#did the doctor in sex & violence die?

[liamgallaghermpreg]

(hits the vape) in 15 years on air did they ever canonize the size of either of their dicks

No BUT there are a couple jokes made about Sam having a big one. What they DID canonize, however:

- Dean likes wearing panties

- Dean likes being slapped during sex

- Dean likes tentacle hentai

- Sam’s dick has a body count (congrats to Piper from 11x04 for being the only girl to survive having sex with Sam) (ETA a couple other girls survived sorry doctor from Sex & Violence whose name I don’t remember off the top of my head and Amelia who I’m still not sure was real)

[haggishlyhagging]

[Note: Dworkin’s analysis of Wuthering Heights is astonishing. Below is her first paragraph. I suggest reading the novel as well as Dworkin’s analysis in its entirety.]

"Stronger than a man, simpler than a child, her nature stood alone," wrote Charlotte Brontë of her deceased sister, Emily. Wuthering Heights, her one novel, published under a male pseudonym before her death at thirty, also stands alone. There is nothing like it—no novel of such astonishing originality and power and passion written by anyone, let alone by a nineteenth-century woman who was essentially a recluse. Nothing can explain it: a worldly, obsessed novel of cruelty and love that surpasses, for instance, the best of D. H. Lawrence in both sensuality and range; an act of passion as well as a work of intellectually rigorous art; a romantic, emotionally haunting, physically graphic rendering of sadism as well as an analytical dissection of it; a lyric and at the same time tragic celebration of both love and violence. "It is moorish, and wild, and knotty as a root of heath," wrote Charlotte, who admitted to being somewhat repelled by the book. "Nor was it natural that it should be otherwise; the author being herself a native and nursling of the moors." So was Charlotte, but she wrote Jane Eyre, a novel of civilized pain and outspoken dignity. Both women had a deep understanding of male dominance, which does suggest that, for women, the family is Blake's famous grain of sand. Emily did take the family as a paradigm for society, especially for the creation of sadism in men. She showed how sadism is created in men through physical and psychological abuse and humiliation by other men; and she wrote about femininity as a betrayal of honor and human wholeness. She was indifferent to sex-roles per se, the surface behaviors of men and women. Instead, she exposed the underbelly of dominance: where power and powerlessness intersect; how social hierarchies emphasize difference, fetishizing it, and repudiate sameness; how men learn hate as an ethic; how women learn to vanquish personal integrity. She anticipated contemporary sexual politics by more than a century; and, frankly, I don't think there is a contemporary novelist, man or woman, who has dared to know and say so much. There is nothing to explain her prescience or her prophecy or, for that matter, her radical political acumen; except to say that Emily Brontë seemed to share with her monster creation, Heathcliff, a will that would neither bend nor break. He used his will to create pain for those he hated. She used hers, no less ruthlessly one suspects, to live in a self-determined solitude, to write, and, finally, to die. Shortly after her brother, Branwell, dissolute and self-obsessed, suddenly died, Emily got consumption, and wasted away with what seemed a premeditated fierceness and determination. On the day of her death, she got up and dressed and groomed herself and sat on a sofa and sewed. She said a doctor could be called and soon she died. Branwell had died in September 1848; Emily died in December. "She sank rapidly," wrote Charlotte. "She made haste to leave us. Yet, while physically she perished, mentally she grew stronger than we had yet known her. . . . I have seen nothing like it; but, indeed, I have never seen her parallel in anything."

-Andrea Dworkin, Letters From a War Zone

[ugh-yoongi]

the very last thing i decide | pjm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there’s you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is it, he thinks.

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

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

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

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

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

But you do.

And, inexplicably, Yoongi listens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m no one’s dog.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s just how it goes.

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

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

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

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

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

Someone else’s, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

But, god, he needs to know.

Needs answers.

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

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

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

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

Can’t you feel that?

He needs to know.

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

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

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

“What you said to Taehyung,” he answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there’s nothing gentle about the first time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taunting him.

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

Until now.

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

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

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

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

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

Jimin is blond when Namjoon sends you to South America.

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

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

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

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

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

“Done. Anything else?”

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

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

“Tell him he’s a bitch, then.”

“He’ll kill me if I say that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It comes out more like a plea.

—

You’re good at your job.

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

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

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

Until now.

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

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

Would Namjoon let you go if you asked?

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

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

Doesn’t matter.

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

No one spares you a second glance.

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

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

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

It’s empty.

Of course it is.

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

You know who it is, you fucking dickhead.

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

Sorry.

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

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

What kind of life is this?

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

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

It’s time for Namjoon to let you go.

—

Something is wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The second time is nothing like the first.

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

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

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

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

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

Jimin mouths at you until you forget.

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

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

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

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

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

Jimin’s hair is pink when—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re being followed.”

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

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

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

“Where’s Jimin?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know it’s a liability.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

You are wholly unprepared for the sight that greets you.

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

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

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

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

Eyes that now contain nothing.

“Jimin, what the fuck happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namjoon should’ve let you go.

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

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

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

“Destruction.”

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

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

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

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

You watch him go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve gotten sloppy.”

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

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

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

“Who?” Jimin manages to choke out.

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

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

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

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

No one talks to Namjoon that way except you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Or what, Kim Taehyung?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is a waste of your fucking time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m—that’s not—knock it off.”

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

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

Jimin’s hair isn’t dyed at all.

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

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

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for refusing to be a surrogate mother for my ex?

IDK if the phrasing is ok, english is not my first language and I have a headache.

This was years back but I dreamt about it a couple of nights ago so it might still bother me.

My ex(25M) and me(25F) had a 2y relationship, we had known each other since middle school but became close and dated until college.

Those 2 years were nice and lovely, I have many good memories and wish him the best.

The last months were very rough, we were having problems and we weren't communicating, I won't go deeper into that.

I didn't know he was planning to propose because marriage was not talked often or at all for that matter. So, when I cut him off, in person, well it was obviously not nice. We still talked but he was very hurt.

A year or so later he told me he wanted to talk to me in private but I kinda had a feeling so I told him whatever he wanted to say my partner would know because we talk about everything.

He was hesitant but accepted.

He revealed he had been having health issues, doctors told him he had just a few years left. What he had exactly he didn't reveal.

He told me before that, yk, dying, he wanted to have a kid but not with anyone, it had to be me. (!?!?!?)

I was... Shocked and also very worried about him, but also what?

He hurried to clarify he would pay for in-vitro procedures so he was not asking for sex, he would pay and cover any expenses, I did not have to be the kid's parent, actually that it was better if they didn't learn about me at all. Nothing would be asked of me a side from lending my uterus and an ovary.

I have to clarify he was/is very dear to me, so I was not through the initial shock of learning he would die soon.

My reaction was probably a bit intense and fucked up. I asked the following:

Why would you ask to have a kid knowing you'll be gone soon??

What will happen to our kid when you pass?

Who will take care of them?

He told me it was almost all planned, his family would take care of the kid he just wanted to experience paternity and leave "a piece of myself" behind.

I thought it was bogus.

Why make that to a kid?

I understand having a kid is a big cornerstone for lots of people but if you know your life is ending why leave a kid behind on purpose? IDK it felt wrong.

It was already WILD for him to ask me, an ex, already in a relationship and a kid, to give him a baby just out of the blue without further explanations than "I'm going to die soon".

I told him I could not answer right away , I had to talk about this with my partner. I was already leaning heavily on denying as it all felt wrong.

When talking over this with my partner I noticed I was very concerned about this not even existing kid and I would not be able to keep myself away knowing they would be orphaned prematurely. So the answer was obvious.

When meeting again I tried to be very polite, I made it clear I didn't agree with his plan and I was not going to partake in it cause I felt it was unfair for the kid.

He was clearly hurt, tried to push a bit(not violence tho) to make me understand what he was going through and how this could be beneficial for his mental health.

It all ended there, he didn't take it well and was very disappointed.

Some additional info that could be relevant, we're now on our 30's, last time I talked to him it was 2 years ago and he seemed fine but almost never answers my messages checking up on him.

Him or his family are not rich nor am I so the concern of his elderly parents having to care for the kid was also a big factor.

He was never too big on having kids when we dated, so this came very out of the blue.

So, AITA for not giving my ex a kid knowing he would die young?

What are these acronyms?

[cosmicjoke]

How Attack on Titan Speaks to Nature over Nurture

I think one of the themes of AoT is this idea of how our nature's are the things that really drive us to be who we are, and to do the things we do, rather than the circumstances of our lives. Not in all cases, but in general.

Nature versus nurture is a long standing conversation, of course, a constant argument when trying to understand what motivates us and what shapes us. Is it our nature, who we're born as, or is it our experiences and the environment we're born into? This can be asked of humanity in general, and this idea is demonstrated by the end of the story, that humanity as a whole is, by nature, a warring, tribal, violent species. That humans cannot, ultimately, overcome their own natures.

AoT takes the stance, by and large, that it's our natures that define us, over whatever experiences nurtured us, and I think that particular theme is most clearly embodied by Levi and Eren. We can understand it best by contrasting them, and their lives, and seeing where it is they end up.

If one was to take the stance that it's nurture which defines us, then by logic, we would see Levi becoming a monster, and Eren becoming a hero.

Levi had a devastatingly hard life. Born into extreme poverty and deprivation. He watched his mother die in front of him from an illness likely contracted from her life as a sex worker, and he nearly followed her from starvation. The only person who came to help him, in the end, was a serial killer who did his best to instill his own lack of empathy for human life into Levi, before abandoning him on the streets of the most dangerous and desperate place behind the walls, a place where Levi would have had to engage in morally dubious behavior simply to stay alive.

And then there's Eren, born on the surface, into a loving family, a doctor for a father and a doting mother, two parents who cared and provided for him, and a sister in Mikasa who followed him like a shadow and protected him, the only danger he ever encountered being the fights he himself would start with other children.

And yet, despite the circumstances of each of their respective lives, it's Levi who became a hero, and Eren who became a monster.

In the end, Eren isn't able to overcome his monstrous nature. He cares for and loves his friends, genuinely, but his childish nature, his selfish nature, is ultimately what dictates his course and actions and who and what he becomes. His life was privileged, but it wasn't enough to turn him away from his destructive and violent inclinations. We see Eren for the last time, truly, sitting in a pool of human blood, hair and teeth, amidst the victims of his selfishness and monstrosity.

And in the end, for Levi, his nature wins out over the desperate and violent circumstances of his birth, childhood and young adulthood. Levi's nature wins out over the legacy of violence and cruelty he was born into to become a selfless and caring man. His life was impoverished and deprived, filled with brutiality, but it wasn't enough to turn him away from his naturally gentle compassion and kindness. We see Levi for the last time sitting amongst a group of children, handing them candy out of a box, amidst their smiles and laughter.

Each case highlights nature over nurture.

Both Eren's and Levi's natures win out over their circumstances. Through these two characters especially we see how our natures, not our upbringings, are what decide for us how we'll turn out. We don't become good or bad people based solely on our experiences. We may do bad things, we may have to commit bad acts in response to otherwise unwinnable situations, engage in violence in order to survive, but those acts in and of themselves don't determine who we are, and those circumstances don't act as an excuse for what sort of people we are in our hearts.

Essentially, Attack on Titan shows us how each person is, ultimately, responsible for their own choices, their own actions, their own being. Whether you're the type of person to do the right thing when the time comes, or the type of person to do the wrong thing, isn't decided by how you were treated, but by who you are.

[backmuscles21]

Rebirth

Recoms x Reader

Summary: Being reborn in a Na'vi body allows you to be with your lovers again, but then you have to watch them leave you all over again.

Warnings: Smut, explicit language, angst, hurt/comfort, semi-public sex, size kink, canon violence, canon death, com/sub undertones, mentioned suicide

You were the last to wake up and when you did you were surrounded by people in full medical get up, the dust suits and the oxygen masks and everything. You looked around at them, your body not quite catching up with what was going on. You tried to look down but you couldn’t your head was being pinned back. Your whimpers alerted those in the room that you were awake and suddenly you saw multiple blue faces. It just made you more afraid, you couldn’t move and there were hostiles right above you.

Tears started to come out of your eyes, you couldn’t move, why couldn’t you move? Why were there humans and Na’vi in the same area, it didn’t add up.

You faintly heard a voice saying “go, go.” You couldn’t see but it was Prager shooing away the scientists. If there was an emergency Ja was here, he could help you.

“Baby, baby, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

“Prager?”

“Yeah, baby it’s me.”

“What’s going on? Why are you all blue?”

“It’s Project Phoenix. Do you remember signing up for it? We’re in Na’vi bodies to beat the enemy.”

“Why can’t I move?”

“When they were taking us out of the tanks they grew the bodies in, you had some complications. They are trying to help you.”

“What is wrong with me.”

“Uh, I-“ he stopped for a moment, “Ja,” Prager called over one of your fellow teammates. “Can you tell her what the scientists said, I have no idea what they said. Too much medical mumbo jumbo.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ja nodded as he walked up to the side of your bed.

“They said that you aren’t developing as fast as the rest of us, your body is behind in development. Well the rest of us, our bodies are about 20 years old, yours is only about 17, 18 give or take. It’s a complicated thing but they are running some tests.”

“What will happen to me?”

“Nothing princess, absolutely nothing. They will take your body out of the restraints and you’ll be free to go.”

“Will I still be an active marine though?”

“Always thinking about the mission, princess. You’ll be okay, don’t worry,” Ja kissed your forehead.

“Colonel ‘s coming,” Prager said.

“Your favourite is coming.”

“I never picked favourites. I love you all the same.”

“Look who’s remembering now,” Prager smirked.

Miles, Lyle and Z dog walked in and saw you with Prager and Ja by your side.

“She up?” it was Miles’ voice, you recognized it.

Prager and Ja nodded.

Miles, Z, and Lyle came up to you, you felt the back of Lyle’s finger stroke your cheek.

“Buttercup why are you crying?” Lyle asked as he wiped away a tear on your cheek.

“I woke up and I didn’t know what was happening and I couldn’t move. I was scared, I was so scared. I couldn’t move and I thought they were Na’vi. I thought I was going to die.”

“Buttercup we did. That’s why we're reincarnated in these bodies to get the Na’vi. To get Jake Sully.”

You didn’t necessarily hate Jake, you liked him, and you were good friends, but you loved these guys and you couldn’t leave them. You could only assume that you went through with your plans, you weren’t going to fight for either side. You must’ve done what you planned to do, you hoped that it wasn’t one of them who found you when you killed yourself, if that’s what you did.

“Ja, when does she get out of this,” Miles asked.

“Soon, they want to run a few more tests then she’s free to go. She’s going to be shorter than us and not as built.”

“That’s okay, she’ll be just as badass.”

You giggled at Miles’ comment, he looked over at you with a smile.

“You were always smaller than us and you managed just fine, I have faith in you.”

“Z you stay with her, the doctors will finish. We’re gonna go tell everyone else.”

“On it.”

“Baby girl, you’re gonna be okay,” she kissed your cheek.

It was just before the scientists walked back in; your cover remained unblown. Z dog only moved when the scientists swarmed around you, she wanted nothing more than to hold your hand as they prodded at you with sharp objects.

It was around an hour later that you were finally let out and were able to sit up, the scientists started to run motor function tests on your body then a few mental tests to ensure you were brought up to speed. It was determined that your body was just slow to maturing so you were a few years behind the other guys in terms of your body. You were still quite tall just not for a Na’vi, you were more like 7’6 compared to everyone else being at least 8 feet or higher.

You stood up slowly and walked with Zdog out of the room until you were alone down a corridor and she picked you up like you were nothing. You felt like a small child, hugging her neck and wrapping your legs around her waist as she carried you to where the rest of the recoms were hanging out. She opened the door to the recom-only room which just happened to be where all your beds were, your lounge area, and the bathroom. It’s like you all shared a space together which just brought more domestic thoughts into your head.

“And look who it is, our corazón,” Lopez walked up to Zdog, “how are you dear?”

You snuggled into Zdog’s neck and she chuckled.

“Tired?” Lopez grinned as he stroked your hair and kissed your head.

“You’re so small babydoll, how are you ever going to take us?” Walker said as she stood next to Z taking one of your hands in hers.

“I’m just as badass as before, Miles said so.”

Everyone giggled at that.

“Is it just me or is her being smaller than us making her more subby?”

“I definitely am getting so much sub energy from her, it’s dripping off her,” Lyle spoke up.

Mansk stood up and took you from Zdog and sat down with you in his lap, he had you facing everyone with his arm around your waist. He was always one for cuddles and he was also known to be the strong but silent type. Liked your company and would cuddle you as such but wasn’t great with his words and he knew that.

“We should get you all cleaned up,” Miles said as he realized you were still in your hospital gown.

You nodded and stood from Mansk’s hold and as Miles stood you caught up with him and he opened the door to the gym and through there into the large bathroom. Miles picked you up and placed you on the counter and untied the bows at the back of the gown and removed it off you. He removed his clothes and picked you up by your underarms and brought you into the shower with him. You only came up to his pecs, your arms wrapped around his torso and your head rested against his chest.

You liked the warm water while being with your previous lovers again, you were glad to have them all back. After your body was thoroughly rinsed, Miles started to wash your body with some soap, you leaned onto him for support a few times. Miles was getting hard as he ran his hands over your butt cheeks and ran his hands up your stomach to your tits. You really did have such a nice body, even for a Na’vi.

“Cupcake?”

You nodded with your eyebrows furrowed.

Miles’ hand slid down your side sides, one rested on your ribcage and the other stopped at your hip before he lifted it up and placed two fingers in your folds. He moved up slightly and caught your clit, as he saw you bite your lip he knew, he started to move his fingers in tight circles. Your head hit the shower wall as you gripped his forearms. They all love how responsive you got at any of their touches, he liked to see you moan for him.

He liked the feeling of your hand gripping his wrist as he fingered you, he liked watching your back arch and your body squirm. With his hand on your rib cage, he could feel your fast breathing and every small move your body made. He loved it even more that when you arched your back, he could very easily push you back. He pulled his fingers out and sucked his fingers before lifting you up by your hips and pinned you to the wall with his hips. Your eyebrows furrowed and you whimpered at him.

“Don’t worry Cupcake. I’ll take good care of you.”

Miles kissed you and slowly slid his hard cock into you, your nails scratched at the back of his biceps as your head tilted back and your toes curled. Your first moan was so loud, you knew the recoms outside could hear everything, not that they didn’t know this was going to happen. Miles couldn’t help himself; he just drilled your sweet pussy, it had been some time since he had gotten any, at least that’s what his memories could tell.

You were squeezing Miles, your body too small for their giant bodies, he knew you weren’t going to go forever and neither was he. The idea of being in the shower was to get you clean but Miles always had ulterior motives. He held onto your hips as he kept fucking up into you, he was going to cum he knew it was going to happen soon. His one hand left your hip and started to rub tight circles on your clit, he wanted you to cum first, he wanted to feel you cum around him.

He could feel you gripping him harder, he knew you were getting close, and he knew you were going to cum. He was grunting lowly in your ear trying to hold back his own orgasm until you came, your moans were getting louder, he knew it was any moment now.

You came, right as you did Miles let go as well, it was an overwhelming feeling. Miles pulled out and put you back onto your feet, he held onto your shoulders to keep you steady for a moment. Then he started to finish washing your body and hair, he then rinsed you both off and turned off the water. He dried you off and then himself and handed you some clothes and you both got dressed.

You both walked out to the other recoms smiling at you both, you knew they knew what went down. Walker came by and picked you up to sit on her lap on the couch, she moved your head to rest on her shoulder.

“Did you have fun, babydoll?” Walker asked while other recoms in the room snickered and laughed.

