradles your body, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and pulling you back against his chest.

“Yoongi.”

“Let me hold you for a minute.” You do, body sagging under the weight of your exhaustion.

Tae teeters in Jungkook’s hold, but she pushes against his hands weakly when he tries to make her stand again. Her voice sounds warbly and fragile when she shakes her head. “I’m still dizzy.”

He tries to guide her gently back to the bench, but she doesn't make it that far. Pushing away his hands when she descends to the marble floor. Closer to the wall, Closer to Minnie who mirrors her, falling to the floor too. Getting as closer to her as he can without being in the shower.

Jimin lets out a sad and bitter-sounding laugh and Tae smiles in reply while Jungkook and Yoongi share an anxious glance over your head.

He's still grinning, words twisting, eyes shining with sorrow and fondness. “You couldn’t wait 24 hours until you had to make it even, didn’t you?”

Tae closes her eyes as her smile twists and she starts to cry “Where you go, I go. We’re the same now Minnie.” Jimin doesn't mean to ask what she means. He knows.

If you're a killer I'm a killer. If you're damned, I'm damned. Even though neither of them believes in God or heaven or damnation. Not really. Not anymore. It's very half-hearted.

(I don't know if it's worth wondering if the people you love are bad people, I think when worse comes to worse, you just put the heaviness down and keep on loving them anyway).

Jimin’s eyes are soft on her, the way that they only ever are with Tae. He places his hand on the glass fogging around his fingertips. She doesn’t match his hands, just leans her cheek against it. Love is only a thin layer of glass away.

You know it hurts her a little bit, must make the dysphoria a little harder to breathe through, to let Jimin and Jungkook see her like this; just the long hair and nothing delicate to cloth her soul in. A soul that now you’ve irreparably tarnished.

A soul that is damaged beyond repair now thanks to you.

It is your fault. All of this is because of you. all of this pain and anguish and damage is because of the choices you've made. the stupid idiotic childish choices. If you'd never needed it- if you'd just been strong enough- Tae could have been whole. Tae could have been unharmed. Hobi and Jin too- if you’d just-

Back at the hospital, Tae had so many questions about Jimin’s job, so many questions about when and where, and why. But she finds her head empty of them in the aftermath. She has no desire to learn anything else about Jimin’s job. Not now that she knows what killing feels like.

Tae is never going to be able to look at red nail polish the same way again.

Jungkook reaches over and turns off the water.

~-~

Eventually, you finish washing. Wrapped up in fluffy white towels that will have to be burned too. The house smells like bleach and gunpowder. It covers everything.

Even the noodle is looking a little more grubby than usual when he zips by, meowing for someone to give him attention. You hear the saw going and you know that Yoongi is cutting the bullet holes out of the walls while the others clean up the blood.

Your skin feels pink and sensitive were the towel brushes as you go looking for pajamas, you'll get some for the others too. Later, Jin will fuss and ask to put some cream on you. Will massage it in something of an apology and pretend that Yoongi isn't going over the whole house with a blacklight to spot any errant blood splatters.

Later Yoongi will take a wood scraper to the floorboards where the man died, will rip them up, and burn them in the house's ancient fireplace just to be sure that no one finds any evidence.

You'll all pretend that Tae doesn't shake through a panic attack when you have an informal dinner in the nest. jin's rule of "no food in the nest" broken for this. You'll all pretend that Hoseok won't choke choking on all but the smallest sips of water. You'll all pretend. You're good pretenders, good liars too.

Later, Jin will put cream on your skin and dot it all with kisses, the swelling in his hands won't take too long to go down. You'll get the love and You won’t deserve a single second of it.

You don't know how you fooled yourself into thinking you ever deserved it. The last 8 months have been stolen. Not earned.

The one-year anniversary of Geumjae's death comes and passes as you go to the top of the stairs in your towel, Ears straining to hear what's going on downstairs.

There is a lot of talking going on downstairs, between Yoongi, Namjoon, and Jin. About what to do, and how to handle this. Hushed voices kept mostly out of earshot. And other more dangerous questions get asked, with equally as dangerous answers.

One of Jimin's guns sits on the kitchen counter through all of it. No one moves to put it away. They're not sure when they're next going to need it and they'd rather not get caught off guard again.

“I could talk to some people- call them. Some people owe me favors, There has to be some section of the family that doesn’t want her too-“

"Absolutely Not, I am not having you get into some weird ass mafia debt"

"Yeah, jailcell orange is so not your color hyung"

“We stay quiet. For the next 48 hours- it’s likely no one will know what happened. They’re too hurt- we need some time to regroup and think.”

Hobi’s voice is absent from the fray. You hear something quite like he's trying to speak, and someone shushing him softly. Namjoon says that his swelling won’t go down enough to talk until tomorrow. You hear the sound of someone opening the refrigerator to get ice.

The door to the bedroom has been blown apart, and a flurry of bullet holes chewed through the top corner. It sits off its hinges and in two pieces.

You remember watching Yoongi paint the door, sitting at the bottom of the stairs while he worked at the top of it and painted it to match the wallpaper in the staircase, a dark cobalt blue. You remember all of it, every little thing you watched him do to make this house into something worthwhile. To make it into a home and now it's riddled with bullet holes and stained with blood.

It's funny, you hardly remember every little thing he did for you, to make you worthwhile.

You have always been a reminder that you don't make houses out of abandoned buildings, and mates out of monsters that bite.

The water has turned the cuts on your hands white and gummy when you look down at them in the closet room. They’re already oozing, not bleeding, it will be at least a day or two until you can touch anything without discomfort. Namjoon will scold you ever so gently later and re-do your bandages.

The pink curtains are drawn already to keep out any wandering eyes from the outside. This is a dressing room after all. The whole room feels like a blush-toned jewel box and you, the one piece of cheap costume jewelry at the center.

You get up and shut the door before you sit on a small poof- something silky and tufted that Jimin had gotten Tae right after she'd come out.

You sit in your towel and look down at your wounds. Thinking about Tae's concussion. Jin's wrists. Hobi's throat. Both of their blank looks and the violence of death and trying to live. You think it all through, every possible ending to this before you pick up your phone and dial Her number.

Moonbyul picks up on the first ring. It’s like she’s been waiting for your call.

“Did you like your courting present pup?”

Your throat is dry and you don’t know exactly what to say, even less how to say it. She hums at your silence, an alpha's imitation of a purr. Waiting until your quietness builds to a frantic pulse.

In the pack, you've always been the one with the best survival instincts. Geumjae made you this way. Although the pack has spent the last few months trying to heal you; deep down you know you've never been anything more than a scared animal. Fight or Flight. Freeze or fawn.

Bullet to bullet. Tooth to tooth. Heartbeat to heartbeat. This time is different. This time you have something worth protecting.

You stand, no longer able to sit. There is a noise at the door, and you wait with bated breath for someone to come in. They don't come. But you stand and move farther inside. Hoping that the distance will disguise the sound of your whispered conversation.

She continues when it becomes clear you're struggling to speak. “I’ve got another one on the way. Hyejin’s here, wanna say hello? You’re on speaker.”

“Pup,” she giggles, and you feel like you might vomit. It’s a struggle really, not to end the call right there, not to let the fear overtake you. “We haven’t heard back from Spider yet, and I have a feeling someone’s been a little naughty.”

You lift the curtain to look outside, the train chugs past and the cars flit by like the fast small birds searching for seed in the snow. The whole world is grey and flat. The sky is orange from the lights of the city reflecting the clouds. The trees bare of all but a few crumbly leaves. It’s strange how all at once, the train is all you can look at. All you can think about.

You think about hoseok, the night at the train tracks where he stopped you from leaving. When he asked you to stay.

“Tell me what I need to do. Tell me what I need to do to get you to stop this, please.” Your voice sounds off, even for you. Too flat, strange even to your ears.

“I’m afraid we’re too far along for that.”

"Please, please Moonbyul-" You turn, pacing back towards the door. Past Tae’s clothes, past yours, past Jungkook’s, past the alcove where Hobi hangs his sweatshirts for you. You pause there. Looking at them.

“You said- you said when it was over you’d give me anything I wanted. Well I want them alive. Even if-"

Your voice is so shaky, you're careful to make sure you're not overheard. The pack is in the other room, just downstairs. You can hear the distant hum of their sweet voices; the people you love always sound like a melody. Your absence hasn’t been noticed yet.

"Even if I’m not here.”

For once they’re silent on the other end of the line. It’s a full silence, filled with one part lust and one part hunger. Both of them are like Noodle playing with a mouse. Waiting for the right time to drive their teeth in and end this game.

But even mice have teeth. Your hand is holding your phone so hard that the plastic makes your bones ache and your cuts bleed fresh.

“If you don’t let them live, I'll never stop fighting. But if you want me to be willing- If you want me to be your pup the way I think you do."

You can’t even close your hand into a fist with how wrecked your hands are. They hurt with every clumsy movement. you hold the phone. Your every heartbeat lurching with the horror of what you're doing.

I can’t lose them; I can’t be the reason why they die. They'll keep sending people until we're all dead unless I do something.

“All of them, all of them need to be safe, Jimin- you need to let him go of his contract and let him go back to living a normal life and you need to not punish Jin for working for the FBI.” Your words rush over themselves. "Leave my pack alone and I’ll be obedient. I'll be yours. I’ll never try and go back to them again. I won’t ever try and leave. I promise.”

Moonbyul and Hyejin are silent on the other end of the phone. You wait for a few moments. They must be looking at each other, deliberating.

Everything in this room aches. The closet bedroom that Yoongi made he made for you. The wainscotting just so. Everything in this house was crafted with an equal amount of love.

It was never meant to be yours forever, you’ve been keenly aware of this fact since the moment you met Yoongi. Since the moment you met his eyes across the dining room table and the moment his teeth met your skin. Borrowed things don't belong, they never do. Good things do not last. You only get them for as long as you get them and not a moment longer.

You're looking at Hobi's sweatshirts, in the alcove where he stacks them for you to take when Moonbyul and Hyejin respond.

“We'll agree to those terms, but remember their safety depends on your performance."

"You have 24 hours to get to us pup. Make them count.”

The dial tone drones like a funeral drum.

~-~

(Hoseok, a few years prior)

The backroom at the record shop is cramped with all sorts of things from a bygone era;

A mini fridge with a decrepit desktop computer and logbook balanced atop it. Pictures and bulletins glued to the wall from the 1960's. A greasy coffee machine piled high with bags of expired tea. A cramped spot for employees to hang their coats and a yellowing old table with a pair of chairs; both occupied by people also out of place. a beta that has a thing for 1980's rap and an alpha with a broken heart who admittedly loves 2010's pop.

A poster of some glittery showgirl omega from the 20s bats her eyelashes down at Hoseok as he has a mental breakdown. Offering neither comfort nor absolution nor love.

Maybe if he'd been born an omega like that, it would have been easier. Maybe they'd have wanted him then.

Yoongi's hands rub down Hoseok's shoulder, his back, places only lovers have touched. Up and down. An endless circle. An ouroboros of affection nibbling Hoseok's fickle heart. Hoseok aches harder with every passing moment.

Yoongi looks at the clock as Hoseok continues to sob. The shop should be open right now but Yoongi won't let it. It can go out of business for all he cares. As long as no one makes Hoseok get up from this chair before he's ready.

Beta instincts are fickle things, but Yoongi has always had a third sense. Something in him always knows if people are trustworthy and if they need him. Something in their scents or faces or eyes- like small planets reflecting the cosmos back to them. Do planets bear life only when someone is willing to look for them? Do people only deserve help when they're willing to ask for it? or is it like this?

Eventually, Hoseok gets his breath back in his chest and his sobs quiet down. His eyes open bloodshot. All sadness has an expiration date (thankfully). Yoongi's hand slides down his arm and gives his hand a firm squeeze (and stays there).

It's the first time someone's touched Hoseok without wanting something in God knows how long but he's too sad to properly appreciate it or savor it. (Yoongi doesn't want anything from him that Hoseok wouldn't willingly give. Doesn't want anything but his smile. fuck- he's just a co-worker, isn't he?). Who knows when the next touch like this might come? (Yoongi is going to hold his hand tomorrow because Yoongi likes holding people's hands, Jin will give him the tacit permission to do that at least. But all of the pack are keenly aware that Hoseok needs time to heal, no matter how obvious Yoongi's crush and Hoseok's needs).

(Hoseok is definitely not just Yoongi's coe-worker at this point, but saviors come from all sorts of unlikely places)

Eventually Hoseok's sobs quiet and Yoongi sighs, pulling back. He takes one look at hoseok's red nose and pale cheeks and puffs up. "I'm making your hot chocolate and you're going to tell me what's happened."

He gets up like he needs something to do. Like he's tired of taking care of Hoseok. He doesn't take it personally, he's tired of it too.

“My mates they- they kicked me out of our den,” Hoseok confesses. Yoongi's got two mugs in his hands, they thud against the counter when he reaches into one of the cabinets.

It’s warm in here but Hoseok is still thankful for the sweatshirt the beta gave him. Not only for its warmth but for the layer of scent it provides; It’s soaked with the smell of chocolate. So comforting and heavenly that it makes Hoseok a little dizzy when he tucks his nose into it and takes a hefty sniff when Yoongi's got his back turned.