“Yeah.”

You felt her hand grip your hip and saw Lopez move to sit next to Walker and he took your legs and placed them in his lap. You only now realized how much you missed being with all of them, getting to be like you were before you all died.

Going out on your first mission together was kind of nerve-wracking, you wanted everyone to be safe, and you knew something could go wrong.

And something went wrong.

Holding those kids didn’t feel right but you did it anyway, you had no choice and on top of that your lovers wouldn’t have let you chicken out. You knew their parents would come at some point; it was stupid not to think that way. So, when the first arrow hit, your brain shut down, you were scared for the first time in your life, you were scared to lose one of your fellow soldiers.

Multiple people from your crew were dead, the only one you cared about.

Walker.

She was dead.

You just woke up with her that morning.

You sobbed as you all ran off for cover from Jake and Neytiri, really everyone in your crew that was left was with you and Walker. The nine of you were together, and now there were eight. You knew this could happen and now that you’ve experienced it, you never wanted to ever again. You lost others in the recom crew but they weren’t a part of your little arrangement. As Mansk held you for a while as your body hurt from sadness, you all came across the boy from earlier, Spider.

You were back at base and you couldn’t stop thinking about Walker, how you had to just run off. You couldn’t ever look at her face again, you couldn’t hold her body one last time before you said goodbye. You had to just run off, you didn’t want to die or anyone else to but you missed her. Everyone could tell how much it affected you; you sat on the couch in the common room and just looked disconnected. Normally you were so cute and cuddly and loving to soak up how they treated you like a child but you were broken now.

All the recoms could see it, you were so disconnected from what was happening, they knew that they had to stay alive for you. They didn’t want you like this, they loved to see you happy and smiling and moaning their names. Lyle’s great idea at cheering you up was trying to fuck you but giving you every ounce of pleasure but you didn’t look like you’d ever move. You were in the RDA sweatpants and sweatshirt; you were just trying to hide. You didn’t want to eat or sleep or talk, you just wanted her back.

It made Quaritch think about calling off the arrangement but that will probably make things worse. You needed them at this point but the wound was so fresh, but you needed them to heal. They were all sad about Walker dying, she was a part of their crew, she was their friend, and she was also in on their smutty circle. They were upset, but no one was as bad as you.

Ja went over to you and sat next to you, he grabbed the hand you were currently scratching at and held it in his hand.

“Are you okay princess?”

You took a moment to respond before moving your eyes to look at him and you climbed into his lap, your arms tried to wrap around him and you placed your head on his shoulder.

“I don’t know.”

“I know this is a hard time. It’s hard for all of us, but princess you gotta eat.”

You shook your head.

Prager came up to you and squatted down in front of you, “please baby? Let’s get you something to eat then it’s nap time.”

“Can I nap with Mansk?” You liked to nap with him the most, he was warm and liked to have you on top of him and you always enjoyed that.

“Of course, baby, but you gotta eat first.”

“Can I eat in here?”

“Yeah, we can get you somethin’ what do you want?”

“I don’t know and honestly, I don’t care.”

“I know you do, luckily, I know what you like. I’ll be right back.”

Prager kissed your head before walking away and you relaxed back into Ja’s arms. The other recoms were in their rooms watching you and Ja, they were scared to take things too far and hurt you in such a fragile state. They hadn’t seen you this submissive since they had you hit subspace when they all fucked you at once. You just did whatever they wanted without the bratty attitude, which they loved to see but the circumstances made it upsetting.

Prager came back with food and after you ate, Mansk took you to lie down with him and you fell asleep pretty quick. Turns out that crying for hours will do that to your body, your body is exhausted. Mansk was a great cuddler, he kept his arms secure around your waist and held you close and he liked you laying on him. On top of that, he knew how to keep his hands to himself, sleeping with Lyle or Lopez usually meant they were groping you in some way. Not that it bothered you, it made you laugh really but right now you didn’t Lyle’s hand on a titty or Lopez’s hand squeezing your butt.

Every now and again one of the recoms would come in to check on you and Mansk, he stayed awake usually stroking your back or moving some hair from your face. Miles, Lyle, Ja, Lopez, Prager, or Zdog would come and just make sure you were still doing okay, the last thing they wanted was for you to wake up from a nightmare.

When you did eventually wake up about two hours later, Mansk was stroking your back soothingly.

“Hi honey, how was your nap,” Mansk said as he realized you were up and looking around.

“It was good, I was tired more than I realized I think.”

“I’m glad you’re awake,” Mansk kissed your hairline.

“Where is everyone else?”

“They are all at the gym.”

“You didn’t go with them?”

“Nah I figured being with you was better. Plus, someone's gotta keep you warm.”

You giggled at his comment.

“Do you want to go join everyone?”

You stayed quiet, Mansk stared at you for a moment till her felt your hand on his lower stomach. You reached beneath his pants to his already aching cock.

“When did this happen?”

“You were cute while you slept and your little noises. I got carried away.”

You smiled up at him before you started to slowly stroke his cock.

“Honey, you sure you want to get into this?”

“Why not? We’re the only ones here. Let’s take advantage of that.”

Mansk’s hand on your waist gripped harder as you sped up and gripped his dick harder, he hissed lowly and you smiled up at him.

“Honey, let me fuck you.”

You removed your hand and sat up, you took off your sweatshirt and your sweatpants. He looked at you with a smile before he did the same, you threw your leg over his torso and leaned down to kiss him. He grabbed your hips and held you onto his cock, you started to move not long after getting onto him. Your head tilted back as you started to pick up speed, your hips kept moving, and your hands gripped onto the sheets right beside Mansk’s torso.

“Keep going, keep going please.”

Mansk gripped your hips and started rutting up into you, he was making you move faster and hitting you deeper. Your cries were getting louder and as you came, Mansk hit you deep a few more times before he came too.

“Look who’s up and already at ‘em.”

You turned your head around to see Lyle and Lopez smirking at you.

“You have a good time corazón?”

You smiled at them and nodded.

They were glad that you had cheered up, that you seemed to forget about losing someone you loved. You didn’t forget, but you needed to move on, you wanted to be there for those you loved. You didn’t want to be lost, you didn’t want to never move on, you missed her but you needed them.

“Glad to see you’re awake,” Miles said as he walked up between Lopez and Lyle.

“Mansk is finally getting some,” Lopez laughs as he walks off to shower.

“Oh, shut up,” Mansk said as he threw a pillow in his direction hitting Lyle.

The next few days weren’t horrible, but you missed Walker, they could still see it. You were still trying to find Jake Sully, getting intel was hard, he was hidden and no technology liked to work out in the wild. Every time you went out, you felt anxiety crawling its way up your throat, you didn’t want it to be like last time. This time you got word on where Sully was, he was with some ocean clans.

Hijacking this dude's ship was always fun, watching Miles be bossy and in charge did something to you. you watched the boys turn to look at you and smirk at you, you knew they could smell how wet you were becoming. One by one their heads would turn to you and smirk before looking back at the man telling off Quaritch.

Trying to act tough and badass when you are a foot shorter than everyone else is weird, you felt so shy, you wanted to cuddle into the side of the closest recom. Luckily, Ja seemed to notice that and wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you into his side. He smiled down at you and you looked up at him and smiled, he always knew what you needed.

All the people on the boat could see something was going on with you and the other military people. They also thought it was weird that you were so much smaller than the other Na’vi soldiers, you also knew they hated the team being there. They liked to look at you and whoever you were around, it had to be because you were so soft around each other.

The stares got worse when one of your lovers held you on their hip like a child and walked around. You were all still wearing tact vests and armed to the teeth, yet you were cuddling into them like a tired toddler. Zdog loved to stare them down when they would look at you in any wrong way.

She also loved the idea of having you alone in an empty hallway as she held you up against the wall. She held you up against the window of the left wing, and your butt rested on the railing attached to the windows. She ruthlessly ate you out, your head kept hitting the glass as she knelt on the ground. Her tongue was doing wonders to you, you missed her so much and her tongue was probably the best ever, better than any guy at least.

“You two really are fucking crazy.”

You opened your eyes and took your hand off your mouth, your eyes slowly blinked to focus on who stood there.

Lopez, that smug mother fucker.

“You’re ruining girl time,” Zdog pulled her face off enough to speak before digging right back in.

“I think I’d like to join in on girl time,” Lopez walked closer.

“You prepared for getting caught? After she cums she’s all yours.”

“What about you?” You said to Zdog between moans.

“I’ll be fine baby girl. It’s always about you.”

Your eyebrows furrowed as you whined lightly.

Her tongue went back into you, she instantly put more speed and pressure into her actions this time, she was eager to make you cum. You had a couple of close calls with people walking by or hearing people, but never enough to make her stop or make them check out what was happening. Once she made you cum, she moved away, showing Lopez your wet pussy.

“She’s all yours. Don’t say I never did nothing for ya. I did all the hard work.”

He winked at her, “I’ll return the favour later, Z.”

He grabbed your legs and unbuckled his pants.

“Just you wait, you’re in for a good time.”

Lopez took Zdog’s spot and held you up against the window, he stroked his dick a few times before pushing inside. You bit your lip and pressed your hand to your mouth to try to keep quiet, Lopez smirked down at you. You felt a tear roll down your cheek from overstimulation and just forcing yourself to stay as quiet as possible. You looked over Lopez’s shoulder to see Zdog standing there, leaning up against the wall with her arms crossed under her boobs smiling at you.

She pushed off the wall and stood next to you and kissed you, she was swallowing your moans. You took one hand off Lopez’s shoulder and wrapped it around her neck and pushed her further into you. Lopez kept a firm grip on your hips, he was pushing in so deep, he was making you cry out, luckily Zdog was there to keep you quiet.

“Please, please Lopez. I have to cum.”

“Come on, corazón. Give it to me.”

His last few thrusts were getting sloppy but still hard and deep, you clawed at Lopez’s shoulder and Zdog’s next as you were cumming.

“Fuck, that’s good baby. Squeezing me tighter than before.”

“Lopez, fuck.”

His hips stuttered as he came Zdog smirked at you and turned her head to snicker at Lopez. He pulled out and dressed himself again, he let you down to stand on your own. Zdog and Lopez helped you get dressed and you walked three started to walk back to the main hub. On your way, you joined up with Ja and Prager who stood in another hallway talking. Prager noticed you guys, his head turned and he smiled, Ja did the same thing.

“What are you guys up to?”

“Heading back,” Lopez said.

“You guys reek of each other,” Ja laughed.

“I blame Z, she started it,” you said pointing to her.

“I’m sure it was all Z,” Prager said sarcastically.

“Where did you guys even go?” Ja asked.

“Left-wing,” Zdog smirked.

“Just out in the open?” Prager said shocked.

“Yeah, I happened upon those two. Zdog’s got her pushed up against the glass, tongue fucking her, and I couldn’t just sit by and watch or leave knowing what’s going on,” Lopez said.

“Don’t blame ya, I’d be in the same boat,” Prager winked at you.

“Are you guys heading back to the colonel?”

“Yeah, things weren’t great in there earlier but you know Quaritch and Wainfleet, they love conflict,” Ja said starting to walk with the group. As you walked all headed into the main room, you smiled at Miles and Lyle once you made eye contact. You walked up to them and hugged Lyle first as he was the closest and then went to Miles, as you hugged him, he smirked.

“You smell like Lopez. What were you guys doing?”

“We were in the left wing. Zdog was eating me out then Lopez joined.”

He laughed at that, “good that you guys are here, we have a hit on Sully’s kids.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah, there on that tulkan over there.”

“They fell right into our hands. Who could’ve guessed.”

Hours later you sat on some island of rocks, you had been cut and scraped a few times. Blood was bleeding down the side of your face, having been cut on your forehead. Your body was exhausted, not only did you fight hard, then it was almost drowning and swimming. You laid back to try and let your body relax, let your muscles have a moment to regenerate.

You knew deep down you lost everyone; you no longer had a single one of your lovers. You watched them get stabbed or knocked out or squished but debris or drown, you couldn’t take it. This was like losing Walker all over again, but this time there were no support systems.

This is where you were going to die.

All alone.

Then you watched that human boy, Spider, drag a body up with him, you sat up and went to your knees. It was Quaritch, you saw the tattoo on his arm, it was him, he was alive, he was awake.

Suddenly, you weren’t alone.

You watched the human boy run off and then you crawled over to Miles’ side.

“Miles? Miles you’re okay.”

He looked at you, he looked just as tired as you did.

“I thought you died. I thought you went out with Lopez.”

“No, I left his side just before he, um,” your eyes pricked with tears

“I know, cupcake.”

“They’re all gone, Miles. All of them.”

“It’s okay. I’m still here. I’m here. We will be together.”

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” you rested your forehead on his and just laid down next to him.

He placed his hand on your cheek and turned your head to look at him again, he brought you up to kiss him.

“I’m glad that you’re okay. I should’ve kept a closer eye on you.”

“You did great. You’re still an amazing colonel. We all had a lot to worry about.”

“We’re together now. Now we just gotta figure out what to do next.”

“Take a nap.”

He laughed for a moment before he coughed.

“I think we should check out your forehead,” he placed a finger by the cut on your forehead dripping blood.

“I’ll be fine, I’ll live. I just wanna be with you.”

“You’re with me now.”

Miles tore the bottom of his shirt and tied it around your head, the knot sitting on your cut.

“There now you’re somewhat dealt with.”

“Where do we go from here? Back to the RDA headquarters?”

“No, going back, they may kill us again. We’re on our own cupcake. They will think we died in this. better to keep it that way.”

“So, where should we go?”

“Fly around on our Ikrans for a while and find out.”

“Can we nap first?”

“Of course, Cupcake.”

[onlyseokmins]

$$60 billion (part 2) • l.s.m.

How did a legendary bounty promised for turning in the wasteland's most infamous outlaw transform into a sick, little inside betting joke amongst your traveling companions? Though you have no idea why they're doing it… you sure as hell don't want that very same gunslinger comrade worth sixty billion double dollars to know anything about it either — but oops — looks like he already does! Damn you and your temper, some unhelpful lip-loosening alcohol, and one no-good, sorry excuse of a preacher you sometimes think of as a friend.

Pairing: outlaw!lee seokmin x fem!reader Genres: smut (minors dni!), trigun!au, action!au, apocalyptic/post-apocalyptic!au, space western!au, slight enemies to comrades to ??? !au, angst, fluff, they're dumbasses your honor 🙏 Warnings: swearing, blood, guns, injuries, medical tingz, destruction, mentions of knives, violence, unsettling space western things, slight body horror and hints at altered dna, weird religious cults, mentions of eating/food, alcohol, threats, bets among friends, tame-ish alien/monster/plant sex (????? listen it'll make sense - think of him like howl's bird form on steroids idk), mating, possessiveness!, marking, bruising, jealousy, smelling/scent kink???, wet messy sex uwu, wing kink (??? listen i was gonna explore it more but decided not to ok??), BITING (bc it's me), mechanical/robotic fingering???, gagging, bulge kink, oral sex (explicit male receiving and brief fem. receiving), seokmin's dick is like SLOPPY TOPPY LORGE w/ a mind of it's own, lowkey forgot how to write smut sorry </3 WC: 13.2k of 32.7k | Part 1 | Read on AO3 A/N: this is for the Now that's 90's - A Seventeen collab and loosely based off/inspired by the Trigun anime/manga! You do not need to know it as I manipulated a whole lot of elements for my own narrative but beware of various spoilers if you do go ahead and check out the series after reading!! I hope everyone enjoys the conclusion and please check out the other writers in this amazing collab ❤️PS, I know nothing abt chess lmaooooo but let me know your thoughts and feel free to ask any questions regarding this au's intricacies!! This part might get a little confusing because of a flashback!! (starts right after the italicized paragraph and ends with "...in this moment...")

The silence is palpable.

"Does it hurt more to get stabbed in the back or shot?"

Only the continual rustling sound answers your philosophical question. Not that you actually care because you weren't really expecting a reply.

So, you keep talking.

"I think it would be more painful to get stabbed… but it would take longer to heal from a gunshot wound."

There's a brief pause in the motions behind you. But the quiet resumes, though the practiced skill of a needle threading through your skin quickens. While the local anesthetics Tonim's doctor supplied is doing its job for the most part, you swear you can still feel the tug of flesh being sewn together.

Or maybe you're just thinking too hard.

"Look. I'm… I'm sorry."

If tension could personify itself right at this moment, it would do so with ease, given how heavy its presence currently sits in the room. A low voice finally speaks up, gravely and roughened after such a long period of silence and the hairs on your neck rise.

"Are you really?"

"… Yes."

A heavy sigh — one burdened with all the worries of the world — follows. You wince and then tremble, wishing you could turn around. It's easy to guess what he's thinking but god, do you wish you could see his face to confirm. The fear of the unknown paralyzes you.

"I seriously am."

"Doubtful. I know you only asked me that question to subtly say you'll be okay and heal just fine but it's not that simple."

The callousness in his tone and the sharp way he says your first name makes you want to shrink down, shrivel up, and quite frankly die on the spot. Gritting your teeth, you succumb to the apparent silent treatment until the snip of scissors signifies your surgeon has finished treating you.

You think twice about your options upon hearing the click-clack of medical supplies being put back into the first aid kit. Then you think, "fuck it!", and use your good arm to keep the fabric of a spare t-shirt pressed against your chest and shift so you can face the man who just rather aggressively threw a handful of unused alcohol prep pads back into their designated slot.

"I'm super duper, utterly, and truly apologetic, Seok."

The gunslinger heaves another grand exhale of irritation. He doesn't even so much as glance at you, frowning sourly down at the roll of gauze in his hands instead. The temptation to reach out and touch him — soothe him — is strong but you decide against that (for various reasons) and resort to huffily pouting instead. Amazingly it seems to work, because he notices right away and folds way too easily without much of your sway, finally facing you with a reluctant but serious expression.

"Then what did you learn?"

Your gaze lowers, eyelashes fluttering while you drown in your feelings of shame and wrack your brain. The urge to toy with the silver chain around your neck is strong though you resist the tick and hesitantly answer instead.

"Um, that I need to fortify my mental block better?"

"Try again."

"Uh…"

"How about the way you're not supposed to play the hero?"

The tin of the trauma kit rattles as Seokmin slams his left hand down on the bed, leaning menacingly toward you. Though narrowed, his eyes seem to glow. You can't help but whimper at the intense ire dancing in those irises paired with his sharp tone. Like the desert's suns, it simmers and radiates off of him with rays of heat that you can easily feel given how close he is.

"I'm, I'm sorry!"

"No, you're not," he states sharply though the rigidness in his body relaxes after your squeak of another apology. "You almost died!"

You'd defiantly cross your arms if you could. "Between the two of us, you were most at risk of dying."

"Was not! And we both know my chances of injury are much, much lower than yours."

"You can't lecture me and flex your stupid powers this time! It's different 'cause Jihooon was fuckin' with my mind."

The harsh bitterness is more so directed at yourself and the damned Crimsonnail than Seokmin. But as usual, you vent all your frustrated emotions out on him, especially whenever he brings up the fragility of your mortality. You both stare stubbornly into each other's eyes, thinking back to what happened and what could've happened.

Lina's protected. The Tonim residents were all immobilized. Seungcheol, Seungkwan, and Mingyu are in good spirits. You are safe.

A burst of air rushes into Seokmin's lungs, relief filling him as he idly scans your figure for injuries. Casually reloading his revolver just in case, he beams as you approach. The mirrored expression of victory on your face accompanied by a hand reaching out causes his whole body to shudder in pleasure. There's nothing he'd like more than to intertwine his fingers with yours.

Instead, he settles for returning your enthusiastic fist bump. Nudging his shoulder against yours, Seokmin chirps out, "Good job, partner!"

"Partner?"

"Yeah, partners."

You shake your head like you can't believe him, amusement tilting up the corners of your lips. He wants to tell you everything, all of it. But his ears catch the faint click of a contraption behind him and he looks over his shoulder just in time to see Jihoon's crossbow assemble.

Joshua looks mightily displeased but makes no effort to put a stop to the Crimsonnail's actions. Seokmin can only thank his lucky stars that Soonyoung remains in a catatonic state. Dealing with a ginormous worm so soon after being in its stomach a couple days ago was not appealing in the slightest.

The fingers of his prosthesis splay out, cybernetic arm lowered and extended outwards in front of you as you turn around as well. He knows you hate unwarranted protection but you'll have to forgive his instincts this time. Nevertheless, he trusts you. And as Jihoon opens fire, Seokmin leaps into action, expecting you to do the same — only to do a double-take when you don't move despite a flurry of nails breaching the air.

Your eyes remain unfocused. Glazed over and cloudy, posture tense but still. He sneaks observatory looks your way from afar while firing Geranium. Round after round, breaking nail after nail to prevent any harm befalling you. A maniacal laughter rings out and Seokmin freezes, putting two and two together.

Then he snarls.

Jihoon must've sicced his killing intent — a nasty ability to project and create illusions of destruction in someone and break their will — on you. Cursing, he starts making his way closer to you, inwardly reaching out to you and begging that you'll break free of the blonde-haired man's clutch on your psyche.

You're obviously more than capable. He knows this. But your movements are sluggish, slowly releasing Sirocco from your grasp. The empty pistol lands on the sand with a muffled thud and Seokmin's pretty sure his heart mimics it. A look of terror and horror spreads across your facial features, surely subject to something awful within the confines of your own mind.

And while you're experiencing visions of things you fear coming true, he's stuck in the vivid reality where they do.

You spin around with a wild look in your eyes — full of rage and anguish. He stumbles back as you teeter one foot at a time toward him and in the distraction, a nail pierces right below your shoulder blade.

Someone wails behind him.

You scream.

Seokmin rushes forward. But he's tackled suddenly to the ground and ends up flat on his back. Completely winded and left with his vision smarting, blinking in confusion at the blurry double halos that definitely shouldn't be around the duo of suns in the sky.

Then your face comes into focus. And god, forget the suns — in all your glory and in all your fierceness, you shine brighter than them all combined — hallucinations be damned.

It takes a bit of wrangling around, given how you try to wrestle and pin the man down. The clunky gun you're waving around goes off several times, harmlessly lodging bullet holes into the sand cushioning around Seokmin's head.

"Stop it, you're gonna hurt yourself!"

Moving and lashing out like a wild animal before it's fully sedated, his words don't come through the hellish haze Jihoon's trapped you in. You pull the trigger with no regard for the injury to your shooting arm.

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

He dutifully counts each round fired, multitasking between that and the effort it takes to contain your struggling movements. Once again, thanks to the overpowered strength of his prosthetic, the man's finally able to sit up with you secured in his arms to cease any further movement.

"Lovely, lovely mayfly," he murmurs. The stable cybernetic hand gently feels around the impaled shoulder while a trembling thumb rubs your abnormally chilled cheek. "C'mon and snap out of it, pretty."

Not a spot of recognition in your blank glare. His eyebrows furrow as cold metal presses in between them. Seungcheol is cursing, Mingyu and Seungkwan are shouting loudly. Jihoon gloats.

But none of that matters. Seokmin drowns all of it out by diving in the pooling depths of your empty irises. Searching, calling, begging. Biting his lip, he delivers a quick slap and pleads, "Come back to me, love."

And like a mist that rises after dawn, you return to him. Your stunned grip on the gun falters, the final bullet rattling in its chambers. The pained expression on your face slices open his own heart but its shredded form takes flight in utter relief.

You're back. You're going to be okay — he'll make sure of it. And even if you don't know it, you're his and he's yours.

"Y-you're dead," you choke out and all he can do is smile despite feeling like he's on the verge of crying. Elation, anger, guilt, hope, longing, worry, joy — all of it turns and tosses within him like a rustling flurry of winged creatures struggling to break free.

So, he smiles at you and grasps the barrel of the old pistol aimed at his forehead. "I know, mayfly."

Jihoon howls in fury. Joshua finally steps forward, striking a military pose with his hands behind his back. Composed as ever, his voice remains its deceptively sweet self compared to the harsh jerking movements he's subjected upon the gray-eyed man via telepathy.

"You've crossed the line, lost number thirteen."

"Don't call me that!"

It's no surprise that the pecking order in Dokyeom's henchmen sowed seeds of dissent. Though Joshua was simply a right-hand man, he remained the only unnumbered member, proving the lack of disposability DK saw in him versus the others.

"Know your place."

"Which has always been at the top! But because of you — !"

" — The top of those already at the bottom, perhaps. Respect your superiors and your orders, Crimsonnail. You were not to lay a hand upon Master Dokyeom's brother. Ever."

"I didn't!"

"Or a member of his little group." His indifferent gaze swept over Seokmin protectively cradling your body. "This voids our involvement and nullifies any further implementations of the game."

Joshua would thank his lucky stars that the humanoid typhoon is letting them leave scotch-free if he was a decent man. Unfortunately, he's not — already considering what punishment to enact upon Jihoon per his master's orders. The Crimsonnail feels a shiver down his spine, further enhanced by Joshua's frosty, disdainful look of disapproval as he telepathically drags Jihoon to the car.

Still, it's a good thing Seokmin's a pacifist by nature, that he's more preoccupied by your well being than anything else. Your brow begins to bead with sweat, the pain of your wound finally sinking in past the adrenaline rush wearing off. Black circles dance in your blurring vision, the gun falling from your grasp as you droop forward and rely on the unerring sureness of his support and the safety within in it.

Seokmin knows he needs to get you medical help right away, and it's the only thing he can focus on. There's no time for exchanging a blow with a blow nor the faintest idea of revenge.

Not yet. Not now. Maybe never if it means putting you in harm's way.

Was he really going to give up following the bloody trail to hold his brother accountable for the unspeakable crimes he's committed? Throw away the blank ticket Rem spoke about? All for one person?

The questions all swirl around in his head like a nebulous mass. And like a newborn star — one that's been long in the making — the answer is crystal clear and shining bright as you sit in front of him now looking devastatingly beautiful to him despite all that's happened. Most importantly, you're safe.

But all he can say in this moment aloud is, "I'm sorry."

For a multitude of reasons. So many of them. You seem to spot something in his eyes, frowning ever so slightly.

"You don't have to apologize for anything. I'm fine."

"I almost lost you."

"But you didn't."

"…I know. And I'm so fuckin' glad."

Seokmin runs his fingers in a distressed manner through dusty, matted strands of reddish-brown strands. Immediately drawing attention to the dirt, grime, and dried blood coating and dulling the cybernetic's buzzing glow.

"That's gonna be a pain in the ass to clean."

He appreciates the subject change, shooting you a lopsided grin. "Yeah, tell me 'bout it."

"Let me help."

You get up before he can protest. A tactical way to coerce him into worrying about helping you rather than arguing. The coy part of yourself is applauding the method, especially when the calloused flesh of his palm splays against the bare skin of your lower back in the name of support as you both walk to the bathroom.

That same part whispers naughty temptations to drop the t-shirt covering your chest, press up against him, and see his reaction. But your reasonable, reserved side is too held up on various other matters to give in.

Sadly, you find out you can't offer as much assistance as you would've liked. But Seokmin seems heartened by just seeing you up and about and close to him. Plus, you make use of your idleness while he washes in the sink by reaching for the few stocked amenities you can reach with your good shoulder above it when he asks for them. And you receive a heartfelt smile in return.

"I probably should've just showered."

You shrug. "You still could."

"Nah, it's fine, I can do it later. What about you, though? You're going to need help with those stitches."

"What a roundabout way to say you want to bathe together, Seok. You could've just asked."

Maybe you expected him to splutter nervously or protest fiercely at the tease. You certainly don't expect him to just shake his head — silver earring flashing in the vanity's dull lighting — and chuckle.

"I'm being serious, goof. Besides, it's not the first time I've seen you in the tub."

"What?" you squawk and his grin doesn't falter. In fact, it turns into a smirk.

"I'll go get Sherry. Lina's gonna want to see you too, she wouldn't stop crying about her pretty savior getting hurt."

You frown. Was he still going to dodge The Talk™? And did he think you were really just going to him out of your clutches that quickly?

"We still need to chat. You promised."

His eyes flash. "… And you don't like promises."

Yes, that was exactly why. He knew your history. Still, you refused to back down.

"No, I don't. But I like you… and, and most of all, I trust you. I just want the truth, Seok. Even if you think it'll hurt me, at least be honest. Trust me back. I promise it'll make it less painful if you tell me why you thought I wasn't serious. So, please…"

Don't let me down.

It's unspoken, but he can clearly hear it in your tone. A battle-worn sigh escapes so you try to lead him and finish with a question where he can give a more straightforward answer.

"… How long have you known? About the bet, I mean."

Despite wavering between semi-alertness and bordering the edge of losing consciousness, you're aware of Sheryl's presence as she bustles around with Seungkwan and Mingyu to clear out an empty room above the saloon temporarily used for patients. Seungcheol waits outside the door with you two, a cigarette loosely dangling from his lips.

When Sheryl leaves, she sneaks a peek at the way your face buries into Seokmin's neck, how the man carefully assesses the rest of your body for injuries. His touch is gentle, the cybernetic arm coated in blood as it holds the nail in you steady. He'd been adamant about being the one — the best one — to treat you. Smiling, she hands Seungcheol a couple of double dollars and the pastor raises an inquiring eyebrow.

"For that little game of yours," the woman whispers knowingly and gestures to the two who just exited the room and Seokmin hurriedly heads inside. "They told me all about it."

You lift your head to glare at Seungcheol and then your other comrades as you pass, wondering if this was some sick form of revenge for pulling one on him and if Sheryl was so keen to set you up with someone in the same way pompously done for her. But your shoulder feels like it's on fire so rather than reprimand your stupid, back-stabbing friends and slump back wearily against Seokmin.

He's a simple man who certainly can't hide a silly smile at the unconventional snuggling. Lifting his chin, he then tilts his head questioningly to the money in Seungcheol's hands. "You're still doing that bet?"

"Haf'ta win the lasses 'n hopeless romantics over 'n have 'em rootin' fer ya."

"Y-you know about the bet?"

Seokmin hushes you with a low murmur, words muffled by the press of his lips to the crown of your head. You can't make out what he says, but the timbre is soothing enough that your eyes close.

"Gotta make that sixty billion somehow if we're not turnin' ya ass in."

"Fair enough!" The wanted man laughs and closes the door with his foot.

His cheerful demeanor then dropped to focus on the proper procedures to treat your wound and that's when the silence settles in, soon followed by the weighing air of unresolved tension between you. And now, you're continuing the determined path to fully speed-run ahead and break it, though he shrugs nonchalantly at the question.

"Known for a while, to be honest."

"Seriously? I thought it was a secret!"

"C'mon, you know how bad Cheol is at keeping them."

"Yeah, right," you roll your eyes. "That man takes things to the grave — literally!"

"You're too hard on him." Seokmin leans toward you, bracing himself with an arm supported by the sink and brown eyes sparkling with humor. "Think about how much you've learned about him."

"Against my will, too much…"

"Which means I'm right."

"… I guess you do make a fair point."

"Of course. He's a completely open book once you peel back that damn protective hardcover of his."

Still, you sniff disdainfully and frown. "I swear, you're the only one who sees him like that."

"Like what?"

"Like…. unafraid, unconcerned, unbothered by all that he is, all that he's done, et cetera."

"Why not? He's done the same for me. Besides, I've said it before but he has those eyes, you know. Kind."

Ah, and that's what gets you to resign with a small grin. It's just like Seokmin to see only the good in people.

"And you're not all that different," he continues with a broad, knowing smile. Immediately you bristle and he clarifies, "from me." Some part of you momentarily wonders if you spoke your thoughts aloud or if he just simply knows them that well. "As loath as you are to admit it, you care for him. Most importantly, you trust him."

Though your face sours at the thought, you don't retort right away. Sure, Seungcheol is a trusted ally. And maybe the motivation to free Jeonghan from the control of the Eye of Joshua wasn't solely because it was simply the right thing to do. But also because it might brighten the dull spark and leave one less bloodstain on the hand of a man who bore the burdensome weight of all sins like a cross on his shoulders.

Then you wave away those thoughts for now. "So, is that why you thought I wasn't serious on how I feel about you. 'Cause of the bet?"

"No, because I never knew the full extent of it. But… if you're saying it had to do with your feelings, then I would have to say yes — though I find it hard to believe any bet's worth my bounty."

"Oh." Your cheeks heat at unwittingly giving it away.

Seokmin smirks when you avoid his gaze, and he moves in even closer. "No one has sixty billion double dollars just lying around, mayfly."

"You're just saying that so no one turns you over to July."

"Well, you won't do it, will you?"

"You don't know that," you fire back, intending to heighten your defenses that only weakly falter because you're still not looking at him.

"But I do."

"Yeah? Prove it!"

Ooh, a challenge.

And one more step closer.

"Because you care too much about the man you like to put him behind bars."

Your eyes dart back to meet his, ready to squint reproachfully only to widen at how the gunslinger's face is only a breadth away from yours. Breath hitching, you desperately want to whine out in irritation but it comes out in a low whimper. Seokmin's canines flash in the bathroom's dim lighting.

"That's not, that's not fair." The wall pressing into your bare back keeps you from retreating and the hand keeping the t-shirt covering your chest feels how your heartbeat speeds up. Your skin is on fire, only the cool temperature of your locket and its chain preventing you from utterly exploding after the plaintive admission of, "You already know everything. But…"

"But…?"

The unconscious action of biting into your lower lip only gets realized by the way it keenly draws Seokmin's eyes. Electric blue flashes against brown irises yet they darken to almost black with the sudden thrill of desire that rises to the surface. He's so close, you can feel his breath caress your face, and you swear you hear it deepen into a low grunt before he raises a brow for you to continue.

"But… b-but I don't know…a single… thing."

Seokmin has forever believed Rem's take regarding the ticket to the future always being blank. For him, it's always been an unknown path forward that he's let lead him wherever and to whatever destination.

He holds himself back, just enough to utter the (practically what should be unneeded) words of reassurance, "It could only ever be you — and it's always been only you — that I could be in love with so much, mayfly," and then he's eliminating the meager distance between the two of you. For the first time, he stamps that blank ticket with an assuredness of the future and outcome he's never had before — with a kiss.

Cradling the back of your head with his cybernetic prosthesis, the other cups your cheek and then trails down to your collarbones — but no further than appropriate. His mouth, though, disregards the very notion. A teasing tongue repeatedly runs across your bottom lip to smooth out the indents caused earlier by your teeth then naughtily pokes and prods its way between, eliciting a sweet gasp from you he absolutely devours.

Your whole body shudders with happiness, eagerly surrendering to the man's wild, possessive fervor as he passionately steals the breath out of your lungs and stakes his claim on you by leaving behind shiny kiss-bitten lips. Seokmin only draws away, panting, to admire his handiwork, light-headed and dizzy with delight.

"I love you," he reconfirms with his forehead resting against yours and nose tickling your own, "… partner."

Breathlessly, you joke back after placing a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. "Love you too, partner."

And that was that.

With your shoulder injury on the mend and the other members of your little ragtag group nursing their own bumps and bruises, you all decided to spend one more night in Tonim — much to Lina's delight. While she merrily bounced from one 'hero' to the next, you playfully reminded Wonwoo that he still owed you some free drinks. You were eager to take advantage of the fact and he was more than willing to accommodate.

The tavern that originally held a subdued, slightly hostile air to it when you first arrived was now filled with an unfettered joyous harmony. You're so easily swept up in the ambiance of such high spirits and jubilant townsfolk as mug ales filled to the brim get passed around and clinked together, you fail to notice Seokmin's sudden withdrawn nature.

Not until the next morning do you first realize something's off.

"You're sure about this?"

"Oh, no. Not you too, Seok."

You'd already flipped off and shoved away a complaining, terribly hungover Seungcheol and finally got rid of the watchful, fretting gazes of Seungkwan and Mingyu. The duo had been hovering around you with concern ever since you downed a full glass of alcohol last night. While you generally just let them be and were quite thankful not to wake up with a pounding headache, you certainly weren't above crushing all of Mingyu's pudding cups if he meekly asked one more time if you were okay or needed help.

Seokmin leans against the open door frame as you pack. The pulsating glow of lost technology flickers in your peripheral and keeps you aware of his quiet presence. Part of you had always wondered if the ever-running currents of lighting synced with the flow of blood through the rest of his body.

The gunslinger doesn't speak, and you wonder why. And though you'd like to flatter yourself and entertain the notion that he's watching you — while other times that may be true — you don't feel the weight of his eyes trained on your motions. It wasn't like there was much to stuff in your bag, the satchel's leather cracked, faded, and well-worn after all these years of use through the desert and everything you truly value remains strapped some way to your body. So once you're finished, you inquisitively peek over in his direction.

Brown eyes are trained on the clunky gun on the mattress — the same one you'd pressed against his head. It's also the exact same pistol Chan had spent his adolescence restoring and repairing. Left unnamed unlike the honorary grave Seokmin had helped you prep before leaving the ruins of Ivywood behind. Meanwhile, his gaze darts to linger in contemplation on the chain around your neck before his eyebrows furrow, emphasizing the drawn out features and dark circles beneath his eyes.

"You look tired, you doing okay?"

"Yeah, just haven't been… sleeping well."

Frowning, you step toward him. Although he doesn't back away, his entire posture stiffens. "Will you be able to make the journey?"

He snorts, gesturing to your shoulder you're trying not to move too much. "Isn't that what I'm supposed to be asking you?"

"I'll feel better at the border."

Seokmin nods understandingly. "The weather will align well."

Within the sandstorms that relentlessly swirl near the Melca Border Sea of Sand, hides the only SEEDS floating ship that survived the Great Fall and you have to get the timing just right to reach it. It's home to a large community of humans, and most importantly, it's what you would consider a true home to you and Seokmin. Already, your energy restores — excited at the prospect of getting to relax in a place you trust and people you truly enjoy being around.

"Jun can take a look at my shoulder."

"That's true, it would be good for him to do."

"And I'm sure Hao's going to want to check your arm, maybe fashion some fabric that's not only bulletproof but also nail-proof."

"He's gonna give us both a scolding."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

You share a look of fond chagrin. Even though Seokmin's well over a century older than Juhui and Minghao, they were direct Earth descendants aboard a ship full of lost technology and geniuses in their own right. Those facts alone gave them all the confidence and utter audacity to more often than not, act like fretting toma mothers over the two of you.

Nonetheless, you appreciated them with all that's remaining of your heart.

The trip to the Melca Border wasn't a straight shot from Tonim but it wasn't as far as you thought. A bittersweet farewell to Wonwoo, Lina, Sherry, and the rest of the townsfolk was to be expected. Though their sorrow weighed you down, the knowledge that you were parting from them with good memories and the expectations to visit again kept your steps light-footed.

Seokmin remains zoned out the entire time. You bulk it up to his normal reaction whenever something emotional was on the horizon. Returning to Melca held a grand spread of wonderful, warm memories with a scattering of dreadfully sad ones too. Though the floating ship's defenses have been bolstered to the max over the years, the terrible events weren't easy to forget.