Hoseok was never given the other pack's items, never allowed or encouraged to indulge in their scents. They never asked for his either.

Yoongi hangs both their jackets above the radiator in the back so that they’ll dry faster. He bears an impressive bite mark on his arm, visible because of his short-sleeved shirt. It's bruised just ever so slightly- an alpha bite but not a mating bite because betas don't mate. A mark like that on him is as good a claim as any. Even with the other scents that cling to the sweatshirt.

Hoseok hasn’t known him long, but they’re friends even if they’ve never met up outside of work. You can't not be friends with someone you spend upwards of 30 hours a week with.

Yoongi just hums. "Have you been with them long?"

Hoseok appreciates that Yoongi doesn't use the past tense, his heart too tender around the idea of endings. Some part of him is unconvinced that it really is over. A stubborn heart for a stubborn alpha.

His hair is starting to dry when he nods. "It's been a few years." Hoseok bites his lip, "I could lie and say I didn't see signs but-" his hands end up in his hair, elbows leaning against the creaking yellow table. Tugging a little. "I'm so fucking stupid."

"I don't think you're stupid," Yoongi says, hand on the back of his head. warm rough fingers. Touching him ever so briefly as he passes to put the milk back in the mini-fridge. "It's not stupid to want to find more love where you got it."

But in truth, There's not much more than Yoongi can say. Not much more that he knows to say. He'd never met Hoseok's pack. Whereas Namjoon and Jimin and the pups have a general tendency to linger around Yoongi person at all hours and locations. Stopping by to drop off coffee or just to make funny faces at him through the window when they're on their way to work. Yoongi has never met his co-worker's pack and has never seen much evidence at all on him beyond some vague hints of scents.

That alone is enough of a hint; usually, when people have packmates they're soaked in their scents. Visceral claims to keep any wandering eyes wandering still. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't wondered why Hoseok didn't wear his packmate's scents.

It’s not like the alpha smells bad at all- a little strong sure, but less genetically dominant alphas tend to smell a little sweeter like omegas.

At least that’s what Namjoon says when he feels like info dumping. Late at night when the pack asleep around them and only Yoongi's stayed up to listen. Because Yoongi likes the sound of Namjoon's voice when he gets into the details. Stroking across Namjoon’s bare chest just to feel the alpha's words rumble against his fingertips. His heartbeat against his ear the backtrack for all of it.

Whoever Yoongi’s pack is; they surely love him a lot. That much has been evident since the second that Hoseok met him. Evident in the packed bento boxes and the bunny-eyed omega that walks with him to work sometimes. Or in the tall omega and alpha pair that Hoseok has seen perusing the shelves when he comes in to relieve Yoongi of his shift.

Hoseok has worked here for 6 months. It’s impossible not to collect these details. The hickeys on his throat that he wears after weekends, how ruffled but generally loved Yoongi looks when he comes back from rut and heat leave.

“Is there a reason why they left?” Yoongi tries to be as undiscerning as possible. Voice gentle and measured. Stirring the hot cocoa and putting it in front of Hoseok.

Hoseok takes a sip and it feels like he's drinking a cup of the beta in front of him. Yoongi melts a little into the chair at the happy noise Hoseok makes.

It's good. Really good actually, Yoongi uses twice as much Swiss mix as the package instructs and a tablespoon of honey to boot. More chocolate can never be a bad thing.

Before Hoseok has a chance to respond, The phone next to the cabinet rings. And Yoongi takes it off the stand and hangs it up again in quick secession so that it doesn’t ring anymore. It has to be important but he ignores it for Hoseok's sake. Yoongi does a lot of ordering for the shop, the rare records that their boss is always trying to source and sell. It's a lot of chasing down leads and curators.

(This is not true. This is a lie that Yoongi and his boss have fed him. This phone is set up for the family's use. Hoseok doesn’t know that most of the calls Yoongi answers are more delicate than just simple stock orders.)

“I just found out that my brother has stolen from me, what should his punishment be beta?”

“How much did he steal?”

“300k”

Yoongi swallows, fighting his narrow margin of benevolence. The drops of mercy that he's allowed to show without suspicion. He tells himself that the other beta would order a far worse. People only call him when they want lighter punishment.

“A finger for every 100 then.”

The people who call ask him all manner of things. Things like “I think my child might be planning on going to the police, what should I do before anyone finds out about it?” He is both a secret keeper and a jury.

“Send them away. Out of sight and out of mind of anything that they might be able to share. I hear the military academies are lovely this year. So much snow. Yes, they take omega recruits.”

“My firstborn child presented as an omega instead of an alpha. They're my firstborn and heir, how should I proceed?”

“I can ask around for an advantageous match but I’m sorry, there is no fixing presentation.”

Hoseok hasn’t seen a phone like that in years. Didn’t even know they made old-fashioned ones like that anymore. Ones with a dial, the blue plastic worn from the number of times Yoongi's had to pick it up. It doesn't stay silent for long, ringing soon after yoongi's hung it up.

“I'm the only- they’re an all-omega group.” As if by the mention of his sub gender Hoseok’s angry burning sugar scent fills the room. In reply, Yoongi’s sweetness rises. Hoseok takes another sip and pretends it's just the hot chocolate warming his cheeks. “I guess they wanted to keep it that way.”

"I've got two omegas and they keep me on my toes, I can't imagine four." That gets a laugh out of Hoseok.

"You've got a bunch of alphas in yours though, right?" A bunch already, I wouldn't be needed. Hoseok has seen them, the tall one with dimples that looks like something out of a soap opera. The scary-looking one with the chubby cheeks who's always holding hands with the pretty academic one who likes the jazz in the corner.

Yoongi nods, "That must be nice," Hoseok's eyelashes are all clumped together from the tears. "Having so many people to take care of you."

Yoongi hums, knuckles brushing Hoseok’s hand on the table. It’s just one tender touch but Hoseok starts to break. To crumple.

Yoongi senses Hoseok breaking, pulling him in close before he has a chance to really fracture (he comes just in time, Yoongi loves Hoseok just in time). Yoongi’s scent alone is enough to soothe him- beyond the way he guides the alpha to rest against his throat. Hoseok fights it only a little, what's a little scenting among friends?

They're not just friends, it's not just scenting.

Hoseok wants to bury his nose in the beta’s throat, but that wouldn’t be appropriate, not with the scent of so many others clinging to him. He still sags into the hug. Turns his face away to avoid the temptation.

“They didn’t even tell me- and now the lease on the apartment is up and I can’t afford it on my own and-“ I’m so scared and I just wish there was someone to take care of me. I wish I was a pup again.

They sit like that at the table and Yoongi just lets him cry, He pulls back after his sobbing has cooled. They hug until they both smell like gooey chocolate chip cookies with too much brown sugar.

Hoseok sniffles, “We have to open up the shop,” Yoongi's arms tighten around Hoseok's shoulders in reply.

“It can wait a few more seconds.” Hoseok wants to say that the owner wouldn’t like that but he doesn’t.

Yoongi sips and hesitates. “Do you have a place to stay tonight?” Hoseok pauses for a second, flushing before he shakes his head. “Okay, it's okay. You can say with me.”

“Are- are you sure they won't mind?” But Yoongi is already typing away on his phone, shooting a quick text to the pack group chat (a chat that Hoseok will be added to in exactly 23 days, but who's counting?)

“Not at all. It’s a bit cramped with all of us but we have a spare bed in the closet room that Tae likes to read on sometimes- Jungkook's boss slept there last night after they came back from drinking and Namjoon was so mad- he won't be mad about you though- it's just that Jungkook- he just really shouldn't be drinking."

"Is he underaged?"

"No, he's just got health issues."

"Oh." Yet another person who gets the love he needs, the care he needs. Hoseok tries and fails miserably not to be jealous over Yoongi's omega whom he's never met.

He won't be jealous for long. Later Jungkook is going to challenge him to an arm wrestle just to prove he doesn't need babying. Beating alphas in feats of strength is his favorite thing. He'll feel Hoseok’s hand in his and get completely distracted. "Wow, you've got like- really pretty hands!" and drag them close to his to compare sizes. He'll be smitten nearly instantly with Jungkook- for what it's worth. The jealousy only lasts for a few hours.

Within a few seconds his phone is ringing off the hook, he shows Hoseok the chorus of, “Yes it’s okay!” and “Poor thing, tell him he can stay as long as he wants.” "Of course hyung!" "Does Hoseok like kimchi-jjigae or should we just order pizza?" “Oh! Can we get some with pineapple?” “Gross Jk.” "Yeah we all know Minnie doesn't like the aftertaste of burnt fruit."

And Hoseok can't help but feel like he doesn’t deserve this kindness and such an effortless acceptance. There is a knock at the front door before he can say anything. A few short taps against the glass. Yoongi tells Hoseok to stay put while he goes to deal with a pushy customer who wants in. Leaving him alone in the backroom with his cooling hot coco and the poster still staring down at him.

(They say two can keep a secret if one of them is dead, but that's not the only way a secret stays buried; the best secrets are the ones you’re not even aware of.

Out of all the people in your pack. Hoseok is the only one in possession of a secret like this. The best kinds of secrets are the ones you don't even know are secrets see- he doesn't even know that this memory is enough to save you. Hoseok is entirely unaware that in his mind lies this memory.

Hoseok was the first person to get on the no-kill list, and it wasn’t because of Yoongi.

All packmates of a Don get put on the list;

no matter if they're active or past.)

Sitting at that yellowing wood table; Hoseok feels more settled now that he knows he has a place to sleep tonight that isn’t this backroom. Pulling the sleeve of Yoongi’s sweatshirt over his palms and sniffing at the collar where it was pushed up against Yoongi’s scent gland.

If he thinks hard, he can pick out a few scents here and there soaking the fabric. (Milky Omega Jin, Honey Sweet Puppy Jungkookie, Cinnamon sweet Alpha Tae and vanil-lalalala Jimin, Coffee Alpha Namjoon and Chocolate Yoongi).

It's so different from his ex-pack's scents. Their sugary sweet omega peppermint and sharp lemony evergreen, winter berry and pine, the cold smart of snow against his nose. His burning caramel scent- so off-putting. The one scent not Christmas-themed. The one that didn’t fit.

By comparison- Yoongi's pack smells like a bakery in summer. Every scent that could be added to a cake maybe (one day, in the kitchen, he’ll eat your tiramisu and realize yes- that’s exactly what it’s missing. Your cakey scent makes them all complete, the warmth of baking things).

He has somewhere to go now. Somewhere to be. Someone to trust. He trusts Yoongi- even if they’ve only known each other for a handful of short months.

And Yoongi’s pack can’t be worse than his last one.

As if in reply to Yoongi’s phone (buzzing with more texts that he doesn't check because Hoseok is nothing if not respectful of people's digital privacy. If he checked he would see "Is that the hot coworker you're always talking about? The one who always looks a little sad?")

Hoseok’s phone buzzes with the notification he's been waiting for.

Pack Omega 🌙 calling.

Pick up? Decline?

Hoseok hasn't yet gotten around to changing her contact information. He scrambles at it, spilling the hot cocoa across the table as he rushes to pick it up. Scrambling to get to it before it goes to voice mail. Blood pounding in his ears.

Hoseok’s voice is broken as he says his pack omega’s name, his old pack omega’s name.

“Byulyi- Moonbyul please-”

Moonbyul is cold on the other side of the phone. Maybe she’d have liked him more, and wouldn’t have given up on him if he didn't beg. But Hoseok has never been above begging. Not for love. Not for the thing he wants and needs the most. Hoseok needs love more than air and as Yoongi said- it's easiest to go looking for love where you once got it.

Even when you know it could hurt you.

Her voice is flat and unaffected. “I just wanted to make sure you found a place to stay tonight. Are you still going to be around to give the landlord the keys?”

Hoseok finds himself nodding even though he knows she can’t see him. “Yes- I can do that, I can do anything you want. Can we talk?”

“No.”

“Moonbyul please-”

“Goodbye Hoseok.” She says, hanging up after a second. Hoseok looks at the phone. Pushing the button to redial. It doesn't go. She’s already blocked him.

It will be a long time until Hoseok hears from his last pack again, a long long time until he says their names again. He will remember the way he’d begged, the way her name had sounded smack dab in the middle of it. And hate hate Hate how it makes him feel. He won't ever say their names, regret and self-disgust getting in the way.

It's a little funny, thinking of how different things might have gotten if he'd just told yoongi their names. If he hadn't let his alpha pride get in the way. A few days from now they'll talk about it together. "I don't like the way saying their names makes me feel- it feels- I hate how much I want to say it- to see them again- saying their names just reminds me of the power they had over me."

Never again, will Jung Hoseok beg for someone to give him the bare minimum. This is his lowest point. The moment where it shifts- for good.

His head is in his hands when Yoongi comes back into the room. Still sniffling, crying yet again. Yoongi sets a palm in his hair, ruffling it. Eyeing the spilled hot cocoa with a raised eyebrow.

“If you wanted coffee you could have just said so-“ he makes an attempt at levity and is rewarded with Hoseok’s small snort. Wiping his wet cheeks. Neither of them is aware of the secret. Neither of them is aware and so much worse off for it."

Hoseok grins, “Are you buying hyung?”