But they were incidents in the past and it's thanks to the intellect of the two who greet you at the entrance of the ship that their defenses continue to improve. Luida proudly stands behind them, accompanied by Brad and his wife.

"Greetings, weary travelers."

"We're no strangers, Luida," Seokmin protests against her formality.

The elderly leader's playful grin smooths out the wrinkles lining her wise face. "Welcome home, children."

It's a simple phrase but one that fills you with inexplicable warmth. Hansol might be the son born of her own body, but no one is immune from her maternal instinct. She beckons for everyone to come inside where the main quarters lie and the growing crew population will certainly be enthusiastic upon hearing about your return.

Seungcheol, Mingyu, and Seungkwan trail after without fuss, also elated to be aboard the familiar floating ship. You smile with genuine delight and step forward to follow while Minghao takes one look over his wire-rimmed glasses to survey Seokmin's dusty figure and elegantly tilts his head knowingly in the hallway leading to the technology laboratory. Glittery, colorful beads woven through the long strands of his two-toned hair clink in time with the movement.

It's hard to hide the snicker that escapes as you watch Seokmin trudge after Minghao like a scolded puppy. Your glee at someone else's suffering doesn't last long when a gentle hand clasps your shoulder. Wincing at the pain, you meet Junhui's puzzled look before his eyes narrow.

"You're hurt," he says, disappointed but not surprised, and leads you away to the med bay. It's exactly what you expected, in fact, the main reason behind why you're here — and yet, you sulk and whine petulantly just because you can.

"Not my fault that the only way to get here is by timing everything right to jump into a sandstorm and then onto a flying platform."

After instructing you to lie down on the medical bed and cutting the fabric of your shirt without fanfare, Junhui clicks his tongue. "You only come to visit when you're hurt."

"Not true!"

He concentrates on disinfecting and resewing the torn stitches in the tender flesh around the parts of your wound that are still healing. His tone borders on slight resentment but the concern weighing in it smoothes it all over.

"And yet most of our time spent together is only when you visit so I can patch you up."

"It's not like that."

"I know… but I would've met you elsewhere."

"Boring."

"Can't you courteously pretend to care about yourself out of consideration for those who worry?"

"You'll go gray at such a very young age if you stress all the time, Jun."

He shakes away silver bangs that threaten to impede his vision, unamused. "And you'll end up buried under the sand next time."

"Sounds cozy."

"I swear —"

You wave his growing ire away. "Seok takes care of me just fine."

"Yes," Junhui's cat-like smile causes your metaphorical hackles to raise. "He does care deeply about you."

"I'll punt you into the fifth moon and give it a second crater with your body."

"Now, now… violence is never the answer."

"Violence is the only reason you have a job!"

If you weren't as close as you were, perhaps he'd be offended by your claim. Instead, he kicks you out (after ensuring you're indeed in relatively good health), leaving you to laugh victoriously. Then, you set off to the technology lab in good spirits, hoping to catch Seokmin and commiserate with him.

Instead, you find a lone Minghao sitting refinedly amongst all the tech with grace and poise. He was in his element. Fiddling with and poking at a well-worn, familiar cybernetic tech with a thin silver instrument, he simply raises an eyebrow to acknowledge your presence.

"Did you fit Seok with a new arm?"

"But of course," the man sighs wearily, "despite my best efforts, my darlings always return home to their father with quite a beating."

"… Then you'll hate what I'm about to tell you."

"No, I cannot fashion you a pierce-proof trench coat. However, I will acquire some stronger material… but there better not be a next time."

You purse your lips and pout. It often seemed like Minghao worried more about his inventions than the people using them, though you knew that to ultimately not be true.

"So, he already told you what happened."

"Oh, yes… he told me everything." Heterochromatic eyes suddenly meet yours, sharp with a spark of amusement. "See, I almost didn't want to give him the latest modification but…"

"But…" You repeat warily.

Junhui was always mischievous, though most of it only ended with harmless pranks. On the other hand, Minghao's sarcasm-filled humor rarely made an appearance, and when it did, it usually delighted in the sickest of satisfactions.

Yet, he simply shrugs, evasive as always. "I think you'll like its improvements."

There's something foreboding about that statement, but he ushers you away under the pretense that he needs to concentrate. And shortly, you find yourself stopped by curious passersby or familiar faces in the hallways to the main quarters. Since your last visit, a multitude of passengers have a lot to share and update you on. By the time you reach your own pod, you're socially exhausted.

Sleep came easy but finding Seokmin did not. The SEEDS ship was already big in the first place and additional construction enlarged it further. An itchy, achy feeling pooled inside your gut on the second evening you'd been unable to catch sight of him. Finally, you acknowledged the bitter truth — he was avoiding you.

You had to come to terms with how delusional it was to think that once everything was out in the open, the scattered puzzle pieces would magically fall together in their rightful places. It should be easy, right? It's what happened in those cheap novels Junhui dug out of an abandoned pod in Melca back in the day. He'd given them to you as a birthday joke — Minghao sighing and handing over your real present (the first bullet-proof trench coat) — but you'd actually read through all the cheesy, steamy piles of romantic drivel.

Seungkwan, ever the cynic, and Seungcheol — who's naturally a heathen — quickly destroyed the slim spark of hope of ever hoping to feel those flutters in your gut. Meanwhile, Mingyu was someone precious and wholesome with a romantic outlook on life underneath the great muscular physique he'd gained from carrying that heavy concussion gun around.

You often wondered why they never tormented him like they did to you. But despite his indomitable stature, the emotionally soft man's tears were the most powerful weapon in his arsenal. Even if he didn't quite realize it, his comrades certainly were aware.

And Seokmin… well, if you knew how Seokmin felt about romance, you wouldn't be stuck in the position of wondering why the fuck he was avoiding you.

Again.

"Where is he?"

"Good morning," Mingyu greets the following morning, cheerful as ever. "If you're still hunting Seokmin for sport, he said he's feelin' a little sick!"

"Sure."

"No, he really is." Seungkwan refutes your aggressive eye roll with a gentle shake of his head. "Loverboy hasn't come out of his room for days and when I almost knocked the door in earlier, he finally responded only to sound like a dying toma."

Your face contorts into a morbid combination of concern and irritation, shifting between the two expressions. "Probably 'cause he stayed out all last night!"

And with a dramatic huff, you glower at the pastor seated in the cramped corner of the floating ship's kitchen area. Seungcheol deemed it was cooler, darker, and the farthest spot in the enclosed space from any of your misplaced wrath. He smiles, the white stick between whiter teeth jollily flicking up and down at you, taunting.

He reveled in the knowledge of being safe since he'd been the only one able to provide any information on the humanoid typhoon's whereabouts. The pastor — who still enjoyed a late-night smoke to cure some of his insomnia — considered it his saving grace to catch sight of the fellow gunslinger slinking through the shadows in the halls. Apparently, Seokmin had been sneaking outside the past few nights and remained resolutely ever-elusive during the day.

"Should go see 'im. Yer all antsy and 'm bettin' he's missin' his… mayfly."

"Oh, go fuck yourself," you snarl and storm out, missing the man's bark of laughter before he continues contemplating the best way to siphon money during a confessional.

The unfaltering stomp of your combat boots is the background beat on your walk to Seokmin's pod. His halls aren't far from the kitchen area and yet each footfall feels like a step into the unknown, the lights above seeming to grow dimmer the closer you get.

Why was he acting like this?

Did he regret everything that happened between you?

Was something wrong?

Would he shut himself away from you?

Worry and anger swirl together, mirroring the vortex of sand you had to pass through to get here. Seokmin's never shut you completely out before but you're familiar with his reclusive acts when things get too much. Too close. Too emotional. And you're afraid to be the catalyst to another spiral.

So, you knock. Harsh, loud, and ultimately unforgiving if ignored.

"Seokmin, open up! I know you're alive!"

A mutter of "Barely," carries through the door before he clearly answers with a curt, "I'm not feeling well but I'll be fine."

"Open the door."

Silence.

"Please."

The silence continues — and your temper flares. "Don't make me go get my bag and grab my lock-picking set!"

You can hear sounds of cursing and some rustling around before the door slowly and reluctantly opens, Seokmin hiding in the shadow it casts.

"As you can see, I'm quite fi —"

Both a coughing jag and the firm push of your shoe interrupts his confident statement. "Sure hope you weren't about to say you're fine!"

A faint smoky scent permeates the pod. You cough and pause to let your vision adjust to the darkness. The first hint toward Seokmin's unusual behavior because he thrived in the sunlight, no matter how weak the sunrays that reached the floating ship were. Then second, you blink in wonderment at the black heaps littering the bed and floor.

Feathers. Everywhere.

Reminiscent of the time you'd broken Seungcheol's ridiculously expensive pillow against Mingyu's bulky bicep during a good-natured fight with Seungkwan's assistance. But instead of an explosion of brown and aqua toma plumage causing you all to sneeze, these were inky dark like the night sky and resembled piles of soot against the pod's stark white backdrop.

You whirl around to find Seokmin retreating to the corner of the room, hands slamming on top of the dresser for support. His back is to you with two thin wings jutting out from it. Feathers rustle as he pants, shoulders coinciding up and down with the motion of the wings.

"Seok, how did… how did this happen?"

It's not fear that causes your voice to tremble but worry. The appearance of his natural Plant form is no longer shocking. In fact, the more you see it, the more you find it eerily beautiful. Probably similar to those who believe them to be messengers of a higher power. But he's only ever transformed in dire situations — either due to stress or the rare exhaustion of his superhuman abilities against stronger foes.

He doesn't reply so you take a cautious step forward. An animalistic growl erupts from his throat, followed by a pained groan. You gasp as he shakes, protrusions rupturing from the lower parts of his shoulder blades. Two more wings burst out and unfurl below the trembling ones already quivering on his back.

So that's how they hide and reappear.

"Is it 'cause you're sick? Choi said you've been staying out all night. You could've caught a cold or something's in the air. Never know what's floating around here." You babble as you frantically search for signs in the mirror above the dresser for any hints to what's caused this.

Seokmin's bent over and you note what should be brunette roots of hair are now pitch-black too. Closer and closer you creep until you can make out each bead of perspiration trickling down his neck and how they coat every bare part of his body in a sheen of sweat.

Then his head snaps up. An eye — unshielded by the black fringe of his red-brown tipped bangs — narrows to glare into your widened ones. A tempest of electric blue rages within it. Like the hottest type of fire, it burns more than you could ever expect in a vortex of one prominent emotion.

Desire.

An involuntary shudder overtakes your whole body, and you unconsciously bite your lip. Seokmin slumps back down, granting respite from that ardent azure glow.

"Sick," he snarls and laughs, strained. "Sick in the head, that's for sure."

"How… how can I help? What can I do for you?"

"Get out."

"Seok —"

"I'm serious, mayfly. For your own good. Leave."

"My own good?"

"I'll, hah, I'll explain… explain it later."

Your arms cross. "Oh, really? Or will you avoid me again? Like you have been for the past several days?"

"I haven't —"

"Don't you dare feign indifference! I'm not stupid — we talk about our feelings and then you retreat. Just be honest with me… please."

You promised.

He sucks in a very deep inhale through clenched teeth, seeming to regret it instantly because his grip on the edge of the dresser is hard enough to crack the strong material. Glowering at your reflection again — not daring to acknowledge your very real and extremely close presence in the room — Seokmin bares his sharpened and widened incisors in a snarl.

"We will talk, mayfly, please believe me. Now's… hah… just not great timing with… with what's happening."

Irritation easily gives way back to worry. "At least tell me what I can do for you. Should I get Jun?"

"He can't do anything. Gotta just… work it out of my system."

"Work what?" You frown, knowing how rare it is for the medical specialist to be stumped.

"It's not for certain…" Four different wings flutter in agitation at various speeds. "Not a lot's known about Plant physiology," his mouth turns downward, "even I don't have a thorough understanding."

"Is it a disease?"

"Wish it was that simple."

"You're talking in riddles and running verbal circles, Seok."

"… Dokyeom and I are independent Plants. Likely the only ones, well, you know — still functioning. Alive. When Rem found us, research was obviously done."

You know the story very well and nod. "And had been conducted before."

"'Course thanks to Rem, it wasn't as invasive but there were, hah, occasional talks. Theories. And then, of course, before us twins, there was…"

"… Tesla."

A Plant with a lifespan of only two-hundred and thirty days.

Seokmin swallows. "Tesla. Yes. I recall bits and pieces. Hypothesized with Luida and company… Outside of Dokyeom following the unethical methods humans sometimes conduct for experimentation," he snorts at the irony, "it's thought that Plants… can copulate… with a mate… of their, hah, choosing."

"Really?" Your eyebrows raise, intrigued. "That's a brilliant discovery!" Then they furrow. "Wait, are you saying that this," you wave your hand to gesture at his current form, "is because… you're, er, ready to… mate?"

He holds his head. "… Yes."

"Oh, okay. So, you need like… relief? A mate? Should I…?"

Your questions hang uncertainly in the air, unfinished because you're really not sure what you're supposed to even offer. A sarcastic smirk graces Seokmin's lips, condescending in the sort of way that's aimed more at himself.

"What kind of man do you think I am, mayfly?"

"A very, uh, Planty one for sure."

"Better than leafy, I suppose."

"Though you are quite… feathery."

Finally, he turns toward you, a wry and defeated smile on his weary face. His wings stretch outward and curl back in, elegantly waving toward you as if drawn in your direction. You can't help but smile at the object hanging from a cord around his neck.

"You still keep that old thing around?"

He looks at the golden cartridge and chuckles. "It's special."

"Me holding a gun to your head was special?""Meeting you will always remain a treasured memory, no matter the manner of how it happened." Seokmin falls quiet, lost in thought before hesitantly asking, "Did I not mention Plants mate for life? Well, at the very least, I know I do."

"Oh." Your astonishment reveals itself in a breathless gasp. There's no escaping that all-consuming, fiery cerulean gaze. "So is this the first time you've been… ready to, uh, mate?"

"No, I'm used to the way these cycles come and go. But this for sure is the worst bout yet."

"… Why?"

You hold your breath. He takes a step forward. Then another.

He's so close, if you leaned the slightest bit forward you'd press up against each other. Somehow, with an overwhelming sense of shyness guessing the underlying thoughts and what his answer will be, your eyes roam his bare upper chest and torso.

If you could caress him you would. All the shiny black feathers adorning his wings and the occasional ones sprouting along his forearms pointing to his Plant abilities. Each scar along with every bit of metal or his body's naturally grown wood that replaces chunks of lost flesh. He's kept them as reminders of when he's failed humans, though you've seen them only as when they've failed him. He shivers, like he can feel it, as if he knows what you're thinking and you questioningly re-meet his burning stare as he shoots you a wane smile.

Sheepishly, he rubs where the cybernetic arm attaches to his shoulder. Many have turned away in disgust or mock pity at the disfigurements. Yet despite the true abomination he looks like right now, there's only ever been pure empathy and acceptance he doesn't deserve — all from you.

"Conscious consent and reciprocation."

Your lips turn upward, joy causing your soul to unwittingly sing. "Does that mean… I'm your mate?"

"No."

It's like Gunsmoke completely collapses, and you're left twirling without footing in space. Seokmin matches your fallen expression with one of his own.

"What? Wh-why?"

"Don't get me wrong, it's —"

"I swear if you say 'It's me, not you'…"

He rather adorably tilts his head. "How did you know?"

"It's a typical cliche," you roll your eyes, "just give it to me straight, Seokmin. Is it 'cause I'm human?"

"… It's not that simple, and this isn't something trivial. It's — hah — it's a huge commitment." The use of your given name indicates his seriousness. "A lifetime one. For me, it's only ever been you… and it will always be you for as long as I live, which could be your whole lifespan! And I don't, hah, I don't know — hell, it's taking everything I can not to tear a dead man apart, let alone what I'd do if you'd change your mind, want something — someone else."

"You're doing it again, projecting and underestimating my feelings for you."

"It could be the effect of my pheromones, mayfly. We don't know every —"

"That's right! We don't know! So we have to trust each other and see."

"It's —"

"Let's not subject ourselves to the hypothetical. And what do you mean by dead man?"

Seokmin's jaw tenses, fingernails digging into numb skin. His wings waver, like they're considering cocooning around him for protection. But their tips simply flutter as if soothed by an unseen force, preventing them from enclosing completely.

Teasingly, you lean toward him and squint. "What else aren't you telling me, Seok? You pick a side hustle up that involves the deceased like Choi?"

He snorts at the audacity and doesn't take the bait. Instead, unfamiliar but still achingly familiar irises dart to your neck, tracing the silver chain laying against your skin. A dull sort of sadness fizzles out those blue fires and you clasp the shape of the locket beneath your shirt in realization.

"He was a boy, Seok. A boy I grew up with for a short period, one that felt like a brother to me."

"… You said you loved him."

"When?"

"… To Cheol. After you first met him."

"That would've been so long ago? How do you even remember that?"

He sighs, heavily. "It's not easy to forget. Your voice was so warm, so gentle, so in love when you admitted it."

"Love can mean different things! And I assure you, my feelings for you differ greatly from how I felt about him. And… he's… he's long gone, Seok."

Guilt burns in his eyes. "I know. Which makes me all the worse."

"No, it doesn't." You shake your head, a resigned smile resting on your lips, and hold your arms out. "'Cause I understand and forgive you. And most importantly, I love you."

It's uncertain if those words break or restore him, but the hard rigidness in his body melts away, sagging in a semblance of relief. Then he rushes forward into your waiting embrace, wings helping to propel him forward until they wrap around and press you to him tight, tickling areas where his arms aren't squeezing around you.

"And I adore you, my lovely mayfly."

You groan. "When will you stop calling me that?"

"Never," he snickers and you feel the curve of his lips as he comfortably nuzzles into the crook of your neck. "For as long as you're mine."

"Yours?"

"Mine."

"Sucker."

A chaste kiss brushes the lower tip of your ear. So ticklish and unexpected, you pull back with a giggle and playfully swat his shoulder. And just as he's about to dive forward and prove your little comment correct in retaliation, you burst into full-on laughter that leaves Seokmin to settle his hands on your waist with confusion crinkling his brow.

"What?"

"So that's why you were always having a deathly staring match between my childhood memorabilia?"

"… Was not."

"You — the most sentimental loser ever — definitely were!"

He pouts momentarily, the cute jut out of his lower lip quickly transforming to a devious smirk. "You'd bet on it?"

"Totally." You place your arms around his neck, bringing your bodies closer again and matching the charge of electricity with a clever tilt of your lips. "I'd win, too."

"And what's on the table?"

"Sixty billion double dollars, of course."

"That so?"

"Mhm, and it seems like someone's bounty matches that worth."

Seokmin quirks a brow. "Seems like you want me on the table."

"Winner takes all?"

"Mayfly, I've always been yours."

"Sap," you laugh again.

A bright grin certainly declares your delight in victory, though your partner in crime uses the distraction as an advantage for his earlier loss and wastes no time. Diving in, a sharpened canine grazes your pulse point, automatically causing your head to tilt to offer easier access. Two left wings sweetly swoop down for support, feathered tips tenderly brushing your forehead.

The heat of his tongue placates the dragging scratch of his fangs. Though it sears you alive, heating your entire body from the tips of your toes, swirling in your core, and concentrating beneath Seokmin's lips on your skin.

When reaching that cold, familiar necklace you treasure so much and he can't help but loathe, it's seized between his teeth before he registers the action. Tugging it away from your neck like a dog, you wonder if he'll even shake it like one. His eyes follow the length of the chain, focusing on where the locket pops out above your chest.

You raise a questioning brow. "You gonna just play with my jewelry or take my clothes off?"