~-~

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Notes:

in the story there has always been this question- mainly raised by jimin during his secret chapters- if the m/c is actually in love with them or if she's just manipulating them- at the beginning of this chapter- we actually see jimin finally dispel the last bit of him that thinks even a little bit that this is the case. once he sees how much she put her body on the line- that question isn't even in the back of his mind- even a little. i ended up re-editing this part alot because of it.

every time i write something from jimin's pov i'm always like "why is everything so meandering? why are things disjointed?" and then i remember that's literally jimin's character- that he is in a lot of ways an unreliable narrator.

(TW) i have this idea in my head that namjoon DOES NOT become a good person in the event that all of them die like- a whole separate idea of him becoming a doctor for the family through yoongi's connections with the soul purpose of one day killing moonbyul and her entire pack…including their pups on accident which ends up destroying the last bit of namjoon's innocence as a person…and he ends up becoming one of the families assassins alongside jimin as a result, in this event jungkook does not stay with them and instead moves on and yoongi stays and tries to get them to stop only to ask them to kill him as their last kill because he's unable to cope with the loss of jin, hobi, the m/c and tae. BUT ANYWAY I DIGRESS THAT IS NOT THIS STORY.

i think in this story there is this really interesting dynamic of femininity and death and morality- that being said red nail polish is definitely a metaphor for whose comfortable killing and who isn't. i like the contrast between tae who will never wear red nails again- vs the moon pack who all are not allowed out of the nest if their nailpolish isn't perfect like- thats another layer of the fucked up shit.

are you suprised that the m/c is going to leave? Did you see it coming from a mile away? i mean...it is in the title of the series 😈

….the parallel between hobi losing his voice and the m/c not having a voice at the beginning of the series- you can project whatever meaning you want onto that <3

also on that subject the line "Jin’s hands. Your face. Tae’s head. Hoseok’s throat. Each of you has lost the thing most necessary to your survival." it's worth mentioning that thats not what i think is the most necessary thing to their survival but it is their own interpretation of what keeps them alive. like i for one actually think that the m/c is a lot more pragmatic than anyone gives her credit for but i digress. i could go on about all of their strenghts.

what did you guys think about hobi's secret reveal???? a fair amount of people have guessed it and i think when someone got it at the beginning of the series i lied and said it wasn't- i'm allowed to be an unreliable narrator too!!! kudos to everyone who got it! i feel like it could have been revealed better and originally the big one off was slated for next chapter but i decided to shift it to this one (mostly because i think the next chapter is about to get up there in terms of word count tbh 😭) but T-T its done now! please give me praise because i'm baby and this week has honestly been really hard

[aziraphales-library]

Hi! I was wondering if you could recommend some fics where Crowley and/or Aziraphale are detectives. I would prefer if they were rated M or E. Thank you :)

Hey. Here are some M/E detective fics...

All's Fair In Love And Serial Killing by WyvernQuill (M)

Detective Inspector Crowley is 99.999 percent sure that Aziraphale Fell is a serial killer. The trouble is only that the remaining 0.001 percent are deeply in love with the man… --- In which there is A Murder - rather a lot of them, actually - A Marriage Proposal - just the one - and True Love - whose course runs less not-smooth than it takes a sharp left turn, loops a couple times, and doubles back on itself, before crashing straight into a wall. (Don't mind the metaphor. It still ends well. Promise.)

yours in black lace by okapi (E)

Hardboiled, hell-fried private investigator Anthony J. Crowley is just trying to survive a hot, boring August, but a new case and a series of anonymous naughty letters signed only 'yours in black lace' are about to make things interesting. Chapters 1-3 are case fic. Chapter 4 is smut. For the 2020 DW Unconventional Courtship challenge based on a summary of the Mills & Boon novel Yours in Black Lace by Mia Zachary.

Snow Angel by Lurlur (E)

Detective Constable Crowley has been working the "Snow Angel" case for almost a year. It's Christmas Eve and finally, his luck seems to have come in. Arresting Aziraphale Fell, big-time drug dealer, is the easy part. Questioning him is the hard part. It's a police procedural that goes sideways. I'd say it still manages to have a more coherent plot than any episode of Prodigal Son, but that's not saying much.

Tadfield's Finest by angelsnuffbox (E)

The sleepy town of Tadfield is thoroughly shaken by the arrival of DI Crowley. Where barely anything ever happened before, there is now a bustle of low grade criminal activity, and everyone knows where to point the blame. Gabriel thinks he's a bad omen for the town, many others are quick to agree. Meanwhile, Aziraphale from SOCO just thinks he's hot. Ridiculously so.

It's A Hard Life by Krisdaughter_of_Athena (M)

“Crawly” was the best delivery man in the whole city of London, and everyone knew it. Whether it be books and flowers, or narcotics and guns, Crawly was the one for the job. Easy enough for Crawly to slip in and out of tight spaces, and easy enough to keep his real name off the police radar. Detective Constable Aziraphale Pritchard is used to being told he is not very good at his job. He is as surprised as everyone else when he is the officer to catch Crawly, the Devil’s infamous delivery driver, in the act. He is the only officer to figure out Crawly’s real name. But no one else knows that, otherwise they’d also know that the DC tends to get drunk with this particular member of the notorious Demons every other Thursday, and would also know of the fragile Arrangement between the two. Aziraphale knew it couldn’t last. However, what are the two to do when Crowley is given an extra special delivery, one which places the two unlikely allies alongside each other for the long haul? How will they keep the delicate balance of their arrangement from their respective sides? And how will they keep one boy from bringing destruction to the entirety of London?

The Currents by indigo (M)

Post-End-of-the-World-that-Wasn't, a bored demon sets up a Detective Agency and obviously drags his angel counterpart in to help out. They are tasked with preventing a murder before it happens and set off to the Highlands of Scotland - where, of course, nothing works out quite the way they imagine...

- Mod D

[hottakehoulihan]

This is a rant/musing/meandering about Worm fans WRT Wildbow. I think it's time I at least once made myself an unsubtly dissenting voice, since silence indicates agreement to so many. Move on if you like. This is probably mostly for me.

I'm white, from the USA, grew up with thrift store clothes and scavenged pencils but got to visit the dentist when needed, and was raised in the same ethnocentric, homophobic, fatphobic, ableist, Puritan-influenced culture that most of us were. I try to routinely examine and correct my biases and blind spots. I am trying to see what I might be missing, with as open a mind as I can manage.

I reread Worm (fourth readthrough, but my retention is meh) these last few months actually looking for any evidence at all I could find of the various phobias (all of them, it seems, and also the vaunted hates-drug-users) that some folk like to assert Wildbow has. I didn't find much that didn't--IMHO--more closely fit an accurate description of how the characters (including Taylor, who is literally a child that grew up in an even less-enlightened environment than most of us) are biased. This, coupled with an unfortunate shortsightedness of methodology (do NOT use dice when you write your story. It seems like a good idea to naive youth, but We Do Not Live in a world where you can just let RNG dictate that your [insert bad thing] is committed by [insert group that is already stereotyped as doing that bad thing]. (Though sometimes that's gonna happen in real life too, and art depicting things that happen in real life is Not Always Bad you just have to be careful about context and tone.) Also, try not to accidentally/subconsciously follow Hayes code-influenced patterns. ...though that's hard to do when you're making almost EVERY character a morally grey one) is all the support I see.

Whew, that was a weird parenthetical juxtaposition. Should I rewrite? Nah; it's already taking too much time.

Seriously, how many actually 100% goodguy fleshed characters does Worm have? Arguably zero. Even Yamada and Legend, by dint of having to work within the confines of their structures, made concessions to evils. Dinah made her ruthless calculus decisions just as Cauldron did. Taylor's famously grey self-justifications were agonized over no more or less than Parian's. A perfect character would be a blemish, arguably. (I'll just take Amy as my woobie; after more than a dozen years of emotional abuse and neglect by her kidnappers, she deserves a bit of consideration and rehabilitation.)

And just like I'm willing to assume that Gregor's somehow flawed, like he offscreen asserted that there are acceptable civilian losses when you're doing crimes or assaulting Cauldrons, and that's clearly bullshit because there's no actual evidence Gregor is anything less than perfect but it's easier to assume evils (and more fun to talk shit) than not, I figure a bunch of folk are trying to fit in by agreeing and priming their confirmation biases accordingly.

And this is without, even, considering the millions of other words in non-Worm stuff. You're gonna read Pale and tell me this same junk?

...though, well, perhaps my cutie Biscuit, and a thing Louise said about addicts essentially vanishing from the lives of their loved ones, might count as being against habitual recreational narcotic use. I'll think about that over my next bottle of wine.

I like reading light novels, and fluffy fanfics, and similar, even though usually the characters involved seldom have what you might call facets. When the retired orc warrior who started a gnomish coffeeshop moves on to her next volume, I'm there, and I don't care if I never find out that she once had to choose between leaving baby goblins to die in a fire or saving a teammate from a spike trap.

I've read so many stories where there's no such thing as an 'ism', or rather there's just no example of representation, because every character is two steps away from being an AFGNCAAP (Ageless, Faceless, Gender-Neutral, Culturally-Ambiguous Adventure Person)

I think Wildbow is serious about trying to always be a better writer in the approaching-MFA sense. I see efforts to portray believable behavior of real "human" (whether human or not) characters from multiple backgrounds, in a world that scans as plausibly diverged from the same sort of ugly we live in today.

I do not see any more latent phobias of any sort than I see in pretty much anything else available to read, from fanfic to bestseller lists to "new favorites" lists at the local library. In fact, I see markedly less, to include some (fuck 'em) commenters complaining about shoehorned-in wokeness.

It's weird to me that, given the body of work and the literal black-and-white facts about who and what exist within, and the extra time and effort the author made and makes (too much, IMO) generously engaging with the fans, the default is to diss the author for not doing even more. In their first work. Of which half the concept and much of the worldbuilding dated from grade-school practice. And it's still great.

And I'm saying this about a story where a significant number of the villains are literally white male nazis, torturemurderers, and literally inhuman terrorists. You wouldn't expect people to be demanding a lot of nuance if you were an outsider to this story. But Worm delivers, IMO.

This is not in response to anything recent; I've been chewing on this for years prior to even joining tumblr or creating this username.

tl;dr: Are you sure you're not talking shit about Wildbow just to fit in with the other cool snarksters and feel cool and cynical and superior? Instead of sincere? Because I went looking, and, respectfully, I think you're wrong. And it's a bit ugly and sad.

[neuroticboyfriend]

idk if you want other experiences about cannabis? So feel free to ignore!

But it is our go-to and helps our psychosis and schizo stuff more than anything else. (Antipsychotics had no effect on my psychosis.) Weed helps me so much both with reducing the amount of delusions and their severity. It also makes me care way, way, way less (same for my social anxiety and phobias and physical pain). It also just reduces my stress which reduces my hallucinations and delusions. I don't think it specifically reduces visual or auditory hallucinations much for me outside of that but it does make me not care about them. [And note: if I get *really really really high* (like taking double my tolerance in edibles or something) it can make my psychosis worse but still in a way where I'm less distressed by it and don't need to act on it, so like, still a win?]

I had fully developed schizoaffective for years before I tried cannabis, and stayed away from it for a long time, for the same reason as you. So totally up to you, and I respect your decision either way! (Not that my input matters lol but just reaffirming it's your right to choose!] and I definitely would try it with someone I trust the first time, and not use very much.

But i know quite a few psychotic people who really benefit from cannabis. And I know a couple who aren't psychotic in regular life but get paranoid on weed. So like. It depends! It's not for everyone but it can really help some people. My partner and i are both much saner on cannabis. But it's up to you if you want to try it or not! Feel free to message if you ever wanna talk about it or have questions. <3

I'm sorry things are hard, have another baby Julian (he's growing up so fast sob emoji 😭 )

ID: a five week old dilute orange kitten. He has white on his chest and big ears and is sitting among a bunch of toys, and half sitting in a coiled spring toy

That's honestly really good to know. I thought there was no chance someone like me could ever use weed, but maybe there is hope. I cant be normal about substances, but maybe I cant get a medical marijuana card.

I'm trying to see substances as a means to an end, instead of moralizing them and feeling like I'm doomed because I use them. Yeah, I definitely am on a downwards trend but, harm reduction. That's what helps me most, and weed is a lot safer than narcotics and alcohol.

Also so happy to see kitten Julian growing up!! honestly the fact you link me to him even tho we dont know each other in person or talk privately a lot is :') it warms my heart. Thank you friend, I always love hearing from you - your experiences and insight are always helpful.

[winderlylandchime]

2/2 ‘So he showered but he couldn’t wash his hair? Is this kid sticking around?’ ‘this moment with Emy and Linds was nice. A true ted talk. Now back to what we all care about, Brian and Justin. Do they have a name like brangel- nevermind bad example. Forget i said anything’ he is now laughing at Mikey and actually enjoying him ‘they know they can’t just keep the kid right? But that’s funny. He’s actually funny when he’s not annoying as fuck. Or obsessed with Bri Bri’ ‘Okay Emy can actually plan a good party! Of course Mel is being bitter that she isnt the star. Why is she like this?! Okay Teddy, from one drugged up patient to another, dont mix with alcohol! And you can’t take too many! Gotta follow the rules of medical law’

THE REUNION SCENE IS FINALLY UP! ‘Mr Kinney!! OH THATS A KINK FOR SURE AT THIS POINT! Yes, please do come in! In more ways than one. *he is literally sitting on the edge while fully shaking* HE WANTED TO SEE HIM! HE SHOULD TAK- OH MY GOD HES NOT TALKING ABOUT WORK IS HE?! IF THATS THE CASE I AGREE! YES! Yes he would be making a bigger mistake! Fuck yeah! Cmon Bri Bri take him back. I allow it! OH HE UNDERSTANDS AND KNOWS?! HE FUCKING UNDERSTANDS AND KNOWS! FINALLY! Come on Bria- hard hours ha! Oh i bet it will be a pleasure after that boring bullsh- SIR?! oh we are in kinky town arent we? *pauses tv after Brian says no more violin music* oh fucking finally! Dont play it in my presence either. I think i have lifelong ptsd because of it. HE PROMISES! LOOK AT BRIANS SMALL SMILE! Oh are they about to fuc- OH THEYRE GONNA FUCK! FINALLY! LOVERS SPIT! I KNOW THIS SONG! I LOVE THIS SONG! THIS IS MY FAVORITE SONG EVER! OH MY GOD! THIS IS GONNA FUCK ME UP ISNT IT?’ *watches the scene with his chin in his hands and a goofy ass smile* *said so softly i almost didnt hear it because he blasted the tv loud as fuck* ‘my boys are back.’ *waves towards the tv* ‘this is the best fucking thing to happen to me in such a fucking long time! Play it again please! Rewind it!’ He then watched the reunion scene again with the same goofy smile ‘i feel like i could cry tears of joy. It was the worst of times for me without them. You have NO idea how hard that was for me! And now theyre back. Oh i gotta tell mom! She’s gonna be so happy for me! *walks away while humming the song to himself* i will never listen to this song the same way again’ He then sat outside at night for 30 minutes while smoking and had Lover’s spit playing on repeat on his phone. I’d day he’s happy about the reunion.

Your brother is so not into Hunter. I'm curious if that will change when he starts flirting with Bri Bri.

Now back to what we all care about, Brian and Justin. Do they have a name like brangel- nevermind bad example. Forget i said anything <- LOL because you can't tell him about Britin because that gives away... Britin

Gotta follow the rules of medical law - I am curious what the rules of medical law are. Besides not mixing alcohol with prescription narcotics.

*watches the scene with his chin in his hands and a goofy ass smile* *said so softly i almost didnt hear it because he blasted the tv loud as fuck* ‘my boys are back.’ Can we bottle up your brother and sell him to QAF fans. For what, I don't know. But I love how invested he is. It makes me feel less insane for how much I love this show and this ship.

I'd say he's happy about the reunion is the understatement of the century.

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“Lend Me Your Ears By R. D. BOUCHETTE,” Vancouver Sun. March 2, 1931. Page 6. --- There's Still Hope - Artistry Re-born -  Sir Charles Chaplin - Trouble in Zion --- Those who fall to discern the tiniest gleam of hope for humanity, might pay a visit to the formidable grey fortress, which is the British Columbia penitentiary, on New Westminster's outskirts.

There, under the kindly but watchful eyes of Col. C. E. Edgett, the warden, is going on a process of human rehabilitation, of which we know very little. We, for the most part, are ignorant of it because we cease to interest ourselves in a man once he becomes a number. We forget that if the penitentiary fails to cure that man of his anti-social aliment we shall pay for it.

Warden Edgett's mission is not so much to punish the criminal, as to make him a law-abiding citizen. He does not, however, speak of it as his mission. He says it is the purpose of the Canadian penitentiary system.

***

Facts speak for them selves, and how well Warden Edgett is succeeding in his work is revealed in the figures. 

During his two years as "premier" of this limbo state, Col. Edgett has discharged 200 men from New Westminster. Two of them are again behind the highly-polished steel bars. Another two are in Oakalla. Four more are doing time in the United States. 

This means that more than 90 per cent have reformed their lives. We know that they have reformed, for if they still followed lives of violence, sooner or later they would be in the hands of the police.

***

Out at New Westminster penitentiary, last week, I saw George Paradise, serving a three-year term for selling narcotic drugs. 

I remember speaking to Paradise two years ago at police headquarters, just after he had "beaten the rap" on a drug-possession charge. 

"Why don't you quit taking dope?" someone asked him.

"Quit dope?" Paradise laughed bitterly. "You may take a child from its mother. but never will you take the love of that stuff from me."

Paradise was almost boasting. Less than a year later, in Assize Court, he asked the court to send him to the penitentiary so that he might be cured of his lust for drugs.

Paradise was a sign painter and artist. When I saw him at the prison last week he was in the church, paint brush in hand. He had completed a mural design, a background to the altar. He looked quite happy. He has gained about 20 pounds in weight. His eyes are clear.

He glanced proudly at his work. "I haven't done anything like that for 20 years," he said.

Then he showed me toys he had fashioned with his hands. There was a mechanical turtle, an elephant which raised and lowered its trunk when it was moved, several reproductions of Spanish galleons. Last Christmas Paradise made scores of children happy with the toys he constructed.

***

Paradise, now, does not feel that he wishes to retain the love of narcotics. He has never been more content in his life.

"How are things outside?" he asked me.

I said they were "not so good," there was a lot of unemployment.

"I guess I ain't missing much," said he.

In England they are talking about knighting Charlie Chaplin, the prince of pantomime. It strikes me as being a pretty good idea. Surely, if a man deserves a knighthood for brewing beer or distilling whisky or manufacturing soap, it is not unfitting to reward him for creating Iaughter. Compared to some knights I know, Chaplin could handle an earldom very nicely.

***

Mark Hellinger has story for those who "like their irony served piping hot." It is about a Jewish real estate man who, in boom years, built three very white apartment houses in New York.

Along came the depression and our real estate man found himself with three very large and very white elephants camped upon his bank account.

The sad part of it is that he cannot live in any of the apartments himself. They are restricted against Jews.

[wcmcink]

how we are

it is through these binary positions that we navigate the real, that we find truth… the truth isn’t that one aspect is good & one aspect is bad, or so & so’s a hero & so & so’s a villain (the idea of the movie theatre is to walk out of it, not make the movie), the reality of these binary oppositions exists somewhere in the interstices. thats how they get you in the end— they make you aware of all these different options & demand that loyalty insists that you choose one & stick to that one. we have duality, we have more than duality, we have many different things living inside of us & we must honor that. we are plural. we must evacuate these things of all weighted definitions if we seek to come to terms with our life. the balance.

i woke up this morning with the presidents thesis on the ground…

i started my thesis on aesthetics & practice years ago & never finished it—

i read somewhere in an article “a naked exposure to the rage of the world…” maybe i am mad; but i ain’t stressing…i take too much prozak to be mad…i’m a big fan of western pharmacology…big narcotic titty… she’s a maniac, maniac, on the dance flooor… there is so much junk rattling around my brain… just for today i will try to resist the social programming of the system…don’t be an incel, get laid, be somebody…its not her fault she doesn’t like you bro…who hates you baby…you know what don’t make it up to me, make it up to someone else at this point…

i put some rites of spring on (not stravinsky), i don’t even know what happened to that t-shirt… i’m always losing my shit in my radical moves, could you imagine what it was like seeing guy picciotto dangle off the headboards in the school gymnasium screaming, “i, i, believe memory by memory no reflections on me…”? righteous bro.

i’ve been experimenting with new forms, new ideas, new poetry, capped my book, started a third one… busy…busy…busy… it approaches pop in a digital field… you know something on c-86 or the wedding present would sing about…

tales from the creator/ the third collect for peace

putting it down for bitches on the block the mommas its war, pig slime or whatever your nAme is jump that pussy wide open fuck a little bit get some i pose right & all the cup-cakes you can eat bro, have you ever seen frogs fight? i got this app on my phone 'cus... playing off i was taken away the sacrifices of god is a broken spirit more ministers than a deck of cards these are the wages of a broken heart prepare the dry lands & love sees through you real less than along & how to hide someone from memories the young lions on the bed... living with the man was never easy... watch my three & celebrate the days of the week dance in the fear & sleep in the madness/  it takes you

if you wanna know the truth i don’t believe in anything, most days i’m too busy in the politics of survival to believe anything. i have ideas sure, ideas i share & open to discussion; but beliefs are at odds with practice… if you believe something & are engaged in some kind of dogmatic ritual, you can’t change your practice when it no longer suits you, so to speak. change, change, change & change again until your expression has reached its final form (it never reaches finality, it continues… purposefully). 

fear or hate thats all there is in the city. narrate yourself against it, remember your heart, remember your mind. the withered bones of a hateful man, perverted by fear…come on old man…i don’t want to understand, i don’t need to.

i hit a guy last night at a meeting. makes me think of an embrace lyric don’t “mistake hatred for courage…” where will i go now? i’m a changed man… i’m up early again 4:37, sometimes i get decent sleep but most days i’m awake, listening to the feed trail off into no-where in particular… you know “grilling on the feed again”… it sucks but its the way it is…something i wrote, something that got lost in the interstices…no more poems for the sky & i’m not better than making a few bucks…

when i would go out on the streets, lived is far fetched… i would make music, poems, & toss them around into nothing… it was my contribution to the universe; tell you the truth it would’ve been nice to see some dividends as opposed to the odd twenty bucks some citizen would throw my way…or being smoked out…i always called them poems for the sky…every-time i came in i would swear no more, no more talking to myself, no more grilling on the feed, no more push & pull, sanity, integration into a system that works for me… even anarchy is a system of ideas… not like i’m such a crusty, but anyway i digress…chimp & sneer, the battlegrounds…

i’m in favour of never learning your lesson…where life teaches no lessons, offers no wisdom but nature & the viccissitudes of…this isle is filled with noises…when the thought is in the action, i kind of believe “hey, you left it out bro��” 

haven’t you seen anyone talk with their hands before? bullshit you’re throwing up…when even gentle words won’t do/

[tsunderedoctor]

Um.. so I’ve never really felt like I needed an emergency request.. so I don’t really wanna think if this like that in comparison to the other emergency requests but, I just relapse with a really bad narcotics addiction so I was wondering if maybe I could get Law or Ace comforting their S/O with the same addiction? It’s okay if you’re uncomfy by this and don’t wanna. Thanks none the less

I will do my very best! I never personally experienced addiction, but I have experienced being on the other end, so I will try to use what I do know for these boys. I hope it helps you 💖💖

!TW MENTIONS OF DRUG USE!

Trafalgar D. Water Law

From a medical point of view, he knows how deadly this can be, from a more human point of view, he doesn’t blame you and would probably had tried something similar once in his early twenties (the Devil Fruit helps remove the toxics after that high).

Is probably the most understanding person in this category, Law has PTSD, survivor’s guilt, and irrational thought processes, the man would honestly do some stuff to get rid of even a third of those thoughts. 

Does his best to remove the toxics from your body so you aren’t harmed, but also lectures you on the importance of being safe and reminding you he won’t always be there. 

Tries his best to not be an enabler, he wants you to get better, but doesn’t know what to do to help you. You can tell him how you feel and maybe the reasons why you feel the need to do those things, and perhaps he can help you find alternative solutions.

It be a great couple building! Helping each other being healthy mentally, it’s hard, but it will build your bond stronger.

Portgas D. Ace

Ace is a bit different, he thinks almost egotistically, in which he thinks he is the cause for the issue. Due to his poor self esteem, he gets anxious that you do these unhealthy coping skills, to well, cope with him.

You’ll have to be very open and honest with him on your reasonings, he might still have some doubt, but he will take your word for it and do his best to help you! He loves you and wants to see the most healthy you!

He won’t do anything illegal, despite being a pirate, he’s a bit of a scaredy cat when it comes to certain things and his moral compass. He still sees you as a good person don’t worry, he just feels bad when thinking about it for himself.

Is extremely comforting and nurturing for you, but if you bring it up how he’s a softie, he will blush and pout. 

He wants to help you, but make sure to remind him he can’t “fix” you, he will get a bit obsessed with that and it will start stressing him out too. It’s okay to not be perfect, and that goes for both of you!

[lovelypale]

Narcotics // Addict!Senjuro x Dealer!Reader

Warnings: 18+, drug use, addiction, toxic relationship, suicide mention, it’s consensual but I’m gonna say dubcon just in case, mostly plot with a bit of spice, Senjuro is college aged.

Words: 1600

a/n: Had this idea plaguing me and I just needed to get it out. Sensitive topic here (as if I write anything that isn’t) but yeah may or may not give these two a happy or sad ending. Let me know I guess!

You opened the door to the large figure in front of you, dripping from the downpour that was tearing through the city. He was imposing in stature but still very skinny otherwise; a very meek man. He was shivering, but you had a feeling that it wasn't from the rain. 

"Why did you take the last train?" You tested the water with a small opener. It was very curious that he would show up so late, again. He knows what he's here for, but you wanted him to say it himself. 

He opened his mouth to speak but ultimately couldn't, instead opting for a shaky wave. You scoffed and opened your door wider for him before leaving to get a towel. When you returned he was still at the door, still shaking, still appearing utterly helpless. You handed him the towel and he took it from you, still avoiding your eyes. Everything was silent. 

"I'm not selling to you anymore Senjuro." 

He continued to stand there, blond and red locks frayed and dripping water on the floor. He looked beautiful, always does, it was a talent that even helpless and strung out he still looked breathtaking. He nodded and hugged himself tighter. "I'm sorry. I'll do anything, please." 