"Oh," Seokmin whispers, jaw dropping, and suddenly stands stiffly at attention.

You watch, entranced by the bob of his Adam's apple as he visibly gulps. Large, calloused hands — so practiced in undressing you for baths and patching up wounds — falter as they skim along your sides in a fleeting touch. Smiling encouragingly, you intertwine your fingers with those of his prosthetic while leading the other one beneath your shirt, the rough flesh of his palm blisteringly hot against your stomach.

"Is this okay? Can it help calm your Plant powers?"

"Yes… but that means… giving yourself to me… forever."

"Can't think of anything I'd enjoy more."

Confident, you trail kisses up his jaw to his cheek, stopping near his ear. Playfully tugging at the earring hoop as you pull away. Then you break away and bend over, shimmying off your shorts in one smooth motion. Stepping out of them, next goes your top. As each fabric hits the floor, Seokmin's eyes become more lidded, heavy with want. Smoldering. Desiring.

Four black wings fan out and stay as rigid as his stance. As if they're waiting with bated breath. And when you finally stand bare before him, he sheepishly drags his gaze to the floor with a flustered smile.

"I'm the one naked and you're embarrassed?" you tease and his posture relaxes.

"Because you're a vision to behold."

"Says the one who looks like an angel."

You back up until your knees hit the side of the bed. Like those morbid tales that depict curious listeners following a luring call to their demise, Seokmin's only a step behind you. He doesn't dare let his eyes stray further from your own, a goofy grin on his face.

"Consider this my fall from grace then, mayfly."

Gingerly, you sit on the edge of the mattress, waiting for his next move. He towers over you in this position. Formidable in appearance yet oh-so-gentle when picking up your left hand to kiss your knuckles and rub his thumb across its faded scar. Another smooch gets placed to your inner wrist and you hold your breath at the passion in those blazing cyan depths that refuse to look away. Then, a cautious touch to your shoulder urges you onto your back. Obediently, you lay down and a bunch of stray loose feathers fly up into the air upon impact.

"Beautiful," he murmurs.

The clothed knee resting between your legs helps his arm support the weight of his body hovering above you. A tentative hand slides down from your shoulder to your hip, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Caressing every scar, memorizing each color and swirl of ink decorating your skin, and erasing any insecurities or blemishes you see in yourself. Cold digits draw whimsical shapes and tickle your abdomen, stopping above your pelvic bone.

"May I?"

"Of course."

Seokmin rejoices in your consent by littering your collarbone with love bites. And his touches move lower, tender despite their mechanical nature. Warmth blossoms and flows under every surface of your skin Seokmin's traced, coiling and settling in a pulsating — almost painful — heat rupturing between your legs.

Only he can be the one to relieve this ache which he precisely aims to do. A simple, single brush across sensitive folds instantly has your breath hitching, shaking beneath him.

"Are you alright?"

"Mhm… yes."

He audibly gulps at your unexpected whimper of ecstasy, reluctantly tearing away from watching amorous bliss overtake your facial expression to the wet heat detected by his pointer finger's sensors. A feral growl rumbles in his chest at the debauched sight of desire beginning to dampen your thighs — the trace of what he's been smelling from you now overloading every single one of his senses as he coaxes more to flow from you. Seokmin's more than thankful for his enhanced vision and the glow of cybernetic technology baring your most intimate parts to him.

Guided by an instinctual impulse, he eases a finger inside. Your back automatically arches off the bed, eliciting a sweet gasp of delight. The cool touch of the digit seized tightly by the pulsating walls of your cunt slowly warms as it adjusts to the welcome intrusion. He soothingly brushes the knuckle of his middle finger across the soft outer flesh of your pussy to relax its grip. Eventually it lets up enough to let him explore further and deeper than your own have ever reached.

"I'm… I'm not sure how best to please you," Seokmin admits, drinking in your every reaction to his curious ministrations. "But there's this urge, this need, to make you feel good. Prep you properly for my… my entry."

By pure accident, he strokes a rough patch of nerves that makes your eyes roll back, hips lifting at the sensation of wanting more of whatever that feeling was, and your quiet noises melt into a loud, needy moan.

"More," you plead, "touch me more, Seok."

He eases his other finger inside without question, grunting at the squeeze that almost prevents him from moving to where you want him the most. But unlike the rest of his quivering body, the prosthesis remains steady, still, and patient. Waiting until it can bully itself and a third finger past your entrance's vice-like clench.

You start pulling on your breasts, trying to alleviate the tingling in them. Seokmin observes with a keen eye and a toothy, fanged grin. After a bit, he leans down to let his tongue trace the underside of one mound, leaving behind a saliva trail shining in the unconventional lighting as he tends to the next. Alternating with playful nips and naughty tugs to your nipples whenever your grip on them falters from the overwhelming pleasure.

So attentive and eager, soon you're writhing beneath him as you hit your peak. One hand grips your hip tightly, surely to leave a bruise with the way it cramps. His other doesn't let up, well-oiled mechanisms continuing to pump in and out of your trembling pussy until you whine from the overstimulation.

His wings fold protectively around both of you like a canopy as you share a tender kiss. Dazed and happy, you tenderly brush back black bangs and play with one of the feathers that's sprouted near the hairline above his ear. He shivers.

"Let me take care of you too."

"Are you sure? What about your shoulder?"

"That's the least of my concerns right now."

"I can still…"

"Later. First, I want to help you."

Suddenly, Seokmin's shy again, flushed cheeks darkening. "I… I think I'm a little different… down there so it's okay if you don't want to… or get scared."

"It's not like I've seen enough dicks to compare whether what you're packing is normal."

The both of you share a goofy laugh that eases the presumed awkwardness. He sits back to unbutton his pants but you stop him.

"May I?"

You might as well have knocked the air out of his lungs. He stares at you wide-eyed and then emphatically nods, finally clearing his throat to squeak out, "Sure."

Ignoring the aftershocks of your earlier orgasm, you sit up and kneel in front of him. Intent on a few minor distractions, your mouth and hands start at his shoulders to work their way down. Imagining you have the power to heal the damage dealt to his body and soul through tender touches.

You see a sad sense of beauty and justice in the patchwork of metal bolts and bark. And as you apply marks of love that bruise and blossom between them, he lets out a content warble. You're quick to undo the button of his pants, both of you gasping at the utterly wet mess seeping through the material when you tug the zipper down with your teeth.

He lifts his hips to help and once he's just as naked as you do you take him in. Anatomy was meagerly touched upon during your days at the convent, so truthfully all you're aware of at the sight of his heavy cock is the need to be filled with it.

And the closest thing to take him is your mouth, jaw already aching before you even open it. Almost reverently, your hands wrap around to stabilize it. Seokmin hisses pleasantly at the contact.

"You don't have to —"

He's cut off by a groan as you inquisitively suckle the tip. The copious amounts of slick smearing from it and down the base taste sweeter than Seungcheol's lollipops and you moan heartily, causing his thighs beneath your elbows to tense at the vibrations.

"Oh, mayfly."

A wing caresses your cheek that bulges as you take more and more of him, Seokmin's hands tearing at the sheets. The tip of another wing tantalizingly drags down your bare back. Your hands begin to explore, finding the puffy edges around the slit from which the thick cock emerges from. His hips jolt upwards at the contact to sensitive tissues, causing you to gag.

"Ah, 'm sorry!"

While he whispers repeated apologies, you're only compelled to take him further. Slowly you get used to the stretch, but no matter how much more you're able to squeeze down your throat there's still enough of his length for both of your hands to play with. It gets easier the more aggressive you get, his cock seeming to respond to your vigor in tandem. Soon you're lost to the haze of whether you're bobbing your head up and down or it's swirling languidly in your mouth on its own accord.

Seokmin's hips stutter but you feel the tremor first pulse against the inner walls of your throat. His cock throbs as you pull off of it, hollowing your cheeks and parting with deliberately powerful suction. A loud pop releases its tip and your hand supports its weighty girth falling forward. You dig the nails of your free hand into the muscle of his quaking thigh, ducking down to teethe at the puffy slit from where his cock must emerge.

Moving on to licking and dragging the point of your tongue along the sizable vein lining the underside causes Seokmin's low groans to turn into a high-pitched trill. Once you reach the swollen, leaking head and nibble on the hard glans, it spasms wildly and finally erupts. From the top slit seeps sweet syrupy fluid that readily overflows into your awaiting, open mouth.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he blabbers.

You'd reply that there's no need for gratitude, perhaps you'd thank him, but the viscous release keeps spilling out. Rivulets trickle well past your lips and coat your chest. Although still in a euphoric daze, his eyes flash with sharp satisfaction. Instantly possessive at the sight of your bare body decorated so erotically.

His wings snap open — filled with purpose — and your face is pressed down into the mattress. Surrounded in a smoky musk as the angelic monstrosity it belongs to and destined to be your mate hovers above.

Your voice comes out hoarse as you raise up onto your elbows and spitefully spit out a black feather. "Do those wings of yours prevent you from being topped or something?"

"I'll let you find out another time, partner," Seokmin huffs, laughter evident despite his apparent breathlessness. He steals a tender kiss, pleased grunting at how your lips — shiny and swollen — taste of him. "But for now…"

Like an anchor, the tech material warmed by your shared body heat and passion winds underneath your hips, keeping them raised. A calloused, ticklish touch roams traces your spine. He draws an occasional spiral here and there as he goes, mindful of your wound, until firmly pinning the nape of your neck to the side, creating the perfect arch of your back.

"I think you'll like this," Seokmin says as if he isn't liking the view below him.

But for you, straight ahead lies the dresser's mirror. It reflects the full manifestation of an independent Plant poised to devour a human in the most intimate sense. The fearsome size of his cock lies heavy on top of your ass, leaking droplets of arousal all over your backside.

"Will it fit?"

"Of course, you are mine to claim and take." His hips just forward and you both moan. "I think we're both wet enough to try."

"I trust you."

"Let me know if it hurts in any way and we'll stop right away, mayfly."

Many troupes of desert-traveling dancers have mesmerized you before. Yet even they can't compare to the graceful and smooth motion of Seokmin releasing your neck to align his tip with the entrance of your cunt and slowly bullying his way in.

Tears of pain mixing to unfathomable pleasure blur the vision of your mouth widening to let out whines and moans. "Seokkie…"

"Mhm, mayfly… my love… my mate."

Finally, the front of his thighs are flush against yours. Hips pressed tight against your ass. Fully sheathed inside your tight hole, neither of you have ever felt such intensity before. He surrenders his body weight on top of yours, hands braced outside of yours clenching loose feathers and silk sheets. The outer heaviness matches the intensity of what your pussy struggles to accommodate.

"Mine."

Seokmin's hips swirl at a slow pace. Rather than thrust, he massages the sensitive glands at the base of his cock with the soft flesh of your ass. His length seems to shrink and grow and writhe with a mind of its own, filling and teasing you nonstop. Leaving no surface of your inner walls untouched or untended to for too long.

"Yours."

You shudder in blissed-out delirium and Seokmin lights up — literally.

Fluorescent lines glow in distinct patterns across skin, brightening the more he starts to pant and build up your shared pleasure. Sharp canines prick into the skin of your unmarked shoulder as he wraps his prosthesis under your stomach to raise your hips, the new position driving you faster to that rapidly approaching edge. You cry out with a lurch, blurrily making out his glowing form that shudders above.

Though the view in the mirror gets hidden by black wings stroking your entire body. Teasing the underside of your tits and tenderly brushing away the stings of his teeth marks.

"I-I love you," Seokmin rasps.

"Love…" You manage to enunciate the words, mind emptying and drool wetting the bed as your second peak approaches. "Love you too."

Pain and pleasure draw forth an onslaught of your apparent arousal that lecherously mixes with the frothy mess dribbling from his cock. Claws appear on Seokmin's right hand, another addition to the bestial Plant features emerging in the throes of passion. He's not completely lost to the primal thrall though, able to resist from breaking skin.

Delicately scratching your waist without drawing blood, then using the finely pointed tips to pluck and tease effortlessly at your clit. You cry out, body shaking as waves of euphoria crash against the shoreline of imminent pleasure.

Seokmin helps ride out your peak with a couple of speedy thrusts. The feeling of his hips slamming into you has you seeing more stars than Gunsmoke's galaxy contains. And just as you're overcome with too much stimulation, he lets go with a particularly strong bite into the top of your shoulder.

His cock softens and its heavy weight like a blanket along with the continual pump of his warm, soothing release. The feeling of it leaving none of your inner walls untouched feels as sweet as it tasted on your tongue and helps ease the ache inside your cunt. Still joined together and slick with stickiness, he collapses onto his side and gently assists you with rolling over so you can face him.

"Hey, you."

"Hello there yourself, lovely mayfly."

Your nose wrinkles but gets smoothed out by feather tips playing with the ends of your hair. Seokmin smiles as you snuggle closer into his chest so two of his wings can cocoon around you as the heated fervor from prior activities cools.

"Did that help?"

"… Yes," he says though his tone wavers with hesitance.

You raise your chin and see the electric blue luster hasn't faded yet from his gaze. Sheepishly, the corner of his mouth raises and you shiver, feeling the swell of his cock stretch out your pussy. The bulge it creates brushes against Seokmin's abdomen and he twitches.

"Sorry, it's… I'm gonna be kinda insatiable now that I've had a taste…" He trails off, wings snapping behind him. Slowly, he pulls his hips away and you both hiss as his cock is dragged out.

"What are you —"

You're cut off by the animalistic glimmer in his gaze, catching the feral smirk that he attempts to hide by licking his palm. Quick as lightning, Seokmin fleetingly swipes the outer lips of your cunt and brings his fingers, tonguing at them. Body set aflame again, neither of your break eye contact as he moans headily.

"But not of this," he rasps.

Before you know it, you're staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stickers on his ceiling with your mate between your legs. His wings trail along your calves, their flexible ends curling near your inner thighs, encouraging them to spread and stay open, pinning them in place.

"Oh, aren't you a beauty?"

He moans shamelessly at the sight of your messy, glistening pussy. You squirm at the ticklish sensation of his feathers and that smoldering, ravenous look. If only he knew what it was like to see him devour you with his mouth.

Delicious.

Just like the feeling of his tongue working its way inside and licking up the shared essence of your releases.

Your fingers weave between strands of hair as black as night, tugging lightly and accidentally snagging one of his ear feathers. He moans eagerly, and the vibration has you shuddering, already quickly nearing another mind-shattering orgasm. But you don't let him carry you there too fast, smooth brain muscles trying to form a question.

"How… long… how long do these cycles last?"

Seokmin presses a loving kiss to your twitching clit and blows, entranced by how you clench around nothing. Then he smirks, elongated teeth shining in the darkness like a predatory warning though you have nothing to fear.

"As much as you can handle but… we're really only just getting started, mayfly."

The motion light kicks on as Seungcheol shifts his boots in the direction of the unlit kitchen area. Junhui and Minghao's entrance awaken the rest of the lights and they frown at the makeshift bunker set up.

"What are you three doing in here?"

Seungkwan sleepily mumbles a curse word and next to him, Mingyu blearily rubs his eyes. A scattering of empty pudding cups and bottles lie around them as well as a disorganized array of poker cards.

"We're afraid to venture out of here."

Junhui shares a secretive look with his closest friend at Seungkwan's cryptic words. "Ah, so that's happened. Or happening."

"'Bout time y'all came 'round. Time for ya to pay up!"

"Pay up for what?"

"Compensation. 'M the one who got the closest to bein' right knowin' they'd fuck after confessin'."

"If anyone needs compensation, it's me for the mental damage of having to make one of my lovelies into an enhanced sex toy."

Seungcheol guffaws. "Ya didn't! Ya lil cheatin', schemin' scientist!"

Meanwhile, Mingyu looks mighty concerned. "Does that mean Seokmin has a dildo for an arm?!"

Minghao crosses his arms with a steely glare. "No."

"Oh good. I don't think I could look at him the same."

"I don't think any of us will ever look at him the same again."

Junhui eagerly rocks back and forth on his heels, hands stuffed in the deep pockets of his lab coat. "Do you think they discovered all the functions and benefits of it yet?"

"Should be our next bettin' round."

"No more bets. I don't care if it's half a double dollar to go in, I refuse to go through this again."

Mingyu elbows his raven-haired companion. "C'mon, your heart's warmed by this!"

"Warmed and consumed by the rage and fury of hellfire, yes."

Giggling, the tall man smiles widely and holds his hand out. "Alright, I win then!"

"Win what? Thought you didn't remember your bet."

Mingyu purses his lips. "Only because none of you took me seriously and joked with a bunch of gross innuendos when I said they'd find their home in one another!" He then sighs dreamily. "But if I'm right, we'll know by tomorrow morning."

"Who says it'll be tomorrow mornin'. Might take weeks. Months even, I reckon'."

"I'll kick you all out before it comes to that," Minghao threatens and runs a hand through the few strands of hair without a bead. He tosses a wad of money in front of Mingyu. "Never involve me in this again."

Despite all the grumbling, everyone has a sense of lightness in their hearts at the thought of their dear friends finally getting together. And the happiest of them all is Mingyu, who cheerily gathers his prized double dollars, dreaming of all the pudding he can buy.

A lone figure stands on the edge of the valley of the Melca Border. The Sea of Sand, aptly named, can change tide and turn vicious at any second. Their cloak billows in the sandy winds that whip around them, though even the steadfast hood can't hide the satisfied smile on their face.

"You did well," they commend and the name that falls from their lips is one some might consider lost to the sands of time.

"Saintess." Another figure materializes out of the sand gusts in response to the praise. "It is to be done as you said."

"Very well. Shall we go now?"

Whether it's the mysterious sands that swirl around and whisk them away or the lost technology cube that transports them, no one will ever know for no one ever saw them. Like ghosts, they disappear and find themselves outside the real ghost town — where it all began.

A toma croaks in the distance. Brave travelers dare cross the ruined wasteland and the saintess meditating atop one of the largest rocks hidden in the shadows opens her gray eyes tinted by lilac in the glow of the moons to observe. Despite all of her traveling, the white robes wrapped around her body remain in pristine condition.

She turns behind to look at the man standing over a scattering of stones, staring intently at one of them. With poise and purpose, she dusts off her clothes and strides over to him.

"Chan."

Brown eyes tear away from his own name carved into the headstone in front of him to look at the one who's said it aloud.

"Yes, Saintess?"

"Do you regret it?"

"No. Never."

"Good," she states, satisfied with his response. With a grand sweep of her hood to cover short, dark hair, she gestures to the east. "We will set up camp one more night before returning to the Saint in the morning before he speaks with our Master."

Chan mutely nods, following the saintess back into the desert where she confidently leads him to a cave that will shield them from the unpredictable nature of Gunsmoke's wastelands. He thinks of you, the girl he must keep safe and two brothers. One with wings as pure white despite his continual revelry with hate-filled darkness, the other bearing ones the complete opposite color of his twin — a wild card.

He reminisces over the Blessed and Holy Sisterhood of Little Ivywood, the convent and all the orphans that lived there. Pondering Sister Meryl's role, who stands before him now as the revered Saintess, leader for the Eye of Joshua and second only to the Bishop of the cult named after himself. She moves curious little statues back and forth across the surface of a large flat rock and the young man can't help but ask her a question in the unnerving silence.

"Do you think this will work?"

Meryl smiles elusively, as always. She picks up the smallest one with a deliberate flourish, placing it on a blackened space close to the last row of alternating squares carved into the stone's surface.

"Have you ever played chess before?"

"No, what is it?"

"An Earthern board game. It is quite complicated." Gesturing to the piece she just moved, she continues. "This is a pawn, the weakest of all chess pieces."

Chan bristles. "But strength comes in numbers, no? There are eight of each color, surely the right side can find a way to win."

Unfazed by his agitation, the saintess nods placatingly. "With the right strategy, even a pawn may become a queen — the most powerful. Unpredictable." She points to a white figurine with a cross on top of it. "Enough to checkmate a king."

Entranced, Chan watches as she rearranges and repositions various pieces across the faux chessboard. Soon, the pawn that took on the mantle of a Black Queen captures the White King. His eyes roam what's left on the battlefield at the end of the match, pointing to one that looks like a tower.

"What's that one?"

"A rook. It best supports an allied pawn towards promotion from behind the scenes." Her eyes sparkle mischievously. "It's most powerful during the end of the game, as you can see."

Chan gulps, holding his breath for a moment, and clears his throat. "Then I'm ready."

"Wonderful," Meryl nods, "we'll depart for Master Dokyeom's stronghold in the morning. I'm sure Joshua, our dear Saint, will be… pleased upon our return."

"To the glory of the Black King's rise."

"And to the glory of our so-called queen."

Keep him safe, Chan thinks to himself as he settles on the ground. And yourself. One day we'll reunite in the most joyous of occasions…

He pulls out a faded wanted poster with the infamous outlaw worth sixty billion double dollars, donning a wishful smile before closing his eyes and murmuring, "I'd even bet this impossible amount on it."

onlyseokmins: April 2024 ©

[ahhnini]

So Close, But So Far - Finnick Odair x Hunger Games victor! Reader

synopsis: reader is hijacked by the Capitol amidst the second rebellion, afab! reader

warnings: angst, TW: sex traffic mention (from Finnick), contains violence, 18+

as a reminder, my ask box is open, please feel free to request prompts for fics!

If you like the story, please reblog! I appreciate it! :)

word count: 1,615

You don't remember anything. You don't remember who you were. All you know is one person, Finnick Odair. You remember the Capitol showing photos of you two, photos of a wedding you two had, photos of him kissing you. But, there were also photos of him attempting to hurt you, to kill you. Why would he do that? You don't attempt to kill people you love, right? The doctor from the Capitol said that he was a killer. You couldn't believe it, how could you fall in love with a killer?

You wake up confused and angry in an unknown hospital. A new doctor is tending to you, she's young, no younger than fourteen. She told you her name, speaking in a voice so soft you could barely hear it. Prim. Such a beautiful name, why did that sound so familiar? You look around, this place was not your hospital room in the Capitol. Where were you?

Finnick rushed through the hallways in the hospital wing. You were here! The mission was successful and they've brought back the remaining victors from the Capitol underground to District Thirteen. He was worried sick about you. Every night that you've been away from his arms was another night he spent sleepless. His eyebags were a dark gray, and his face sunken. Katniss was concerned for his wellbeing, but he didn't care, he just wanted to know if you were alive. He saw your profile hung up by your door upon entering your room, your photo...what have they done to you? You don't look like yourself anymore. His anxiety spiked as he entered your hospital room, you were sleeping. "I had to sedate her, she became too aggressive" Prim said, holding a needle in her hands. You? Aggressive? "Prim, what did they do to her?" Finnick's voice becomes shaky, eyes filled with tears. What if the Capitol citizens used you like they used him? "I don't know, Finnick, but the Capitol did something to mess with her brain, she doesn't know who she is." Prim softly spoke.

Finnick had to step out of the room after Prim said those words. All your memories with each other, erased. He was devastated, and almost had to be sent to one of the hospital beds himself. Thankfully, Katniss saw him and helped him calm down.

It was midnight, Finnick couldn't sleep. You were so close but so far from him. He overheard Prim and Katniss earlier, saying that the sedation wore off and that you were awake again. He kicked his blanket off and walked to your hospital room. He still wanted to see you, he wanted to help you remember. Hell, he would even stay next to you until you regained all your memories, no matter how long it took. He caught a glimpse of you through the tiny window before entering your room. You were awake, sitting down and staring at the wall.

You flinch as you hear your door slam shut. Finnick entered your room and sat down next to you. You were scared. Do the doctors know that the person trying to kill you is in the same room as you right now? Your hands shake as he smiles at you, was this the last thing you were gonna see before you die?

You were weak, but somehow, you had enough strength to stand up. Finnick stood up as well, and stalked closer. He called your name out, and you screamed before your impulses took over, grabbing a metal tray from your table and hitting him over his head. He fell down, blood dripping from his hairline. He called your name out again, and again, sounding like a chant. He was taunting you. Every time he would call out your name you would hit him again, each time harder than the last. Your breathing became erratic, tears flow down your cheeks, his blood staining your gown. It was too much. The world began to spin, and the last thing you see before collapsing was a girl with long, brown hair and Prim standing over you.

Finnick woke up with a headache. He touched the crown of his head and felt multiple bandages wrapped around it. As he begins to wake up, he remembers how you hurt him. How you hit him harder every time he pleaded your name. You would never do that to someone, even in the Games you used non-violent tactics to win. His head perks up as he hears someone enter the room. "She's been hijacked," Plutarch states, "I'm guessing the Captiol rewired her brain to attack you. I'm sorry, Finnick, I know you loved her." Finnick wanted to speak, but his head hurt so much he couldn't. You were just an empty shell.

A couple of days pass, Finnick still gets headaches from time to time, but he takes morphling to numb the pain. He decides to visit you again. He knew this time you would actually murder him, but he's willing to risk it. He eavesdrops from the other patients in the hospital wing; you were transferred to a more socially isolated room. That broke his heart. It wasn't your fault, it wasn't your fault at all. You loved talking to other people, you wanted to know their stories. That's how you two got close in the first place. You were the first tribute to ever ask him to tell you the stories about his Game. It brought back haunting memories for Finnick, yes, but you truly wanted to listen to him, and he could sense that. So he did. He opened up to you, you were the only person that knew what the Capitol citizens did to him after his Game.

He roamed around the hallways of the hospital wing, and stumbled upon the isolation rooms. There, he saw you. You were inside a padded room, soundproof, with a window close to the door. Your hospital gown discarded, now in place a white jumpsuit. On top of that, you were restrained to the bed. As Finnick saw you violently thrash against your restraints, he wanted to take revenge to the people who did this to you. He wanted to take revenge on the Capitol.

Even though Finnick was still recovering, he chose to volunteer for Katniss's squadron. He put on his tactile gear before boarding the plane to the Capitol. As the plane landed and the squadron began making base, Finnick only thought of you. Alongside his weapons, he brought a photo of you two, from your wedding. He caressed the photo, your smile outshining the sun, eyes twinkling like the starry night. You are the only person keeping him afloat in this world. He smiled. When the rebellion ends, and Panem is free, you two would finally have the future that you've always talked about. Living a quiet life, away from the pesky Capitol citizens who invade Finnick's privacy every chance that they get, away from him being pulled every year to mentor children in a death game they have no chance of winning, finally being able to have children without the fear of them being Reaped. But, with your mental state, would you two ever get that future? Finnick stays optimistic, as it was recently reported by President Coin that Peeta, who had been hijacked alongside you, has been making progress, and became aware that he was hijacked by the Capitol. He's been remembering bits and pieces, and Finnick hopes you're remembering as well.

The sewer was damp, sticky, and smelled disgusting. Finnick had been watching over Peeta, noticing how he's slowly becoming accustomed to Katniss again. Finnick hoped you were progressing the same back in District Thirteen. He hears growling a distance away. His eyes widen as he sees the creatures. They look unnatural and uncanny. He quickly wakes up the rest of the squadron and they all run the opposite direction.

The sewers were like a maze, they were all struggling to outrun the mutts. They were terrifying creatures made to kill. He can't help but think earlier, when Katniss compared Peeta to a mutt, and wondered if the rest of the squadron thought the same way about you. Why wouldn't they? Katniss and Prim both saw the way you attacked him. It was obvious you weren't the same person anymore.

The squadron finds themselves in an aqueduct, all falling into the water. Katniss fires her arrows, as Finnick stabs the mutts with his trident. When Katniss and Finnick climb up the ladder, Finnick slips off one of the steps, and falls in.

He screams for help, for mercy. This was it. He feels the mutts' teeth sink into him, and he cries out. His last thoughts; you. How he was never going to see you again, how, now, your perception of him was someone he wasn't.

Finnick's life flashes before his eyes. He has memories from when he was born, his parents, fishing as a child, getting Reaped for the Hunger Games, his victory, what the Capitol did to him afterwards, meeting you, mentoring you, how he was the first person you went to when you won your Game, getting married to each other. He started getting glimpses of his future, the future that no longer was possible now. He sees two kids, a boy and a girl, playing catch with you two. He sees you, aged, you look as beautiful as ever with smile lines and wrinkles adorning your face. He gets one last flash-forward where you two are in bed, old and pruny, holding each other as you both prepare to go into the next life.

"Nightlock, nightlock, nightlock,"

Goodbye

[metal-and-machetes]

Pretty Hate Machine

The Sequel to ‘The Downward Spiral’

-

If you dangle meat in front of a predator long enough, the frenzy that follows will be violent and messy.

-

This is a dark Ghostface fanfiction. Content Warning:

Fuck or Die

Violent sex

Blood play

Torture porn

Stabbing

Dubcon/noncon

Sexual violence

Humiliation

Degradation

Graphic descriptions of violence

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. If the above are triggers for you, do not proceed. DBD lore does not suggest Danny is fun or nice, I wrote him as such.

-

“I’ll see you real soon, sweetheart.”

The words echoed in your head as you sat on a fallen tree trunk, leg bouncing as you stared out into the forest and waited. You’d been doing a lot of that lately… waiting. Waiting for the next trial. Waiting for the next killer. Waiting to be hunted down and slaughtered. Waiting to be a sacrifice to the Eldritch horror of an entity that controlled this place.

Waiting for him. You’d been waiting for what feels like forever for him. You lost track of how long you’d been here, it could’ve been months, years, mere days, you didn’t know. The others, they called in The Fog. They called themselves Survivors, they all got here in some mysterious way (though none of them had been brutally murdered after they were fucked by their coworker).

Sometimes you wondered if people were looking for you, if people were looking for Danny, Jed, Ghostface, whoever he was to people. You landed on the guess that they were looking for your body, and as far as Ghostface, you’re positive they assumed he skipped town after likely slaughtering you.

You’d been looking for him too. Rather, you’d been looking out for him. It was apparent what would happen when you finally encountered him. He’d hunt you like the rest of the monsters that lurked here, you and three others that were dropped into these… trials. Four against one, at a staggering disadvantage, since that one was a killer with a horrible weapon and you got a shard of glass if you were lucky.

So far, you faced The Shape, one of the survivors called him Michael. She came from the same place he did, Haddonfield, Illinois, her name was Laurie. Forever pissed that she was stuck in an endless cat and mouse game with the man who killed her friends. At least one of them could understand your position. The Trapper was another one that you encountered a lot, a burley man who set rusty bear traps in places you always seemed to be. There were more. The Huntress, The Wraith, The Nurse, The Doctor. Those are just the ones that stuck out to you. The ones you saw most often.

But where was he? Why didn’t you see him? Why were you actively looking for the one everyone called The Ghost? Why did you care? What the fuck was wrong with you? You hated the feeling you got when the others talked about trials with him, how you began to get jealous. Why couldn’t you see him? It was almost not fair. You should be grateful you’re not being hunted by the narcissistic, knife wielding maniac, but you miss him. Why was this entity separating you from him on purpose? Surely it’s not out of mercy.

It freaked you out how obsessive you were about him. Danny consumed your every thought at the fire. The others asked you about him once he began showing up in their trials. Theirs. Not yours. They asked why he chose you (you didn’t know). They asked if he carved the word ‘MINE’ into your arm (you lied, it was your ex, they believed you). They remarked that you must be so happy you haven’t had to face him (you weren’t).

And fuck you for that.

You hated, loathed the idea that maybe you missed Jed. And then you’d remember that Jed doesn’t exist. Jed is a lie. Jed is Danny. Danny was behind murders states away from Roseville. Danny is Ghostface. Danny is unhinged. Danny is a good fuck. And fuck you for wanting him to fuck you again.

The man in the glasses and the tie, Dwight, sat next to you.

“What does he do in those trials?” you asked, staring into the flames.

Dwight swallowed. “He’s brutal. He hides around corners and in windows and watches us.” Gross. He’s such a fucking pervert. “I think he looks for you.”

That got your attention. “What?”

“I’ve noticed he gets worse when he figures out you’re not there. It’s like all of a sudden this rush of anger goes through him and he’s tunneling survivors, he’s brutally playing around, he’s watching us suffer on the hooks, he’s collapsing the end game. It’s terrifying.”

You scoff and then let out a laugh, which earns you a few looks from other survivors. “So he throws a fucking temper tantrum.”

“Temper tantrum?” The girl in the beanie, Nea, sneered. “Is that what you call it when the rest of us are being brutalized because you’re getting spared?”

“Nea…” Dwight warned.

“Spared?” You laugh again. “Spared? Did you forget what got me here? That asshole stalked me. He broke into my home. He bludgeoned me, then he tied me down, then he tortured me,” you conveniently leave out the part where he fucked you with your blood as his lube, “and then he cut my throat open. And now I’m here. So, yes, it is a temper tantrum.”

She started swearing at you, but it was drowned out by the loud hum that overtook your mind, you knew that tug. The Entity wanted to be entertained. That’s all these trials were for it. Entertainment. You grunted and closed your eyes, and when they reopened, you were staring down the streets of Haddonfield. Shit. Another trial with The Shape, at least, that’s who was normally here, or the Legion, creepy bastards.

These trials were simple enough. You and three other survivors were to fix enough generators to power on the gates that led to an exit. You just had to deal with a murderous nutcase of the Entity’s choosing chasing you down in order to shove you onto a sacrifice hook, or to murder you themselves with something the others referred to as a mori.

You got right to work on a generator, moving hastily as the adrenaline pumped through your veins. You’d gotten good at this game, you escaped a lot of the time, generators were tricky, but you were fast.

A scream ripped across the street, freezing you in your tracks before a bell rolled and signaled the death of one of your fellow survivors. That was fast… almost too fast. Was it The Hillbilly? No, you didn’t hear the chainsaw. The Hag? Maybe Michael really was the killer this time. You abandoned the generator and ran towards the scream, then you stopped.

‘Idiot! This is exactly how people die in horror movies!’ you scolded yourself. Not only that, if the killer had been blessed with the ability to use their mori, you’d be even stupider to investigate. You’d be a brainless moron. The kind of brainless moron that you used to point and laugh at in those stupid 80s slasher movies.

Then you felt a new sensation. Like someone was watching you. The hair on your arms rose, you were oddly aware of your pupils dilating and your forehead breaking out in a sweat. It kept you frozen where you were. This was different from when Michael was the killer, you never got the feeling of a dry throat or like you were hyper aware of your surroundings.

The others have talked about this feeling. Obsession.

Fucking fuck, you were the killer’s obsession.

Without a thought, your legs sprang into motion, you sprinted from between the houses you had stopped at. You had to get away from the area. Go! Run! Hide! You became less human and more animal as you banked around a corner and dove into in a locker, hand clamped over your mouth and nose, trying to will your heart to slow, fearing that it would be heard. Footsteps approached from the side, pausing in front of the doors. The shadow casted through the vents wasn’t anything overly huge, but it vanished before you could pick it apart. At least you knew this was a stealth killer, not one of those hulking brutes like The Trapper or The Executioner.

You didn’t dare move until the feeling of being an animal hunted left. When it felt safer, you carefully exited the locker and ran the opposite direction to continue on your generator. As soon as it popped, you bolted, still unable to shake that lingering feeling of being watched.

Not moments later, the explosion of a mis-crossed wire on a generator was heard, followed by a scream piercing through the air and then a bell tolling.

What the fuck…” you murmured. This only confirmed that it had to be a stealth killer. Which only left you with a few options. The Wraith, the Pig, Michael… or him. You heart pounded a little harder. There was a 25% chance you were in a trial with Danny. One where you were the obsession. One where he could slaughter exactly as he pleased. One where you were now down two teammates.

You were completely and utterly fucked.

A hand grabbed your shoulder and you let out a scream before another hand slapped over your mouth and a bloody Ace shushed you. “Shh! Sh! I’m sorry, listen- fuck- I need you to help me out!”

The gambling man was stabbed blood pouring from between his fingers. You nodded as he crouched down and you quickly started packing the wound. “Wh-who is it?” Your voice wavered, terrified of the answer you already knew.

“It’s The Ghost.” Ace grunted as you faltered a bit. “Ah! He- he knows you’re here, kid…”

Before you could form a coherent thought, a shadowy blur launched from the shadows and tackled Ace from you, knocking you flat on your ass. Ace rolled onto his stomach, I’m the process of yelling for you to run, but the knife was already in his back, puncturing his lungs before he brutally stabbed through his sides, head ripped up and the flash of a camera capturing a fresh kill. You stared up from your ass in pure horror as Danny examined his photograph and slowly raised those black, soulless pits of the mask to meet your terrified eyes.

“Fucking finally.” His voice was distorted by that fucking modulator, nice to know he didn’t drop the act here. He tore the knife from Ace’s back, standing. You scrambled back as his boots crunched on the gravel. “You’re all mine, bitch!” You screamed as he wiped the blood from his knife, turning and stumbling as you got up and ran, hearing the most unhinged cackle fall from the throat of the killer. Your killer. You vaulted over windows, threw down pallets, you tried to get away, but there was no escape, it was a fact you were so devastatingly aware of. You finished one generator, all three of your teammates were dead before you could even process you were alone.

Worst of all, he was pissed. You came to realize that night before you came here that Danny had some serious anger issues. He had an incredibly short fuse. Even answering his questions slower than he wanted pissed him off. And now, after probably having to watch you for however long you were here, not being able to have you? He must be irate. Evident by the fact he just brutally murderer Ace in front of you.

You turned into a house, rocketing up a flight of stairs and wedging yourself under a bed, hands clasped over your mouth to quiet your breathing. You heard the pallet you had thrown down across the door shatter under the force of Danny’s boot. “You can’t hide here, sweetheart!” he snarled from downstairs. You hear doors open and get slammed shut, pans clattered to the floor as he stalked through the house. “It’s just you and me now! No more hiding, no more watching, no more fucking games, you’re finally goddamn mine!” Floorboards creaked as he ascended the stairs and tears rolled down your cheeks until it went quiet. Damn him. Damn you for getting wet over this. What the fuck was wrong with you?

“Found you.” A hand wrapped a crushing grip around your ankle and dragged you out from under the bed, kicking and screaming as he shoved you against the wall by your throat. The soulless black abyss of the mask’s eyes bore into you with more emotion than you think any person could ever have. Because Danny was beyond pissed.

‘Shit. Shit, shit, shit!’ You kicked your legs and caught him in the stomach, falling out of his grasp and attempting to make a run for the door, only for your ankle to be caught again and you to land on the dirty hardwood face first, nose crunching and bleeding at the impact. Danny dragged you back to him and wrestled you into his arms, falling back as you knocked your head back to collide with his. You weren’t going to go down like last time, you were going to fight, you were going to make it as hard as you could for him. Maybe he’d get so angry that he’d just kill you instead of what you knew he was going to do.

He suddenly threw you to the ground like you weighed nothing before standing and kicking you in the gut. You wheezed, has he always been this strong? No… no way he had been. “Hey, doll? Did you miss me?” He growled, grabbing your hair and wrenching you up.

“Fuck you!”