"You don't want anything from me." You put your hand against his cheek and felt his cool trembling against your warm skin. He was desperate again. He said he was going to quit plenty of times but he would always end up right back at your doorstep. You watched him grow from a slightly misguided kid to a truly fucked over adult. He barely knew his mom, dad's an alcoholic, and his brother seems alright but he was always busy teaching. You're sure he's messed up like everyone else and is just the type to let things fester in secret but Senjuro doesn't know that. He thinks he's the problem, the only one that couldn't cope, that can't contribute in the way that his older brother does. It messed with him so badly that it led him to you. The school's dealer. Not only can you make the pain disappear, you can make it feel good.

He doesn't need to feel good. He needs to never see you again. 

"I can't stop shaking, my family will notice. Please." 

"I hope you know they’d hate what you do for this more than the actual drugs itself." He looked at you with his dull red eyes through his foggy glasses, you remember when they used to sparkle. He wasn't like you, he was always so motivated and happy. At some point you used to envy his shy and upbeat demeanor. 

"I understand." He smiled at you but it looked eerie and unnatural. He wasn’t lying about his shaking though, it really did look bad.

You shook your head at him and sighed, turning around to a side room to check your supply. Lucky him, you had exactly what he needed. You took just one and dropped It in his palm. He looked at you confused. "I told you I'm not selling you shit anymore. You're getting one to tide you over, other than that I don't want to see you here ever again. Get help."

He looks at you with a plea in his eyes as he gently grabs your arm. "I don’t think I have anyone else y/n, please don’t leave me alone.”

"That's not my problem, do you even have money anymore?" You pushed away from him and he quickly latched back on to you. Your heart strained in your chest, you always hated this part. This stupid hug he gave you that brought you back to your youth, the days of being in high school when he hugged you before running off to his friends. This was always just business to you but he walked into your life and you’ve felt increasingly responsible for him since. It felt less and less like making money and more like assisted suicide. 

He placed the pill in his mouth and pulled himself even closer to you, ''Anything." You felt his still wet body pressed against you and you knew this fight was over.

You sighed before pulling away from him and walking to your room. He followed you, knowing exactly how this routine went. He watched you kick off your pants and your underwear. You sat on your bed in nothing but your top and watched him with guilty eyes. He was pretty, even with fading hair and way less weight than he started with he was gorgeous to you. Usually people as deep as him don’t maintain as well but he managed to keep his baby face. He looks tired, the type of tired sleep can't fix, but at least you can't tell that he's sold his life away for a drug. At least not yet, but he's getting there. 

You know you're taking advantage of him, but he's also hoping you do. He’s always been a people pleaser and you can’t say no to letting him please you. It started with him running you drinks to making out in your car and now...Terrible. As sinister as this courtship is, neither of you truly want to stop. You loved him, but not enough to stop him from hurting himself. "Hurry up, you have an 8 AM tomorrow." 

“I dropped that course.” 

You stared at him with pure pain in your eyes. “Of course you did.” 

He peels himself out of his wet clothes with a slight sway to his form, you can tell whatever issues that plague him are starting to float away. As usual, he keeps his glasses on. He smiles at you with weird reverence, like he's thankful that you're going to be the one to ultimately kill him. Your hand immediately takes hold of his pretty cock. Long, curved, and pink at the tip. You swirled your thumb around his tip as he patiently waited for you to tell him what to do. You made languid movements up and down his twitching dick, thinking to yourself that you should probably do something before he's completely spaced out. 

"Lay down." He listens and slowly gets on your bed before giving his attention back to you. You can never seem to get over how dainty he looks, it makes you feel even worse about your little situation. You get on top of him and he instantly starts bucking against you, not really even aiming for anything, just trying to get the burning sensation on his skin to cool down. You didn't prep but you didn't need to, taking him was easy. Power and pity is two things you've learned to sexualize when it comes to him. His vulnerability had to be hot or else it would quickly become sad.  

His legs squirm underneath you from the building sensitivity. He utters small "thank you" and gasps as you move up and down his dick. His slight curve rubbed against your upper wall, causing you to be noisier than you'd like to be.  He's getting warmer and warmer, feeling found inside of you. The world is fading off into something more obscure, something that isn't tangible. Your hips feel plush against his palm, he's digging down and tearing into your skin but he knows you’ll forgive him for it.

You watch him writhe in ecstasy, getting closer and closer to his high. He looked so beautiful with his hair all over your bed and his glasses threatening to fall off completely. You never get a warning with him, your orgasms are always so sudden and violent. Your thighs squished his as you curled into yourself, he was still thrusting, seeking his own relief. You thought you were going to pass out from the feeling of him still plunging deep inside of you. "S-stop." 

You pulled off of him and wrapped your hand around his sticky cock again, not wanting to leave him hanging. He seemed to be capable of the job on his own, thrusting into your warm palm with pure joy. "I'm getting close-." You didn't give him the chance to finish his sentence before you changed your hand motion to a slight twist. He came almost instantly in your grasp, you flinched from the slight splatter against your face as you continued to move your hand. He struggled to look at you. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that." 

You let go and grabbed the same towel you gave him to dry off. "You always say sorry so much, stop it." You knew he probably didn't hear that, he was past the point of holding an intelligible conversation. There's nothing but the sound of your sheets moving underneath his squirming body and the sound of faint moaning, it wasn't a pretty sight but you're used to it.

You watched him move around until he eventually stayed completely still, fully enraptured by his high. He was going to be stuck like this for a few hours. You shook your head, admonishing yourself for even letting him in. You can't keep giving him drugs, and you especially can't keep letting him pay you like this. You grabbed his glasses and put it on your dresser so he wouldn’t crush it, in that moment his phone lit up and you saw the message, it was his brother. His friends stopped asking where he disappeared to a long time ago, it was truly only Kyojuro that still cared about where he went to at night. He has to know the reason why his brother is slipping away.

Hey! I finished grading tests early and picked up your favorite on my way home. I was hoping I could talk to you tonight but don’t worry about it! Your food is in the fridge. Wherever you are, stay safe. We care about you.

You winced at the message and decided to respond for him. Thank you, I'm staying with a friend to study tonight. I'll be back tomorrow. 

Nothing but routine.

[only-johnny-deppp]

“Whatever I’ve gone through, I’ve gone through. But, ultimately, this particular arena of my life has been so absurd...” 

 Johnny Depp’s NEW INTERVIEW!

Last saturday, August 14, The UK Times, released a new interview with Johnny for the Sunday Times section. It was realized sometime earlier this month, in London, probably on the same day he and Andrew Levitas were recording for the Q&A for the “Minamata” release in UK. This is Johnny’s first interview since the UK trials in London last year, and released three years after Johnny’s major interview for the British GQ Magazine. Here Johnny and Andrew Levitas speaks about “Minamata”, his future as actor and a thing or two about his personal life, although he cannot talk about the court case.

For those who couldn’t read yet, here is the FULL interview:  Enjoy.

***

“I’M BEING BOYCOTTED BY HOLLYWOOD”

Johnny Depp has a new film out this week. In the opening scene his character, the real-life photographer W Eugene Smith, says, “I’m done. I’m tired. My body is older than I am. I’m always in goddam pain. I can’t trust my f***ing dick any more. Constantly in a foul mood. Even the drugs bore me.”

I ask Depp if Smith’s despair resonated with him. Depp stops. Rocks back and forth. “That’s interesting,” he replies with painful hesitation.

“I didn’t approach playing Smith in that way… Although you bring your toolbox to work and use what is available. Having experienced...” He stops again. Depp takes any questions that might refer to his calamitous libel case last year slowly, in a mumbly, croaking drawl. “A surreal five years…”

In the film Smith needs to revive his reputation. In real life Depp’s task is even more daunting. Thanks to the judgment, everyone can call him a “wife-beater”. Now he must convince a Hollywood still convulsed by #MeToo that he’s not toxic — and that any attempt to rebuild his career is a risk worth taking. This is Depp’s first interview since the case.

We are speaking over Zoom, Depp in his London home, in front of a gold-framed painting. The 58-year-old is wearing a lot of clothes. Earrings. Floppy hat. Sunglasses. Bandana. Scarf. Checked shirt over a T-shirt with an indiscernible slogan. If you saw him on the Tube*, you might think he was off to work at the London Dungeon*, to play most of the characters.

PS. For those who are not familiar with British words: * Tube = British slang for London Underground, the subway trains. * London Dungeon = is a walk-through experience that recreates scenes from London's scary history in a mixture of live actors, special effects and rides.

Depp resumes, talking in broken sentences about the new film, Minamata, in which Smith, via Life magazine, exposes the brutal mercury poisoning of Japanese villagers in the early 1970s.

“How do we do this?” he asks rhetorically, meaning how to speak about the elephant in the Zoom. “Well, there’s no way one can’t recognise the absurdity of the mathematics.” He grins. “If you know what I mean?” No. “Absurdity of media mathematics.” He talks in riddles. “Whatever I’ve gone through, I’ve gone through. But, ultimately, this particular arena of my life has been so absurd...”

He trails off again. He is holding a big brown roll-up of some sort. “What the people in Minamata dealt with? People who suffered with Covid? A lot of people lost lives. Children sick...Ill. Ultimately, in answer to your question? Yeah, you use what you’ve got. But what I’ve been through? That’s like getting scratched by a kitten. Comparatively.”

Last July, I went to the High Court in London to watch Depp on another screen — a video from the socially distanced court where the Hollywood star was losing a libel action against The Sun after it called him a “wife-beater”. It was the grottiest showbiz trial of the century. There were photos of the actor passed out in a foetal slump, socks on show. One lengthy exchange involved faeces. Another urination, inside or outside a house, after a violent night with his ex-wife Amber Heard.

This had all been going on for a while. In 2016 Heard applied for a temporary restraining order against him. The couple had long endured a narcotic, booze-filled, childish relationship, but that does not matter — 12 incidents levelled against Depp were proved, said the judge, and abuse is abuse, regardless of how badly they both behaved. Depp wanted to appeal, but the court said no. Next April in the US he has a $50 million defamation case against Heard relating to an opinion piece she wrote about being the victim of domestic abuse. It may be his last roll of the dice.

In the 1990s Depp was a sensitive heart-throb. Cooler than DiCaprio, edgier than Pitt. In this past year he has been stripped of his status and dignity. On day three of the trial Sasha Wass QC, representing The Sun, asked Depp about daubing a penis on a painting. He could not remember. “That would be quite a big thing, painting a penis on a picture?”  Wass asked. “Quite a big thing?” Depp asked.

It was a well-delivered line, but Depp was on show. Performing. Now he is more timid, less lucid. His people say he cannot talk about the court case given the looming US trial, yet it hangs over everything. The director of Minamata, Andrew Levitas, is also on our call — as a pub trivia aside, Levitas is married to the Welsh singer Katherine Jenkins.

The two men clearly get on. “With regards to journalism, it was important for us to put across in the film the power of truth,” Levitas says. Depp nods. “The responsibility of journalists to look after citizens of the world. [Our film] coincided with the moment important publications had to put Raquel Welch on a cover to get enough eyeballs to sell enough ads in order to put something meaningful inside. A result of that is clickbait — it’s destroying the purpose of journalism,” Levitas continues.

“You said it beautifully,” says Depp, one of the world’s most pinned-up men, who built a career on magazine covers. “I couldn’t say it better than that.”

Last month Levitas wrote to MGM, which bought Minamata for the US market but decided not to release it. He accused MGM of being concerned that “the personal issues of an actor in the film could reflect negatively upon them”. Then the letter got really strong. Levitas accused MGM of failing in its “moral obligation” to release the film and said it needed to explain to the victims “why you think an actor’s personal life is more important than their dead children”. He then attached Smith’s photos of ghastly deformities that shocked the world 50 years ago.

“It’s important that the movie gets seen and supported,” Levitas says. “And if I get an inkling it’s not going to be, it’s my responsibility to say so. Where it goes from there? I don’t know. But we have responsibility to these victims . . .”

You can see why he’s passionate. The film is good. MGM bought the film because it is good. Depp is good too. He disappears into the role, far from his more recent pantomime parts. It’s being released worldwide, just not in the actor’s homeland.

Depp, who also produced the film, interrupts. “We looked these people in the eyeballs and promised we would not be exploitative. That the film would be respectful. I believe that we’ve kept our end of the bargain, but those who came in later should also maintain theirs.”

“Some films touch people,” he adds. “And this affects those in Minamata and people who experience similar things. And for anything…” He pauses, as he does. “For Hollywood’s boycott of, erm, me? One man, one actor in an unpleasant and messy situation, over the last number of years?” He trails off. “But, you know, I’m moving towards where I need to go to make all that…” Again, he trails off. “To bring things to light.”

The fact, as I think Depp knows, is that for his career, the court that matters is not one of law, but public opinion. On social media, where a lot of minds are made up, Depp’s good reputation will always outweigh the bad, thanks to his frequently blinkered fans.

Outside the High Court, as Heard arrived, I saw Natasha, 30, yell: “Get hit by a truck, Amber!” She is extreme, but the persistent way his fans demand that others think their idol is a saint shows a career revival will happen. After all, most filmgoers do not follow his private life at all. To them, he is Jack Sparrow, Edward Scissorhands. To them, he is a star — and a star can take an awful lot of heat before it burns out.