“I see you haven’t lost that fuckin’ fight.” he growled. It wasn’t playful, it wasn’t giddy. It was said with downright terrifying annoyance as he hauled you to your feet and slammed your face against the wall, cheeks crushed to it, your back to his body, blood pouring from your broken nose. “She hasn’t broken you quite yet.”

“Go to hell, Danny!”

He pushed you harder into the wall, the splintering wood cutting into your cheek. “Choose your next words real fucking careful, sweetheart. I’m already having a bad fuckin’ day and I will gladly take it out on you. And I’ll make it really fuckin’ slow and painful… just for you.” You whimper, ultimately going lax under his fingers and taking a deep breath. This is what you wanted, right? To see him? Feel him? Touch him? This was what you asked for when you brooded over the fire and laid awake being jealous of your fellow survivors and angry that he may have their pictures too. “That’s it. That’s it, doll.”

You winced as he pressed against you, heavy breath muffled by the mask, erection pressed against your ass. You were not going to make it easy for him. “I heard you threw some temper tantrums when I didn’t show up in the trials.”

He slammed your head against the wall again and your vision blurred. “The more attitude you have, the worse this is going to be for you. I’m not above gouging out new holes to fuck instead of your pussy.”

Your eyes watered as you whimpered. Then tears started spilling from your eyes. You heard plastic hit the ground as Danny ripped it off his face. He trailed the tip of his knife down your cheek as he pressed his forehead against your temple, his hair damp with sweat. “Listen, and listen closely.” he growled into your ear. “You’re going to cooperate. I have waited since I got to here to have my way with you again. I even cut a deal with the Entity.”

“Wh-what kind of deal?”

He let out a soft breath of a laugh before grinding his hips against your ass and let out a soft groan. “We show her how far I can push you, I get access to you outside the trials. It’s a win-win.”

“Sounds more like a win for only you.” you muttered. The knife bit into your cheek, and to your utter humiliation, you whined. He shifted your position and held you to the wall by your throat. The eyeblack was still there like you remember, but he didn’t have your blood splattered on him. Danny smiled as he observed the shine of the knife.

You swallowed as he gave you that stupid smirk before he licked the blood from your cheek then leaned down and kissed you, the knife disappearing back into its sheath. You let out a muffled yelp, trying to find a way from between him and the wall. His hands ran up your arms, one descending down your spine while the other firmly cupped the back of your neck to keep you close, effectively cutting off any and all escape routes.

You shoved him back but he just locked his fist into the hair at the base of your neck and yanked your head up towards the ceiling as hard as he could. “It’s pathetic how you think struggling will get you anywhere, doll.” He made his point by stabbing your leg and dragging the knife upward, shuddering as you let out a high pitched scream. “Fuck, I love when you scream for me.”

“I hate you.” You growled, tears freely flowing now as the knife ripped from your leg and was lodged into the wall.

“Is that why you sit at that fire and stare out into the forest? Because you hate me?” Danny scoffed, roughly shoving his hand into your shorts and gliding his ring and middle fingers through the wet folds of your pussy, pulling a whimper from you. “Look at that, still a filthy slut for pain? Do you soak your panties for all the killers when the chase you down, or am I special?”

You glared at him as you tried to control your breathing and hold back your whimpers. He pressed his forehead against yours and focused his fingertips on your clit, slow circles stimulating you further, causing your eyes to drift close and your mouth to drop open.

“She kept you from me. She made me wait and watch. She tortured me by dangling you in front of me like I was a starving dog salivating after a slab of fucking meat.” He yanked you off the wall, taking the knife with him in the process, and pushed you back on the bed, straddling you, your blood soaking the fabric of his pants. “I have so many pictures of you. I’ve made a pretty collage of you.”

His eyes were crazed, he looked like a junkie that finally found his fix. He practically devoured you again, teeth clacking against yours as the knife tore through your top and shorts, nicking your skin, bright red blood blooming from the cuts. He was careless, you were probably in more danger now than you ever were the night he brought you here. But oh god, did it feel good when the worn leather of his gloves caressed your tits and pinched your hard nipples.

‘Fuck it.’ You reached down and cupped his pants, whimpered when he immediately started grinding his hard cock into your palm. He grinned against your mouth and broke away from you, pressing his knife against your throat.

“You try to run and I’ll pin you to the wall by your throat and fuck you that way.” When you nodded, he stood up walking backwards until he collapsed back in the chair, legs open wide. “Now, I didn’t get my cock sucked last time. Crawl to me, take it out, and show me what a good little doll you are.”

You winced as you moved your leg, yelping as you crawled, the muscle of your thigh torn by his brutality. You dragged yourself into a kneeling position and started undoing the belt, sliding it off and working the button open and dragging down the zipper. You hated yourself as you pulled out his cock, mouth watering. You didn’t get a good look at it before, but the stretch you felt made sense. And of course the asshole had a pretty cock. Fuck him. And fuck yourself for liking it. The other survivors, they fucked each other, you however couldn’t stop thinking of the fuckhead in front of you.

“Hurry up, sweetheart. I’m not a patient man.” he growled.

“I’m well aware.” That comment earned you a blade in the shoulder, bone crunching, and you screaming. Danny seized your hair and shoved your mouth onto his cock, slamming into the back of your throat and causing a wretch to interrupt the muffled cries of agony.

“You’re real fuckin’ brave, you little brat. You love running your fuckin’ mouth so much, but we can find a better use for it.” You wretch again as he thrusted, forcing you to drool down his shaft before he pulled you off so air. “Get to work. Now.” It was so embarrassing how easily you bent to his will. The nail was in the coffin from day one.

He didn’t need to guide you anymore. Message received. So you immediately began stroking his shaft and licking at the bead of precum on his tip. How long had he been watching you in the trial? How many pictures of you did he take? How often did he masturbate to you? How many hours had he spent wanting you from the shadows just outside of your survivor camp?

You opened your mouth and gave the head of his cock a quick, sharp suck, causing Danny to moan and throw his head back. “C’mon, baby.” He seized your hair and forced you to look up at him and his camera, clicking away. “Put on a good show for me.”

He tasted like you imagined. Earthy, but with a hint of sweat from the hunt, and he kept himself trimmed neatly. Your mouth watered, hands bracing onto his strong thighs, tears running out of your eyes like the drool running out of your mouth. Oh fuck, he was addicting. Your nails dig into his hips and dragged down, leaving him shuttering and laughing.

“Ah~ f-fuck, sweetheart. You look so good with my cock in your throat.” He forced your head closer, shoving himself further down your throat and your nose against his body, gagging you. His cock twitched in your throat, you braced yourself to take every drop of his cum. “Sick little slut.” Danny’s hand wrapped around your hair, a delicious tug making you moan as he pulled you off his cock and caught his breath. Your spit clung to the tip of good swollen cockhead and connected to your lip as you gasped for air. “As much as I’d love to see you swallow my cum, I’d much rather paint that pussy white.”

He got up and dragged you to the bed, forcing you to stumble and cry out in pain when your leg dragged against the sheets on the bed, staining the dirty floral quilt with blood. More screams and yelps of agony fell out when he pressed your busted nose into the mattress. Danny’s fingers brushed your pussy, growling out a laugh.

“What would your little friends say if they saw you here right now, dripping, even with a broken nose, scared out of your mind? What would they say if they knew I carved out that scar on you?” Just as your mouth opened to snap back, the knife was shoved through your shoulder, point sticking out the other side of your body. “Learn how to shut the fuck up, sweetheart.”

You nodded, finally giving in, finally accepting defeat. God you were pathetic. How embarrassing. Still, he rewarded your response with gloved fingers rubbing your clit the way he knew would get you squirming and moaning. He practically snarled as he pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades, blood from your wound soaking his forehead. “Please, Danny… please I need you…”

“I know you do.” He shoved you back and pushed his pants lower. “Arch nice and fuckin’ pretty for me.”

You obeyed, whimpering as the knife shifted in your back, well aware of the clicking and the flashes of the camera. So fucking creepy. Danny gripped your ass and spread your cheeks open and gave your pussy a quick, experimental lick before he kneeled behind you. He roughly collected blood from the gushing wound on your leg and spread it onto himself, teasing your pussy with the head of his cock, dragging it through your soaking wet folds, swirling it over your clit as you whimpered. More clicks. More flashes. God the disgusting gallery he must have of you.

“Please, just fuck me alre-“ you screamed out when he slammed his whole cock into your hole, grunting at the way you squeezed him hard. “Jesus Christ, Danny!”

“Ah fuck me. Finally… god fucking dammit finally!” He smoothed his hands over your back and sides, letting out a loud moan as he watched you take him, letting him thrust at a leisurely pace. Danny didn’t do gentle of course, he seized your hair and ripped your body up and against his chest, knife at your throat as he started pounding. You gasped and moaned, throat bobbing as you struggled to swallow without getting cut by his knife. “You’re so pretty when you’re being fuckin’ good for me.” He dropped the knife and fell forward, still thrusting, but now cheek to cheek with you as your arch deepened and his chest pressed down into your back.

He fumbled for a moment and regrouped onto your hair as the camera screen was shoved into your face. He forced you to watch as he flipped through photo after photo of you. You at the fire, you talking to the survivors, you sleeping. Occasionally pictures of your dead teammates showed up, until the trial now was apparent. It was only you.

You fixing the generator. You stopping in the alley. You running down the street, your terrified eyes as you realized who it was, you sucking his cock. Your pussy with his cock balls deep inside, blood smeared everywhere.

“You’re- mmh fuck!- You’re fucking crazy!”

Danny whimpered in your ear as you clenched in a particularly hot way before he bit on your lobe. “And you… fuck, you’re such a slut, ya know that?” he growled. “I just murdered your friends, I’m covered in their blood, and you’re still wet for me. You’re still taking me so good. Dirty little whore.”

You reached back and ran your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck as you felt yourself clench as Danny‘s breath fanned your neck. You were disgusting. Traitor. Weak. You weren’t any better than him, because if you were, you wouldn’t be fucking him right now. You wouldn’t be enjoying it right now. He moaned again and pulled out, flipping you onto your back and slamming back inside, your breath rushing out of your lungs.

He suddenly tensed and braced himself over you, angling himself even deeper as he moaned and came inside you, thrusting through the waves of pleasure. He started laughing and tapped your cheek with his knife. “Good god, sweetheart look at that… making me cum so quick…” Your breath hitched as he pulled his cock out of you and spread your pussy open, laughing as he watched his cum drip out of your abused whole, mixing with the blood. Danny turned his attention to his branding on your arm, tracing the letters with the tip of the blade. “It’s cute how you lie about this.” There wasn’t an ounce of flirt in his voice as the smile vanished. “How you make them think you aren’t my property.”

“Jealousy isn’t a good look on you, Danny.” you snapped. Before you could blink, the knife was through your hand, your high pitched scream piercing the air. “Asshole!”

“Don’t get smart with me, babe.” He twisted it, bones crunching. “Or I’ll carve a hole in your throat and fuck that next!”

You whimpered as he ripped the knife out of you, blood splattering on the both of you. The carnage was worse this time, you were practically covered and smeared in blood. “Please…”

“Please what? Please kill you? Please fuck you again? Please keep you here until she has enough and takes you away from me again?” He smirked, taking another picture of you. “Be specific.”

You hesitate, then swallow. “Please make me cum… I wanna cum… please, Danny, I’ll be good!”

Danny smiled and ran a hand through his hair, observing his blade before his eyes lit up with an idea. “Stick out your tongue.”

You obeyed, and his fingers started in on your clit. He pressed the knife’s base on you tongue before pressing his own to the other side, fingers now shallowly dipping into your entrance, cum leaking around the tips. Fuck, this was hot, the taste of the blood on the weapon, how the sides of his tongue pressed against yours as he slid the knife down between them, somehow managing to not cut either of you. When it was finally out, his tongue folded over your, blood and spit mixing as he finger fucked you.

Your breathing got heavy, a moan rose in your chest as his thumb played over your clit. You shook and reached up, fingers grasping his shirt as you broke the kiss to pant and whine and whimper. Your eyes shut and your thighs started tensing. Your tongue was coated in you and your teammates’ blood, the wound on your shoulder bled heavily and you’ve lost feeling in the shredded leg that was still spraying blood, your head was fuzzy, you were right there, so close, so-

He tore his fingers away and stabbed you in the stomach instead, right as you came, shock in your eyes as you coughed out more blood. “Fuck you!” He hummed with a smile as he slowly dragged the knife up and up and up, splitting your stomach and exhausting whatever adrenaline you had left to scream.

“A ruined orgasm is still an orgasm, sweetheart.” He smacked your pussy, splashing your cum on your thighs as he twisted and unsheathed the knife from your body. “Come to the edge of your little camp when you get back. Let’s see if this god of ours keeps her promises.”

[cl0ckworkqueerness]

i hate the labels tma and tme so fucking much it genuinely makes my blood boil for many reasons but one of them is because so often it's not used to discuss the impact of transmisogyny on those who experience it/how it's perpetuated by those who don't, but instead it's used to say "look! here's a group of people who experience REAL/WORSE transphobia! all other trans people DONT HAVE IT AS BAD AS US!" as if a specific and horrible type of oppression doesn't fucking exist for any trans person except trans people perceived as amab

yes it Is important to discuss transmisogyny and it Is a very real issue that corrupts and destroys the lives and images of so many people who did nothing wrong except be alive in the "wrong" type of way. i will NEVER deny its existence, its severity, and its roots in a wider culture of "you have to be a woman or feminine in THIS EXACT WAY otherwise you're SEXUALIZING WOMEN". i am also not shy to call attention to the fact that exists everywhere, yes, even in trans spaces.

However i also just. Kind of hate that to many people, it's become a standard for the "worst" kind of transphobia someone can experience. as if being denied basic and necessary medical care for being a trans man, transmasc, nonbinary afab, or intersex isn't a real problem, or that trans men and perceived-afab people's bodies being treated like sacred temples and blessed by the birth gods and in need of being protected from the big bad evil doctors trying to do a surgery on us isn't a real problem, or being shunned by a cisnormative society for not being "masculine enough" isn't a problem, or being shunned by queer spaces for being "too masculine" isn't a problem, etc etc.

there are so, so, so many ways that the transphobia a person faces, and the sex characteristics that person is perceived to have, can intersect. there are so many different ways a trans person can experience violence. can experience erasure. can be talked over. can be demonized. can have their status as anything weaponized against them. hell, transphobia can intersect with anything, including intersexism, ableism, xenophobia, racism, etc.

that is what i meant by "no one form of transphobia is worse than another" in that one post, by the way, if you were curious (or if you were looking for an excuse to shoot down my arguments, as i know a few people were)

if you're going to take anything away from my posts, i'd like it to be that i stand up for all trans people, regardless of who they are. even the ones who tell me i'm wrong or disgusting for doing, saying, or being whatever it is I do, say, or am. that includes people who don't get talked about, or erased, or experience kinds of oppression that aren't known about. i happen to be more vocal about trans men's experiences because, well, i am one, and that's what i experience on a day to day basis, and for a very long time i didn't see anyone talking about it at all.

never let trans unity die.

[fatgumsurpremacy-remastered]

so like the thing is, i want medic to wrap his hands around my neck until i hear the latex in his gloves start to squeak, nd i wanna feel him up while hes still wearing his heavy over coat and watch him get hotter nd hotter under the collar, and i wanna feel the heavy rubber sole of his shoe between my shoulder blades as he slowly crushes me into the floor, nd i wanna help clean him up and wash all the sweat and gore off him when he returns home from a mission, and let him knock me out with painkiller nd go absolutely fucking crazy on my almost dead body, and - *i am forcibly removed from the podium and booed off the stage*

Ouuuggh wonderful!

Tw: choking, asphyxiation, degradation, horny medical examination, medical malpractice, biting, blood, violence, kicking, stepping, non con, drugs, allusions to death, unprotected sex.

Cycle of Violence Yandere Medic x Fem reader.

Medic had never fazed you before, you made it a mission in the field to either try or die trying.

Your position, in fact, had you actively apart from medic. As a type of support.

The doctor of course, noticed you.

It was nearly impossible not to! In the heat of the battle no one shone as great as you did in the field. So he always had his eyes on you.

When the winter months rolled around your first year you grew weary. Where the respawn machine could keep you from death, it could never keep you from illness.

When you’d respawn.

It’d come back.

Even the blistering heats of New Mexico had to yield to lady winter.

This year was the worst yet. Your engineer had fallen victim to the worst head cold he’d received on account of record breaking cold spikes. Causing you to not only pick up his end of work but also the itching feeling in your throat.

You weren’t scared of your medic.

In fact you found him quite harmless, professional at work, silly off hours. The steel of his door felt like nothing to you as you pushed it open.

The doctor himself seemed frazzled at the notion.

You merely sat yourself on the edge of his operating table and explained the issue to him. After a while he took out his necassary tools.

“Ah yes, and you were saying it was causing breathing abnormalities?”

You nodded as he pressed the stethoscope to your chest. One breath brought wheezing, and the next sharp, dry, coughs. Your shoulder hurt from the intensity of such, and the pain traveled down your arm.

The doctor tsked slightly before practically trotting off to find some more supplies.

Here was the time you likely should have realized something was wrong.

The doctors cold gaze softened as he stared at you. He smiled just as brightly as he normally had, placing a warm, welcome hand on your shoulder. His warm breath smelling fresh as he spoke to you about possible treatment.

And then he pegged this-

“Would you mind at all if we did some testing?”

Something you, didn’t mind at all.

You sat as straight as he told you before the hand, which was previously at his side pressed two fingers against your lymph nodes. He felt around for the ball, just a moment though.

Standard practice would’ve dictated longer. Instead his thumbs met above the center of your throat. Warm rubber feeling strange, as you could feel him shaking.

“Just a test my friend! Don’t worry.” You gave him a thumbs up and his hands clamped down. Your hands shot up to his wrists and your vision instantly began to cloud.

The severity of such a force sent you backwards. Medic fell forward with you, his words garbled. All senses were replaced with energetic heat. It sizzled through your body as if you were being burnt alive.

You couldn’t keep your eyes open during the struggle.

Only high pitched noises breached your ears, and you found yourself not breathing at all.

The cartilage in your spine popped noisily in your brain, and your lungs felt empty. Or full, you couldn’t tell. You felt like you were going to pop. You could barely tell how the doctor was easing his knee between your thighs. Pressed harshly against your heat, how he spit words of filth to you as you weakly held onto his face,

Begging for him to stop.

When you woke up in the respawn machine you couldn’t remember a thing.

How you got there or what caused your death. The idea frightened you but the day went on and every time you breathed your chest pound in anger back at you.

You felt spent and afraid. Whimpering pathetically as you drove your hands along the wall, in a plea you’d make it to Medics room before you died.

And that you did.

You looked up pathetically at the doctor, thanking him with what little breath you could that he let you in.

You were comfortable around medic and had no reason to fear him.

You barely knew him, but he’d always given you a dashing smile around the breakfast table so you knew he could be trusted.

“Now what would you rate your pain my dear?”

You held up an eight on your fingers, whimpering a bit more when he went between them and pressed right above your belly.

Pain coursed in a circle inside you. Painting a portrait in vicious hues before swiping it away again. You held onto the doctors shoulders as he continued. He explained his actions as “Checking for bumps.”

You didn’t understand how that would help you in the slightest but his warmth allowed you to breathe.

Your hand absentmindedly went under his labcoat, fiddling dazed with the shirt underneath.

You expressed no discomfort as his hand stayed stagnant over your chest. The heat permeated your flesh and you felt to do the same.

Your hands fished his shirt out of his pants and slid up the curled expanse of his body. The thick muscles underneath would’ve shocked you had it not been for the beheamoth of medicine he carried around on him. You hummed pleasantly as your seemingly permanently cold hands trailed along him.