“They have always been my employers,” Depp says of his fans. “They are all our employers. They buy tickets, merchandise. They made all of those studios rich, but they forgot that a long time ago. I certainly haven’t. I’m proud of these people, because of what they are trying to say, which is the truth. The truth they’re trying to get out since it doesn’t in more mainstream publications. It’s a long road that sometimes gets clunky. Sometimes just plain stupid. But they stayed on the ride with me and it’s for them I will fight. Always, to the end. Whatever it may be.”

Depp will talk like this for ever — about his “truth”. Minamata is the last film Depp has listed on the industry site IMDb, where actors usually have half a dozen in development. So, yes, fans of the actor can see Depp in a new role now — it is a return, but is it a relaunch? The film was finished in 2019, way before last year’s court case. Is that it? His last film? He thinks and looks off to his bookshelves, at biographies of Betjeman and Olivier.

“Er...no,” he says, eventually. “No. No. Actually, I look forward to the next few films I make to be my first films, in a way. Because once you’ve...Well, look. The way they wrote it in The Wizard of Oz is that when you see behind the curtain, it’s not him. When you see behind the curtain, there’s a whole lot of motherf***ers squished into one spot. All praying that you don’t look at them. And notice them.”

I would ask him to explain, but I am not sure he is an explainer. Watch this space, I guess, but he is already taking a first step back. After we speak, it is announced Depp is getting the coveted Donostia award at the San Sebastian Film Festival next month. Some people are just too famous to fail.

~ Interview by Jonathan Dean, in London, for The Times UK (released on August 14, 2021)

[peralta-guaranteed]

good trope or bad trope: one of them waking up from surgery or something and being so high on drugs they forget they're together and the other has to explain it

good trope GOOD trope good trope! and this was probably just a question but I couldn't resiiiist

-*-

It's kind of sad to think about the fact that Amy is already used to monitors beeping in a cold hospital room around her squad and, mostly, around her partner. They've been in so many horrible situations, so many little moments where she's had to worry about them, that today she's almost glad she doesn't have to. Jake's surgery had neither been scheduled nor planned, and there had been a whole lot of panic leading up to it when she drove him to the hospital wincing in pain, his arms clutched around his lower stomach, but the doctor's told her they came in early enough for it to be a more routine procedure rather than an emergency. And now his appendix was out, and he would be hurting and healing for a while, but the trepidation about that is nowhere close to the fear she's used to feeling while sitting in these uncomfortable hospital chairs, wondering when the person in the bed next to her would wake up. The last time she'd been in this position, Rosa was hooked up to so many many more machines, and she looked like a bad wax figurine of herself, all pale and stiff.

Jake looks almost fine, no breathing mask or tube down his nostril, just a little beeping heart monitor and some infusion in his arm. The nurse told her he'd be waking up soon when she lead her into the room, and that they could probably go home later that evening already.

(She also told her that he'd been one of the more amusing patients she'd had under anesthesia, which was not a surprise, and that he'd been asking for her every time he groggily opened his eyes for just a few seconds, which was not a surprise either.)

He blinks awake slowly, eyes darting around the room as if to figure out where he is, before they land on her and stay stuck, his forehead creasing in confusion for a second before he grins.

"Heyyyy, it'sa Santiago!" He tries in a croaky voice, and Amy reaches for the cup of ice water the nurse brought in to hand it to him. He's shaky, but he can handle it alone, she notes almost subconsciously - she remembers enough moments where she's had to feed him ice chips instead because he could barely move his arms.

"Hey." She answers with a softer smile as he gulps down almost the whole cup - considering he still hates water, he must really need it. "How are you feeling?"

"Oh, just splendid, thanks." He quips before trying to sit up more and wincing, the stitches in his stomach upset. "What the hell did I do this time to end up here?"

"What?"

"I mean, I don't remember a chase or a fight, but it sure feels like I took a knife to the stomach or something?"

They look at each other, equally confused, before Amy shakes her head.

"You dont remember-? It wasn't a work thing, Jake, your appendix almost burst."

"Ah dang. That's not even a cool story for a new scar." He sighs as he leans back a bit against the pillow and carefully palms the space where she knows the skin is going to be light pink and rougher than usual from now on. "Sorry they made you wait around for my stupid ass to recover, or is the squad at least taking turns?"

She stares at him, her mind racing, and it seems to make him nervous. He's still trying to go for that usual grin, but his eyes are darting around, sticking to parts of her without looking directly into her eyes, and she can see he's getting fidgety. Mixing that with what he's saying, and the way he's saying it - his voice is different, somehow, more - guarded, or distant, it's hard to explain, but she only remembers it from a long time ago - makes her suddenly realise.

He's been given some very heavy duty painkillers and narcotics, she hears the nurse's voice in her head, so he might be disoriented or confused for quite a while. It shows differently in lots of people, so I can't tell you what to expect, but he'll be back to normal once it passes through his system.

He doesn't remember, she thinks. He doesn't remember... a lot.

"Jake." She gets his nervous attention back, trying to school her voice into something calm and friendly, instead of the equally nervous and somewhat excited giggle she wants to let out so bad. "I think you're still working through your medication. Can you tell me what the last thing you remember is?"

He leans back again and stares at the ceiling, and it's hard to read the emotions on his face.

"Just... regular work stuff, to be honest. Nothing big."

"Okay, then what is the last big thing you can think of?"

"Uh." He swallows, and Amy refills his water cup, but he doesn't take it. "I, uh, I remember Hoytsman kidnapping me." He laughs a short laugh, obviously trying to make it seem lighter than it ever was, but that's not the only reason Amy feels her heart jump.

His mind is stuck before their relationship. After Sofia left him. He thinks he's woken up after being injured at work, and there's no one there waiting for him except for a work partner who he's been trying so hard to pretend he doesn't like anymore, and for whom he obviously has to play the "I'm okay!" role still.

"Wow. Uh. Okay." She babbles, trying to find a way to be gentle and not confuse him any more. "Then, uh, I guess, well, your medication should pass soon, I think, and you'll remember more, so don't worry-"

"Amy." He's staring at her when she finally looks up, and notes her shorter hair, her far more comfortable outfit than the pantsuits he sees her wear at work, and even while high on drugs it's not that hard for him to put two and two together. "How much am I missing?"

"Quite a lot." She finally admits, but drops her look down into her lap, to her folded hands, and she unconsciously covers her wedding ring before he can see it. "A few years."

"Years?!" He squeals while leaning forward and then groans, because that has definitely upset his wound.

"It's okay, the nurse said it would happen." She quickly tries to calm him. "It's - you'll remember when the anaesthetic passes properly, so it's alright."

"Alright, yeah." He nods and finally settles into the pillow again, as silence envelops them for a few awkward moments, in which Amy's mind races through all the things he's missing right now.

"Okay." He interrupts her sad little mental storybook of their life's drama. "Let's play a game until then, huh? I call it 'Shock&Tell'."

"Jake-"

"It's easy, you'll get the rules. Basically, you tell me stuff I don't know right now and see how shocked you can get me."

"That's not funny-"

"Oh, I think it is. I know how much you like to have me speechless." He grins at her, and she can't resist.

"Title of your sex tape."

"Amy Santiago!" He gasps with a laugh, but there's hesitation in his eyes, and she remembers they weren't exactly at a flirting stage back where he is right now. "For that alone, you have to play a round with me."

"I can't think of anything shocking at the moment." She lies, and he sees right through her.

"Okay, then tell me the worst thing you think happens to me in those years, and the best. From your opinion."

She sighs and stares at her hands again, but she knows he won't let up - he's not gotten any less obnoxious from back then to now.

"Alright. The worst thing. You went to jail." She states, matter of fact, and watches his eyes practically bulge out of his head.

"Holy shi- WhAT?! Like, for a crime? Or-what-did I-what?!"

"You were innocent!" She says as fast as she can, and watches him deflate only a little.

"I sure fucking hope so! But still, what- how- why- ?"

"You and Rosa were framed by a criminally corrupt cop. It took us a few months to get evidence against her and have her sentenced instead."

"A few months." He whispers and stares at his hands, scrunching up the blanket he's wrapped in.

"You weren't alone." Her voice is soft and calm now, seeing him in such a state of unrest, and it takes all she has not to pull him into a hug - it'd probably both confuse and actually hurt him right now, given the stitches. "I mean, you were alone in prison, but we- the squad - we were all fighting for you and Rosa, and Charles and I visited you, and we- I- we never gave up on you."

He smiles, soft and a little broken, but he nods, as if that was something he'd always expect.

"Okay, now the best thing. Because lemme tell you, Santiago, you have to make up for that suckerpunch."

She smiles much wider now, almost grins as she leans forward to finally reach for his hand, entangling their fingers (to which he goes along almost automatically) and feeling her rings clink against the one on his. Jake's eyes are frozen on her hand in his, where he can see a shiny wedding band over what is clearly his Nana's old engagement ring, and he's barely breathing.

"Oh my god." He whispers a moment later, squeezing her hand almost painfully tight as he looks at her again, and she's still smiling.

"We're married?"

"Yeah."

"To- to each other?"

"Yeah, you doofus." She laughs.

"I'm- I'm your husband." He whispers again. "Even thought I went to jail?!"

"Well", she still laughs softly at the absolute shine in his eyes, the awe on his face. "You proposed after that. But I would've married you before, anyway." I would've married you before a lot of things you don't remember, she thinks but doesn't dare say, for fear he'll ask about those other things.

"You're my wife." He says, still stunned, and she nods. "We're married."

She nods again, and watches as the confused awe on his face turns into an almost relieved joy, and his bottom lip trembles as tears start rolling down his cheeks.

"Jake..." She whispers in turn now, her free hand (that is not currently being gripped by both of his) cupping his face and wiping away some of the tears that keep flowing.

"You're happy?" He asks with trepidation in his voice, and Amy wonders if the emotional rollercoaster is another side-effect of his medicine or just his lowered inhibitions. "I'm a good husband?"

"I couldn't wish for a better husband. You make me very happy." She's almost close to tears now herself. "I love you so much."

He gasps at that, and pulls her still gripped hand up to his face, pulling her closer to him in the process.

"I love you, Amy." is his answer, and she realises he means it, even with all the things he doesn't remember, all the things he doesn't know yet. "I love you so much. I can't believe I get to marry you."

His tears have calmed down a little by now, and she fixes her awkward pose of leaning forward and having both arms reach for his face by climbing up onto the bed with him, as he lowers their hands and looks at her with stars in his eyes and so much love on his face, she can't resist to pass the last few inches and kiss him.

His eyes are still closed when she pulls back and touches her forehead to his, and he's whispering again.

"Wow."

"Well, that's certainly an appreciated reaction." She giggles.

"Don't tell me I don't react like that every time you kiss me, because there's no way I'll believe that."

"Yeah." She smiles again as he opens his eyes and smiles back. "Yeah, you kinda do."

And just to prove it, she kisses him again.

[1-800-seo]

1-800-SEO presents: — Where Is My Mind?

genre: dystopia/slight angst/escapism

pairing: Johnny Suh/Gender Neutral Reader

warnings: IV’s/needles, intravenous use of narcotics, bad coping mechanisms, alcohol use, depictions/descriptions of poverty to a degree, implied sexual activity, dreams

word count: 2506 words

in affiliation with: @127-mile ‘s

drive in fic collaboration

summary: Based in a future where your wildest dreams can be lived in for a few hours through intravenous methods, vices and virtues blur. Scraping by is all you can do, and escapism is all you live for. Maybe that will change when you meet him. (Loosely based on Inception.)

The familiar haze of mental fog clouds your mind, it coats the edges of your thoughts like a viscous syrup. You find yourself in a wheat field, the golden crops stretching for as far as the eye can see ahead of you. The swirling breeze passes over your hands and you feel it tickle, a sensation you’ve not felt in a long time. After taking a crisp piece of the surrounding plants into your hands, you feel each and every texture it offers with a fingertip. It’s not like you’ve ever touched real wheat before, you want to imprint it to memory. With the piece of crop still in your dominant hand, you turn your head, body following its arc too, and your eyes meet a cottage. The building just exudes a comforting energy, it's homely even when your real home is nothing alike. The trees that are positioned off to the side of the cottage provide the right amount of shade, one side of the house has full direct sunlight and the other is gently shaded, but in a comforting way. You drop the wheat and make your way over to the cottage. As you make your way up to the front door, following the perfectly placed path, you take in the smell of the decorative flowers that adorn the surrounding gardens. The smell of real flowers is something you’re not used to. Finally upon reaching the door, you outstretch your hand to grasp the door handle. The moment your skin makes contact with the sun-heated metal, a blinding hot white shoots across your vision, and pulls you out.

Waking up is never easy, but it’s not like you’re not used to it. The moment you open your eyes you are met with the same dingy apartment as almost every other wake up. Your arms feel weak from lack of circulation as you reach across to pull out your IV. It doesn’t sting, you’ve done this so many times, it’d be surprising if it did. As your eyes adjust to the light you start to make out the time, it’s displayed on the heads up view of your plexi-wall, and reads 11:36PM. Stars, it’d been 7 hours since you last ate, and your body is definitely letting you know as it starts to wake up from its lulled state. You shift your wobbly legs away from the crusty office chair you were sitting on and begin to make your way over to the food dispensary. You hold your palm over the sensor as a silver sachet slides out and into your palm. You make quick work of depositing its contents into a bowl and mixing it with hot water, your hunger spurring you to be swifter.

Before you know it, all of the food has been devoured, your stomach full, and the night is ready to be conquered. You have no desire to leave the flat, nothing calling you besides money to leave the (lack of) comfort of your home. But of course, money always beats out desire, and so you hastily put on your shoes and proofed jacket, grab your safety umbrella and backpack, and leave. Things had to be paid for, and your credits were seriously running low, if you wanted to continue with your expensive hobby, it meant scrounging. You’re not dumb, you knew that daydreaming wasn’t a cheap, safe, respectable, or even remotely healthy hobby to have, but at this point it was escapism, freedom from pain, and so you’d do anything for that sweet peace.

Once you’re at street level, you put up your umbrella. At this point it’s better to be safe than sorry, the acid rain warning that you saw on your dash ringing out in your memory. It never used to be like this, acid rain was once unheard of, but in the last ten years pollution came to the point that even the water cycle couldn’t be trusted. That’s the joys of living in urban scum, you think to yourself. Your ears register the faint sounds of sizzling rain droplets on your umbrella and you're grateful for it now. Your pace quickens, and after a blur of around 20 minutes walk, you arrive at your workplace.

Workplace was definitely too light of a word to call the building that stands before you. The imposing structure juts out into the dark with brightly coloured lights on its each corner, signalling its presence, as if it was easy to miss without the lights. The commonplace sound of thumping bass echoes about the street for meters, and it only gets louder as you walk up the stairs and into the building. A sign reading ‘Sondaero LivingSpaces’ greets you, but you know full well the people here are barely living. Oh no, this type of place is home to some of the most prolific daydreamers; well, the most prolific for the underground scene. You step through a set of large doors and out into the main courtyard. It’s an indoor park, filled with neon bioluminescent plants, and jarringly placed speakers. If this was any other establishment, the sea of ravers surrounded by people daydreaming on cot beds would be jarring to you, but you’re so used to it that you couldn’t care less; or more so, you’re plainly desensitised to it.

You find your way out onto the dancefloor and surround yourself with people - the more people the better, it just makes your job easier. Safely hidden in the palm of your hand is a biometric chip you crafted yourself. Implants are a little drastic in your opinion, especially when cosmetic, but this was a necessary thing to you considering it earnt you money. The function of the chip worked like this: every person is assigned biometric numerical values by the government of their country, this is to make controlling their finances easier without having a physical device like a debit card or a mobile phone. Instead each user is assigned these numerical values based on their facial bone structure, and the chip's job was to scan this using minute sensors. All you had to do was simply wave your hand in the direct vicinity of their face, and await results - those results being the chip draining their bank account of credit and depositing it into yours. The waving part is complicated in normal use, but when at a club, where wild dancing is the norm, it makes hand movements so much less conspicuous. As you imagine the small amounts of money gradually making its way into your account a man approaches you to your side.

The guy has long-ish dark brown hair, with eyes of the same colour and a tall stature. He begins dancing near you, slowly moving closer and closer towards your vicinity. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t attracted to this man, he was objectively good looking, and the smirk he was wearing on his face was hard to ignore. Before you know it, he’s leaning in your ear and shout-whispering: “hey, do you wanna get a drink with me, angel?” The confidence in him to skip all normal greetings is astounding to you, but in some ways that makes him even more attractive to you, so you whisper-shout back “yeah!” and lead him over to the bar by the elbow.

After you have a few drinks in you, dancing becomes thoughtless, and swaying and grinding on the nameless man is even easier. “Yo, what’s your name?” You ask over the pulsing beat. His response is a finger trailing up your spine with the words ‘Johnny’ leaving his lips. Maybe those disquieting thoughts aren’t only silenced by daydreaming, maybe this could be another outlet. That thought curls in your mind, the wispy tendrils of a coherent thought fading like a misty night.

A few more drinks in your systems leads you to going home with the man, but your memories fade away as the night (or should you say early morning?) carries on. It passes by in a blur and the next thing you know you’re being startled awake by a cat sitting on your chest, with an unearthly headache.

Once you finally manage to extricate yourself from the cat’s grasps, you sit up and immediately notice the sleeping form of Johnny next to you on the tatami, his chest rising and falling with each breath. As quietly as you can, you tiptoe up off the tatami floor, acknowledge the ache throughout your entire body and move towards his kitchenette for a glass of water. Unbeknownst to you, Johnny apparently has a rudely noisy water purifying outlet attached to his faucet, and it decides to make itself known the moment you hover your palm over the on sensor. Johnny quickly stirs awake at the noise, and he sleepily opens his eyes in your direction.

“Wha-what’s going on?” He asks, squinting as his dark eyes adjust to the light. “Oh, I’m sorry, I was just trying to get some water.” You respond, tottering back over to the tatami, glass of water in hand. “Um, I’m sorry, I don’t really remember much of last night, did we uh- what did we do?” You’re aware your question was haphazard, but the incessant hangover looming in your head has your thoughts less than clear.

“If you are wondering if we had sex, the answer is yes, but the only thing I remember is waking up covered in… unsavoury stuff...so that certainly was a way of knowing how. I also know that apparently at some part of the night we decided to dream ‘cause I had to tidy up the gear earlier, but to put any worries at bay, I’m clean and vaccinated so...yeah.” He finishes the end of his sentence, trailing off. Well, at least the mystery man is somewhat of a gentleman, and he’s not gonna give you anything nasty which is always a good thing. You realise his late night cleaning must’ve turned to yourself at some point considering you are somewhat dressed and clean, but you can’t find it in you to care, you’d come to this shameful point so what did a bit of aftercare matter.

“Oh ok, and thanks for letting me know. I’m clean and fully vaccinated too.” You respond, unsure how to act around him. Perhaps he feels your apprehension, and in answer he pats a spot on the tatami next to him, just away from his cat too. You make your way over to the spot, feet padding on the floor as you go. “Your cat’s cute, they decided to sit on my chest this morning. Despite knocking the breath out of me, they’re pretty charming.” Johnny’s eyes widen at this knowledge before throwing his head back and letting out a hearty laugh. It’s somewhat comforting to hear such a genuine laugh; it takes your mind off the world of insincerity around you.

“I apologise for Ten, he gets cuddly in the mornings.” Johnny picks up his cat to give you more space, Ten’s legs sprawling wide in the air before being put down to safety.

There’s something so warm and familiar about Johnny’s presence, it has you naturally leaning into him, and his arm comes to rest around your shoulders as your head gently leans on his chest. The feeling is just so warm and despite knowing you don’t know him well, it almost feels like you do. It feels like a lover long lost, and now he has returned a warm feeling spreads throughout your chest. It’s almost inexplicable, and if you were to try to justify it to anyone other than yourself, a wave of embarrassment would certainly wash over you.

Looking down at you, he meets your eyes, and they seem somewhat fond; not what you were expecting to see. “Do you fancy dreamin’?” He asks, still maintaining eye contact? “Hmm, sure, hopefully I’ll remember it this time.” You reply with a smile and he reciprocates.

Before you even open your eyes you’re met with the sensation of skin on skin. Beneath your fingertips you feel, what you suppose is a firm chest, and when you open your eyes your suspicions are confirmed. Your hands are resting on Johnny’s taut chest, and of course this is what an unscripted dream with the two of you looks like. You feel that you are naked too, and his hands rest gently around your waist, a relaxing gentle weight reassuring you he’s still there. You meet each other’s eyes and the tension is palpable in the air. He dips his head down and kisses you, lips melting together with ease. His hands move from their placing and trail down to cup the small of your back, your bodies meeting infinitely closer.

The two of you move together like jigsaw pieces slotting into place, there’s no conscious thoughts, only the two of you existing in this dream space. Part of you can feel Johnny’s thoughts swirling as you share the hazy unstructured scape. There’s hints of lust mixed with a sleepy mindset, probably left over from waking up moments ago in the real world. He’s set on being a lazy lover right now, selfishly devouring you with no haste in any of his actions, just taking these moments for himself. He can feel your thoughts just as much as you can feel his, he knows you’re feeling relaxed with him and he’s pleased at that, he knows how good you feel right now and he’s proud. He wants to use all of this time to make you feel good. You’re both in agreement that losing yourself in each other is ever so easy, and so you both fall into the other's grasps.

The second time you wake up, Ten is resting on your feet, warming them from the slight chill of the room. Johnny had roused quicker than you, and he’d already removed the IV from your arm. You spot him winding up the fluid bags and putting them into the insulated case they reside in. “How are you feeling?” He asks whilst disposing of the needles in the marked sharps box. “Good, lighter than usual. I’ve enjoyed spending time with you, albeit mostly imaginary.”

The floaty feeling remains in the forefront of your consciousness. Despite feeling lighter, less burdened, you’re aware that you need to change your vices. Constantly daydreaming, forming relationships through them, isn’t healthy. Continuous escapism isn’t a way to live; numbing yourself over and over again won’t solve anything. With a new fervor to gain meaning in your life, you rise from your place on the tatami. “What are your plans for today, John?” You ask, perhaps vices and meaning aren’t that different from each other.

long time no see! this is my penultimate fic :(( hopefully u guys enjoyed it! I know it’s not like my usual style and is somewhat offbeat but I hope it makes sense hehe <3

[jacqcrisis]

Keeping up the tradition with a Charon short betwixt chapters, about an interesting conversation the ferryman has taking place hours after chapter 4 ends:

Charon’s just trying to smoke a cigarette at sundown before he heads back to the barge for the night. He spent the day in town, doing a few errands, delaying the inevitable before he has to go back to his empty outpost, a task which is less daunting after a talk to Nyx. Her conversations are always assuring, whatever foresight that she developed over the near two centuries since the bombs dropped having always been useful when they traveled together decades ago.

And it still is as she was adamant Hermes may find himself delayed, but he would return nonetheless. Even with her track record, it still weighs on Charon as he lights up his smoke, fears only strengthening when he shakes out the match, eyes settling on Ares languidly approaching him. It's not the first time the man has sought Charon out, always needling for a reaction that Charon won't give with upsetting questions and even more unnerving observations. 

Tonight appears to be no different.

“I must say, you had me believing you were both mute and dumb when I first arrived, yet you seem to be full of words when the courier is near.” Ares starts, mirroring Charon’s posture with his arms over his chest and leaning back against the scrap metal barrier of Asphodel’s walls. “It must get rather quiet without your shadow tailing behind you.” 

Charon ignores him, as he has since Ares first boarded his barge two weeks ago. He's met people like him before, people with a love of misery and conflict. People with a chip on their shoulder and nothing to lose.

People who see a big ghoul and start itching for a fight. 

“Strange for such a greedy thing like yourself to allow someone like him so much freedom on you boat without getting anything in return.” Ares continues, ponderous and relaxed in every way even as Charon’s blood pressure is rising. “I rather doubt the scant amount of narcotics he brings you would equal the amount of space and time you provide him.”

This isn’t like the other times Ares had whispered things in his ear, that gleam in his eye that puts Charon on edge. He’s talked about the town, about Nyx and her boys, about Eurydice, about Charon’s physique. Like a novice testing out strings on an instrument, plucking aimlessly for anything that gets the reaction he’s looking for. 

“What a sad affair; he’s got you wrapped around his finger and all you get in return is the privilege of being near him.” Ares notes with mockingly sympathetic air, knowing he’s struck a chord even as Charon continues his stony silence. “Must be difficult for you, having him so close and not just taking what you want. Surely you’ve thought about it. Not like he could put up much of a fight if you held him down.” 

There’s a precision to his implications that brings a tremor to Charon’s hand as he plucks the stub of a smoke from his mouth that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with not slamming Ares into the wall to see if his bones break from the impact alone. He doesn’t know what Ares’ game is, but he doesn’t like how close he’s getting with his assumptions.

“Probably for the best he doesn’t know about your wandering eyes, isn’t it? I could only imagine how fast and how far he’d run if he ever realized something like you was staring at him quite like that.” 

Charon crushes the stub of his cigarette under his boot, grinding it down with more force than necessary. Whether his message is read loud and clear or if Ares has just gotten bored, it doesn’t matter as the drifter kicks off the water with a low chuckle. Charon watches him goes, hand balling in a fist at his side when Ares turns back to him, the sharp angles to his face highlighted in the nearby lamplight that burns away long the road.

“He’s headed northwest, isn’t he?” He asks, letting the question rest before continuing without the answer he would never get. “Be quite the shame if something happened to him. Noticed a number of...unsavory characters lurking around there, if I recall. Some of whom may have less impulse control than you or I when presented with such a lovely face.” 

Charon tries to not to think about it after he finally leaves, Ares’ final words affecting him more than he’d like but when Charon gets back to the outpost the next morning, he finds Hermes' shirt from when he got shot at a few days prior discarded by the shower. It's just as the synth left it, bloodstained and dirty from whatever injury he sustained, torn on the side from where a bullet grazed him. Charon picks it up, his irritation at Hermes just leaving his dirty laundry lying around fading fast the longer and longer he holds it. 

He touches the frayed edges of the tear, mentally scolding Hermes for his bravado and cockiness, for his lack of self-preservation. The shirt is still good but Hermes is rather useless at most domestic activities. Charon will have to clean it for him, sow up the hole, already thinking on the steps necessary to do just that as he traces the edge of the stain fondly.

Be a shame if something happened to him.

Charon puts the shirt under his arm, picking up the nearby bucket and putting Ares’ words out of his mind. He can’t fall into the pit, that cycle of never-ending agonizing about things he cannot know or control. Nyx told him Hermes would be back before the next arena fight, and she hasn’t been wrong yet. 

He just has to hope to God this isn’t her first mistake.

[readinginthereadyroom]

I am very aware of my dean-centric tendencies, but I do have various and sundry headcanons for our boy sam winchester:

sam’s an addict. that doesn’t just go away because he stops drinking demon blood. he craves it all. the. time.

and there’s no 12-step program for this. but he does pop into various anonymous meetings while on the road. sometimes it’s alcoholics, sometimes it’s narcotics—doesn’t really matter, since he can’t tell the whole truth anyway. but being around other people who struggle. who fall off the wagon or don’t. it helps.

it’s also where sam’s healthy habits stem from. running is a natural high and his cravings are always worst first thing in the morning. right after dreaming and before coffee.

he’s not a vegetarian, but if he’s honest with himself he knows he’s headed in that direction. he gave up red meat pretty early on. because the thing about demon blood is it’s, well, blood. smokier. with a hint of sulpher. and all it’s mystical, addictive properties. but still blood.

not that he wants to drink human blood. ew, no. he’s not a vampire. but it is a trigger. esp a rare steak with it’s pan-fried sear... that wisp of ash and smoke and... and he doesn’t eat it anymore. no red meats. no bacon. nothing with that awful artificial smoke flavoring. and oddly, hard-boiled eggs.

also he still has psychic powers. nothing big, like telekinesis or prophetic dreams. nothing really even noticable. dean doesn’t notice. just thinks he has good instincts. knows how to dig a case out of a few headlines and some googling. which, yes. that’s just good research. but it’s also a gut feeling. a knowing. that there’s something there before he backs it up with lore.

he’s pretty sure cas knows. will give him one of those head tilt stares when sam’s not paying attention and his fingers fly over the keyboard. just a little too fast. when his first guess is always right. when he complains about having a bad feeling about a case—and then it goes bad.

cas never says anything tho. sam chalks it up to friendship. but also. it’s kinda cas’ way of acknowledging that sam’s powers, slight as they are, are not a problem. are in their own way normal. well, normal for them. for him. just another facet, like his hair, that makes sam sam.

eileen knows, too. he told her, pretty early on, when things started to become serious between them. told her his whole bloody history. terrified she’d look at him in disgust and walk out the bunker door. and never come back.

he should’ve known better.

she took it in stride. then told him her own secrets. things were amazing after that. they had some hunting wins, sam finished an online certification in database infrastructure he’d been working on, eileen and cas were spending more time in the bunker, and dean had found a vintage part for the impala he’d been searching for since they were teenagers. life was good.

until it wasn’t.

sam had gone out so dean and cas could have a date night in. he’d spent some time at the sports shop buying new running shoes and then popped into the used bookstore to pick up the books he’d ordered. he got back to the bunker late and cas and dean were (thankfully) no where to be found.

but the remnants of their dinner was still on the table. smiling, sam blew out the candles and picked up the dishes to take them to kitchen. he noticed the smell immediately. steak. rare. the kitchen reeked of smoke. he beat a hasty retreat, took a few deep breaths, and went to his room. let dean clean up his own mess in the morning.

it was about 3am when eileen got in. she’d been on a demon hunt with jody and sam had been expecting her. so he just rolled over and let her climb into bed. she threw a bandaged arm over his side, tracing OK onto his back to let him know she was fine, before promptly falling asleep. sam did too.

he woke with a shout. eileen’s side of the bed was empty. his throat felt like he’d swallowed ashes and his nose was clogged with sulpher. he’d been dreaming of ruby. his skin felt two sizes too small. he felt like screaming. or maybe crying. he needed coffee so bad.

wandering to the kitchen he found dean making bacon and eggs, humming under his breath. cas was at the table, reading a book, a giant glass of V8 in his hand.

are you kidding me. sam ran his hands thru his hair a couple of times. tried to center himself before grabbing his favorite mug from the cabinet. the air had a burnt smell to it. his mouth watered.

he almost fell out of his chair when eileen came up behind him for a hug. she was freshly showered. her wet hair smelled faintly like vanilla. it was the dark hair that had startled him. his eyes fixed on the too-red of cas’ drink. smoke and blood and sulpher clawing at his nose.

eileen kept a gentle hand on his bicep, but took a step out of his personal space. dean stopped humming. cas stopped reading. they all stared. his knee started bouncing under the table. he beat a hasty retreat.

eileen found him in the library, staring at his open laptop. she sat in the chair next to him. a silent, calm presense. she knew him too well. knew she could wait him out while he got his thoughts in order. and eventually, he did. just started talking. about the smoky kitchen last night. the way her hair had smelled of sulpher when she returned from her hunt. the dream. then the stupid juice and stupid bacon and how stupid it made him feel. how out of control.

with a nod at all the right places, eileen just sat quietly and let him talk. get it all off his chest. when it was clear he was done she called him a dumbass. scolded him for thinking he could this all his own. you’re problems are my problems, sam. you can’t just tell them to me and think I won’t lift a finger to share them.

and share them she did. hauling sam up from bis chair, eileen dragged him to the kitchen where she proceeded to rip dean and cas new ones for being so insensitive. pointing at the fridge, she made dean clean out all the red meat. upended cas’ drink in the sink and sent him to get some air freshner from the store. then she tossed sam in the shower, while she stripped the sheets of their bed and did the laundry.

he felt better after. still on edge, but better. eileen was sitting on the freshly made bed with his laptop open. she signed while talking. she’d found a narcotics anonymous one town over. I think you need a sponsor. for the bad days. like today.

as usual she was right. sam had been thinking the same for a while. eileen was the shove he needed tho. her love and intensity and fierce protectiveness the balm he needed.

it was still a bad day. but it was a little less bad because he had her at his side. sam leaned over to shut the laptop and snuck a kiss to the side of her lips. then he scooped up her hand to kiss her knuckles. a move guaranteed to make her blush.

she shoved him off the bed. now go for your run sam winchester. he laughed and did as he was told.

[ddarker-dreams]

Kinktober Day 5: Cramped Spaces. Mista x F Reader 🎀

[Scarlet Ribbons description]

This takes place in Guido Mista’s route, which branches off from the main Scarlet Ribbons story.

Description: Mista never has good timing, but this has to be the worst you’ve ever seen. Not SFW. Tags: Slight exhibitionism, dirty talk, blow jobs, boob jobs, throatfucking, and partially clothed sex. Word count: 1.5k.

You’ve never seen such a disaster of a night. 

The expectation of plans going exactly as they are meant to is one you’ve never held, especially when you’re paired up with Mista. Improvisation seems to be his middle name. That’s all well and good. What’s not good is the fact you’ve lost sight of your target, and are currently knee-deep in enemy territory. 

Mista is running just ahead, gun at the ready, and you’re following suit. You’re both concerned with the same thing, do you risk fighting here? This building isn’t an ideal place for Mista’s Stand. A cramped nightclub filled to the brim with tourists and locals alike, music blasting at full volume and strobe lights blinding. It’s too risky that bystanders would get caught in the middle.

Even if you could find a more open area to fight, that might not be in your best interest. The rumor of another gang selling narcotics at this establishment is what got you two assigned to this job. Getting in a fight with them now could lead to a full blown turf war, the last thing Passione needs at the moment. This was purely meant to be reconnaissance, not a confrontation. Now it feels like you’ve swatted at a wasp nest. 

Utilizing all your stamina to continue weaving in and out of the crowd behind Mista, he suddenly makes a sharp turn into a storage closet. Maybe he’s hoping to gather our bearings, you think. It’s a good idea for the two of you to be on the same page. You follow in behind him, closing the door and wrapping ribbons around the handle for good measure. There, now no one should be able to open it. 

“So, what are we supposed to do?” you speak up while shuffling around, trying to get used to this constrictive space. It doesn’t help that it’s so dark you can barely see a thing in here. “I’m pretty sure Mariano spotted one of us. God, what a mess... now they know we’re onto them. Should I call Bucciarati?” 

No response. 

Well, that’s odd. Mista’s nothing if not talkative. Frowning, you squint, eyes still adjusting to the dim light from a single lightbulb overhead. Mista’s chest is heaving for air. Was the run that winding? You were only sprinting for less than a minute, you’ve seen him exercising for longer periods of time than that. Concern floods into your being at his unnerving silence. Leaning closer to him, you inspect for any possible injuries, hearing how he inhales sharply as you brush against him in the process.

You’re not seeing any visible wounds. “Mista? Are you alright?” 

“A-ah, I’m fine [First], just... catching my breath, that’s all...” He trails off, gulping at the end of his sentence. Why does he sound so apprehensive? You feel something hard against the inside of your thigh, mind temporarily going blank. Wait. Hold on just a moment. Everything is starting to add up. Glancing down, you take notice of how your chest is pressing right against his. It doesn’t help that this outfit is particularly revealing, in hopes of blending in with the night crowd. Your cleavage is visible even in the sparse lighting. 

“For fucks sake, Mista,” you whisper yell to him, flicking his forehead. “Now is not the time for this!” 

“I know that! It’s just, god, you look so hot tonight and I just want to,” he takes a deep breath and cuts himself off. You can tell he’s trying his best to calm down, but now you feel flustered as well. “And we haven’t... well, y’know, in a while because we’re both so busy--” 

“You can’t be serious.” You deadpan. Here you two are, on the brink of a possible firefight, and Mista’s incapable of not being horny for just a few minutes. Not that you don’t understand where’s he coming from. With all the work on your plates it’s been far too long since you’ve been intimate together, warmth gathering between your legs at the thought. I guess we’re both a mess. How romantic.

It’s difficult to know what you’re doing without a clear source of light, but you start pulling his pants down, much to his surprise. “Babe, wait, what?” 

“Be quiet, would you,” you curse yourself for stuttering, cheeks flushing as you sink down to your knees. The last thing you need is for his head to be in the gutter when your lives are on the line. “I’ll just-- take care of this, so you can use your brain to full compacity again.” 

“It’s not like I’m complainin’ or anything, trust me. Fuck, okay, I’ll be honest, this is really hot. I’ve jerked off to the thought of this at least once... maybe twice, actually.” 

You manage to get his pants down as he rambles on. He bites his lower lip when you take his length out, which has hardened considerably. Running your fingers up and down his cock, you feel the most prominent veins throbbing from your movements. Stroking him further, the muscles in his legs go taut, and an idea comes to mind. The easy access of your revealing top allows for you to pull your boobs out. Mista’s mind goes blank when you settle his dick in between your cleavage. 

“Ahh, fuck, yes,” he groans, bucking into your movements frantically. “I’ve always wanted... to fuck those pretty tits of yours, nn...”  

You hum in acknowledgement, pressing your lips around the head of his cock. His precum tastes salty, but you don’t mind, tongue coming out to lap all of him up. Mista throws his head back at the sensation, numerous curses leaving his lips. It feels nice knowing you have this effect on him. While you pleasure his length with your chest, your mouth focuses on sucking and kissing the tip of his dick. 

Mista’s hands curl into your hair, pulling your face as close to him as he can. “Make good use of that cute little mouth of yours. Take all of me in.” 

Obliging to his command, you open your mouth further, taking in all of his pulsing cock. Mista doesn’t give you any time to adjust. He starts thrusting into your mouth, the sudden sensation causing you to gag. You press your hands on his thighs to keep your balance, feeling how his balls hit your chin with every desperate thrust. He’s too occupied fucking your mouth to think about anything, the loud wet noises he’s making, or the moans that continue falling from his lips. 

“Y-you like that, don’t you?” he gasps, slamming his dick into your mouth like a man possessed. “Little... slut... dressing like that... you wanted me to do this to you. Wanted me to use you like the little whore you are.” 

You whine against him, the vibration almost sending him over the edge.  “Nngh... I’m gonna come right in your mouth, take all of it...!” 

Just a few moments later, Mista lets out a low growl, halting his feverish movements. He releases hot loads of cum down your throat, pressing himself so tightly against you that it’s difficult to breathe. Your heart is pounding while he remains still, salty cum coating your tongue. He’s gasping for air when he finally pulls his softening dick from your mouth. Grimacing, you manage to swallow as he asked. Some globs of his cum dribbles down your face from your mouth. That’s going to be a pain to clean up... 

Neither of you say a word. Mista puts himself away, then offers you a hand to help get up. 

“What a gentleman.” You comment with a roll of your eyes, using the back of your hand to wipe at your mouth. At least your lungs are able to get the air they so desperately need now. A part of you almost forgot the situation you were in entirely, too preoccupied with your horny boyfriend. Not that you’re much better, seeing as your panties are completely soaked. He’s gonna pay for that later. Now you have to walk around the rest of the night in these... 

“I second that,” Mista hums. He’s beaming at you, smoothing over your messy hair. “I’ll eat you out later, don’t even worry about it babe. Or we can just fuck, whatever you like.” 

“How about we find a way out of this mess first?” 

He blinks, realization hitting him. “Oh yeah, I kinda forgot about that.”

“Mista, you’re unbelievable...”