As you reached his chest you contentedly rested there. Medic removed his hands from you, only to plant them by either side of your hips and lead closer. You closed your eyes and breathed deeply, hearing the fast paced thudding of his heart.

Beads of sweat ran down his neck and you had little thought left in your brain but to lick it. He panted, nearly falling on top of you as you did. The wet feeling of your tongue on him catching him in a vice grip.

He moaned as his arms moved further behind you.

And you only kept working your mouth over his neck, hands kneading gently at his soft and hairy chest.

Suddenly the needle of a syringe stuck your own neck.

When you woke up in the respawn machine you couldn’t remember a thing.

You felt hot and sweaty, unnerved by the way you’d waken up.

You found yourself sticking by medic that entire day. Conversing with the busy man, and fucking up every shot you took.

Your team glared at you as you walked in that day. Your body was wrecked with pain, and one by one you filed into the medbay.

You were mature enough to know you’d fucked up. And you stayed at the back of the line. Dell, who had recovered the night before smiled at you as you went in. He pulled you into a hug before hand offering some words of advice.

“Take it from me kid. We’ve all got out off days out there. It can be pretty stressful, you just gotta remember to keep to your own and stay out of trouble ya hear?” You smiled sheepishly, “Thank you Engie.”

“Anytime sug’.” He said calmly before walking off.

Today you didn’t feel right about medics lab. You hesitated to even call it an “office” as there was no feeling other than brutal tension inside.

“What happened out there?” The door slammed closed from its open position. A shocking feat given its weight. Then man positioned behind it had a calculating gaze. His usually happy demeanour skulking as he slowly brushed by you.

You looked towards the ground, aching hands clasped tightly across your body as you sought for a word that couldn’t be found.

Medic sat impatiently in his rolling chair before gesturing with his finger. When you got close enough to him he grabbed you tightly from the collar of your uniform and pulled you in.

“Sit. You don’t deserve to be above me.”

You sat abruptly listening in for any change in his tone. His demeanor. But you swallowed hard upon realizing what he expected.

Before you could understand what you were telling him, you babbled out apologies on top of one another. You incohearent sentences music to the man’s ears as his posture decompressed. His eyes stared right back into yours, and he could feel the sincerity from you.

“Oh schatz, I understand. I don’t think it was entirely your fault… but then again.” He tilted his head to one side as an impish grin crawled unto his features. “We’re you nor the one who caused our team to loose?”

He stood up imposingly, backlit from the dim white lighting above.

Before you could say anything he shoved your shoulder to the side harshly before taking his heel to your back.

You thrashed up in a feeble attempt to fight back, but his heel stomped down in your tailbone with a sick thud noise.

You yelped in pain, attempting in vain, to crawl away. Like a helpless roach pinned beneath a cat. The feeling only continued to worsen as he slammed his heel back down with reverence between your shoulder blades.

The crack was unholy, and your vision went black. You could only feel the horrible mans boot above you. The pressure keeping your chest flat to the ground. You whined and he hushed you as soft as any lover would.

And again he ground into your back. Heel digging into your muscles until they forcibly snapped- from one another.

You could only scream and hear him laugh as you cried yourself to sleep.

When you woke up in the respawn machine you couldn’t remember a thing.

You sat there, huddled in the corner for a good three hours before someone found you. You can’t remember who.

You don’t remember what you were wearing but it showed that you’d been bleeding for a very long time.

When you were dropped off in the medbay you were unconscious, eyes glued to something in the darkness. Never looking at the lights or grey world around you.

The men had called that day off, but medic insisted that they could go on without you. He’d left you patched up and in your room, recovering well as you stared ahead.

You didn’t understand. It’d been almost a week and you couldn’t remember a thing. You sobbed for a while.

No one came.

You talked to yourself and made yourself mad trying to understand what you were thinking.

No one came.

But he came when you were asleep, gently shaking you awake. Smiling blue eyes the only reprieve you had from a splitting headache and fragmented reality.

His hand came up to meet your head, now bare and uncaring of your flesh.

“Doctor, I’ve been having nightmares.”

You grabbed a wet wipe from your desk and absentmindedly cleaned his hand still sticky with sweat.

You rolled his sleeve up a bit more.

You continued,

he pressed about the dreams, smiling to you as you described how bad they were.

He no longer had a shirt on. He was above you and in his boxers. You wondered just how you ended up this way. Gently wiping off your teams medic, but his warm flesh seized your brains capacity to function.

You brushed through his hair with your fingers, an action that seemed to have him taken aback. But as you retracted them be grabbed your hand and kissed it smiling happily up at you.

“You’re so so cute did you know that?” His smile was unreasonably bright, it hurt to look at.

“I need medication doctor.”

Medic paused his advances as you said this. Confusion melted in his brain but the same hadn’t shown on his face. Instead he scrambled off the bed in search of what he’d brought.

A jar full of pretty pink and blue pills.

You leaned back and popped the ones he gave you with little thought behind the action.

Why would you think?

The room was soooo hot.

Could you remember what happened? What you’d seen, heard, felt…

Felt…

Felt. Hands.

His hands grazed your sides as your eyes glazed over. Already wet with tears you couldn’t feel a damn thing.

Your vision was beging go cloud with liquidy static, starting at the edges before fizzling around the pupil.

You knew it was sleep, but your adrenaline kept you awake.

Awake enough to feel your body being yanked towards him, breasts fondled harshly as he allows his flesh to not examine, but devour.

His nipping, and gnashing jaws, things that would usually be an issue felt like itching at the flesh of a disembodied system. Nothing coukd hurt you here. The ripping threads of your garment littered the floor and he dipped below.

Everything around you felt like it was falling, and moving up around you at the same time.

A horrifying caress of Alice’s experiences in wonder land.

Warm

Wet

Tongue, his tongue on your flesh felt searing, and you couldn’t be bothered in the slightest, your body was limp.

A small and very pliable doll.

Something to wreck

To tear into and devour.

But he didn’t want that now, he wanted you. And he needed just a bit more than the surface level blood he could draw from his biting.

What drew you into this wild world of killing? Had you grown so numb to your natural life that you expected something different here?

Medic shoved his face between your thighs, lasciviously flaunting skills that took years in the making with small flicks and harsh presses of his mouth.

No sounds roused from you. No nothing.

You were still,

And quiet.

And present.

How he wanted you really. From the start he’d hoped to be knuckle deep in your dripping hole. Who cares if the dripping was from lube or not?

It didn’t matter when he held you close and whispered to you. Pretending like what he was doing was normal when you were little more than a warm pillow by then.

He could get over it.

With the same hand inside of you, he started jacking. Warning his cock to slip deep, deep into you.

He wanted you to feel it.

But you couldn’t, so he’d have to improvise.

He lined himself up and slammed in.

Oh it could’ve wakened you.

The thrust almost against your cervix, pounding away the moment he stuck himself in you. The pulsing of his balls, dripping with the precum of a man who had held his orgasms for nearly a month.

He was desperate and he needed you.

He always needed you. And he rolled his hips, thrusting his cock harshly in and out. A brutal pace to set for a cooling fuck doll. The sleep made you cold. You could feel your breath.

The sleep made you cold, and you could feel his hands.

The sleep made you cold.

It made you…

You could feel everything.

The veins on his dick were thick and weaves through the complex structures in your walls. He always angled his cock to hit at the top, and a fraction of a centimeter away from your cervix.

His hair scratched at your skin, sometimes leaving raw red patches were it dragged.

And he just pulled your hair back and hit.

And hit

And hit.

It was at random and accommodating only what he enjoyed doing. And the fuzziness came back, this time the liquid static shot down, furling and curling. It lead your stomach to churning a vicious wave. Everything was floating.

“Ich werde dich zum Abspritzen bringen, Mädchen. Du wirst es tun, bist du nicht mein Haustier? Du bist nah dran und du weißt es. Sperma jetzt, komm jetzt, mach es!”

His spitting words and hand snatched ruthlessly across your face forced the waves within you to crash.

The feeling sent you forward on shaky legs, ass in the air as he turned you around and shoved himself back in.

Warmth.

Finally.

Deep and burning, and placid.

Like a thick blanket of-

When you woke up in the respawn machine you couldn’t.

[allzelemonz]

Star Trek Masterlist

Main Masterlist

James Kirk

More Fun Than Expected

Pronouns: He/Him, Reader is referred to as ‘boy’ Physical Sex: AMAB Rating: E/Smut Warnings: Mirrorverse runs on sex and blood, Mirror Kirk is mean, switch Reader, sub Reader, dom Mirror Kirk, references to Reader giving oral but it doesn’t happen, hand job, sex as a threat, sex a discipline, mentions of execution and torture, use of the pet name “good boy,” mentions of prior sex partner and Reader, mentions of Reader’s time at the academy, inexperienced Reader, dirty talk, handjob, mentions of grinding, sex Summary: As a Commander aboard the ISS Enterprise you get the occasional privilege of sitting in the Captain’s chair. When the Captain comes to relieve the Beta shift he keeps you behind for some fun, but things don’t go quite how he planned.

Pavel Chekov

Flowers

Pronouns: None mentioned Physical Sex: AMAB Rating: E/Smut Warnings: Non-established relationship, but they’re in love, hinted Kirk/Spock and Chapel/Uhura, sex pollen enhances arousal and attraction but no fuck or die, allusions to bad wig Chekov, focus on how cute the Russian is, top reader, bottom Chekov, mentions of Chekov’s love for Russia Summary: The away team gets separated and the Captain orders for exploration in the meantime. Chekov and yourself wander across some strange plants that cause some interesting side effects.

Leonard McCoy

Cold

Pronouns: None mentioned Physical Sex: AMAB Rating: E/Smut Warnings: Non-established relationship, but they’re in love, stranded together, stuck in a cave, McCoy calls the reader “kid,” but he calls lots of people that, riding, hand-job, standard McCoy snark, long set up Summary: When Spock’s away team get stranded a second team is sent to locate them when the ship’s sensors fail. As a part of the rescue team, yourself and Doctor McCoy happen across a cave that needs investigating. A spontaneous collapse of the entrance leaves you both stuck in a freezing cave with limited sources of heat. You have to find a way to stay warm.

Those Blue Eyes: Leonard McCoy X Male Reader

Prompt: Tropesgiving Day 3: Evil Twins Pronouns: He/Him, use of boyfriend, reader called ‘boy’ and ‘man’ Physical Sex: None Mentioned Rating: T/Moderate Themes Warnings: Canon typical violence, flirty mirror counterparts, mentions of surgery and death Summary: A mirrored version of Doctor McCoy is on the Enterprise and you have him at phaser point, but things are much more complicated than they seem.

Malcolm Reed

Navyman: Malcolm Reed X Male Reader

Prompt: 12 Days of AU, Modern Pronouns: he/him, Reader referred to as ‘boyfriend’ Physical Sex: None Mentioned Rating: G Warnings: Malcolm’s family is clueless, aquaphobia, mentions of scary/life threatening conditions at sea Summary: In modern times, Malcolm Reed didn’t have any Starfleet to join and is pressured into the Navy despite his fear. His family is proud, but knows nothing about his phobia so you have to help him through it during a storytelling session.

Montgomery Scott

Traditions: Montgomery Scott X Gender Neutral Reader

Prompt: 12 Days of AU, Holiday Pronouns: None Mentioned Physical Sex: None Mentioned Rating: T/Alcohol Warnings: Multiple holiday celebration, Scotty’s tree has to be perfect, mentions of scotch, holidays/faiths mentioned specifically: Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Yule, and Christmas, author celebrates Yule and did research for other holidays Summary: When the holiday season rolls around the Enterprise has an annual party, limited to one night due to the dangers of space. Scotty and the Operations division are in charge of decorations for all of the holidays and it’s time to set up.

Spock

Calculations Were Off

Pronouns: None mentioned Physical Sex: AMAB Rating: E/Smut Warnings: Pon Farr, Spock having an animalistic drive, multiple orgasms, () used for custom name and rank, verbal consent is sexy, top Spock, bottom, Reader Summary: Spock has been careful to keep track of his Pon Farr, but it still snuck up on him before you could have your first time as a couple. Now Spock has to ask something very intimate of you.

[evita-shelby]

National Anthem

Chapter 7

Cw: postpartum, mentions of breastfeeding, postpartum depression and rage, attempted murder, period typical attitudes , alcohol

Taglist: @thegreatdragonfruta @zablife @call-sign-shark

Rosie’s birth wasn’t the end to Eva’s shitty moods.

Jack’s gone to New York with his business at the investment firm he’s bought and knows there’s gonna be another row when he gets back.

Eva was afflicted by the baby blues and some remains of her shell shock. Didn’t help that Rosie had trouble latching onto her tits to the point the doctor had to recommend powdered baby formula a week ago.

His witch had taken it as having failed at being a mother even if Rosie was barely fifteen days old. From then on everything had just become worse, in his expert opinion.

The lack of sex made her irritable, a strict regime to regain her figure ruined meals more often than not and having her remaining family far from her had her at the brink of tears.

She had wanted to come to New York, stay with her family in 5th Avenue while he worked, but he had refused her suggestion because she was still recuperating from Rosie’s fucking awful birth.

Did it stop her from barging into his office today as if she weren’t still bleeding from the birth?

No, because here she was looking as stunning as always and angry at him for some fucking reason he cannot even begin to guess.

“What the fuck did I do this time, Evie?” he sits back and asks the woman who looks very close to committing violence.

“The Italians, did you have to fucking provoke them, Jack?” she answers throwing the black hand addressed to him.

His latest taunt was supposed to put the fear of God in them, let them fucking know Jack meant business.

Changretta had wrapped a garrote around his balls when he learned Laurie had gone off to die in France, said he’d make sure the Nelson name would die with him in that alley.

Now that the Spiniettas tried their hand at bootlegging, Jack had come to make Luca shit his tailor-made suit. The Irish gangster then told him all about the witch who not only gave him the boats the Italians were trying to use to smuggle booze from Europe but also had given Jack the three brats back-to-back.

And when you’re having Riccardo Spinietta ask where the shipment went, I’ll be fucking a fourth one into her, Jack had taunted as they left Luca barely alive at the docks.

“Congratulations on your daughter.” The threat was clear, and Jack supposed his wife had a reason to chew him out about it.

“If anything happened to you and the kids, I’ll fucking kill them.” He stayed seated already plotting how he’d wipe the wops off the face of the fucking earth for daring to come after his woman and children.

“Your police chief has been notified and until this is resolved, we are staying with my uncle. You are welcome to join us there, or not, I don’t give a shit.” Even despite the danger they are in, she’s still mad at him.

The witch straightened herself out as she made to leave his office, Jack took the chance to walk her out, to have an excuse to touch her even if its just a hand at the small of her back and a lukewarm kiss goodbye.

“Put a place for me at dinner then, Evie. We will talk about this later” He’ll deal with this later, when he can get her to talk freely and then remind her he loves her better than anyone else ever can.

For now, he settles by opening the door for her.

Instead of leaving Eva pulled him onto the threshold with trembling hands and forcefully shoved him against the doorframe seconds before a bomb went off in the street below.

He covered her as best he could as they braced for impact. The office is sturdy enough to withstand the damage and yet the screams he hears in the lobby below tell him that this bomb was meant for them.

The Black Hand had retaliated, the hand in their mail was a diversion. A way to get him to leave his office and be on the street when it happened.

They knew she’d confront him about it and would’ve taken both out had they been in the street.

It would be blamed on the Italian anarchists who sent their letters this morning while he was hiding in England after his failure.

Luca will be dead when he sets foot in American soil.

Eva’s given a sedative for her nerves and Jack a prescription for whiskey after being cleared of injuries.

“We’ll be fine, baby, we’ll take a trip somewhere until it passes. Just us and the babies.” He promised cradling her face and kissing her forehead as she sat there numbly on the hospital bed.

It wasn’t the first nor last attempt on her life, but this was the first time she didn’t want to die.

Knowing she had so much to live for had shaken her, knowing she had children who needed her, a family who would miss her had made her realize just how valuable her life was.

“How about Florida, we could rent the bungalow like we did on our honeymoon and just stay there where nothing can touch us.” Jack promised her the world and every problem had been forgotten.

But they still exist. Even if they are forgotten in the background.

“Yeah, let’s do that. Stay there for a while. I miss the sand and the sun so much.” She gave a small smile. “But tonight, we celebrate, we celebrate they didn’t kill us.”

A shame she still has some twenty days before she could fuck, nothing made her feel alive like having him between her legs in every position they could think of.

Instead, she settles for drinking enough to forget that morning even happened. Not that she can, motherhood and sobriety made her a lightweight and it’s not long before she’s being taken upstairs before she truly falls off the wagon.

Doesn’t work, never fucking works, or so she tells Jack who is still sober enough to throw her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Have you forgotten what made you so mad at me?” he tossed her on the bed and spread her legs wide for him forgetting they can’t fuck. Something he should remember from last year when they couldn’t fuck on the kitchen table the Father’s Day after the twins were born.

“No.” the witch answered closing her legs and using this power she has over him to talk their shit out. “You keep me out of your business, and now we’re in danger because it didn’t occur you to ask your all-knowing wife what she thought of intercepting the liquor in her ships.”

“It’s a man’s world, sweetie, would make me, us, look weak if you got involved.” He said in his defense, still undressing to join her in bed thinking she’ll forget about this tomorrow when the hangover sets in.

“So? They’d regret it when they realize we’re un- fucking- touchable. Had it not been for me today you would have been blown to smithereens, sweetie.”

Eva then moved forward until she was kneeling at the edge of the bed and running her hands up his thighs until she reached his belt. So, she wasn’t supposed to have penetrative sex, but they never said she couldn’t use her hands or her mouth to keep Jack in line.

“I could’ve survived.” Jack’s hand comes under her chin and ran his thumb over her bottom lip tempting her into sucking it, as if he weren’t already straining in his pants at the mere idea of coming on her tits and face.

Her gringo loves her mouth, thanks god all her boyfriends are dead because he can’t have any man alive know her talents.

Eva wants to bite his finger off for dismissing her words and he knows it. She might even leave him like this for saying it, she’s done it before.

“Fine, we’ll give it a try, but I make all the final decisions and you won’t be on the payroll. If people catch wind of it, our enemies will too.” The thumb on her lower lip goes back to cradle her chin and forcefully tugged her face upwards to make him look in the eye as he gives his one-time offer. “Do you understand, doll, you play by my rules, or you don’t play at all.”

Well at least one good thing came out of today.

A/N: on September 16, 1920 (presumably) Italian Anarchists put a bomb in a cart at Wall Street, New York. There are conspiracies as to who did it because even now they can't actually confirm it was the Anarchists who did it.

Joe Kennedy happened to be in his office that day and was apparently blown back from the impact even it was across the street from the bomb, Jack here survived because Luca miscalculated how long they'd take in his office.

The idea for Luca and Jack’s rivalry is actually @thegreatdragonfruta idea.

[thecrowandtheraven08]

I’ve been thinking about how unhinged my lovely Tav, Cassian the Lolth Sworn Cleric, can be. So for fun, I thought I’d share some of the fun, weird and mostly fucked up things they’ve done along their journey. Spoilers for Baldur’s Gate 3 from Act 1 to Act 3 under the cut. They’re normally making better decisions I swear. Also general warning for violence and some sexual themes

- Said “fuck it” and agreed to letting the hag take their eye because surely they could kill her either way. If she could take the tadpole, and all they lost was their eye, they figured it would be worth it. They chose to lose their pink eye due to it reminding them of their mother

- After saving Mayrina, they offered to say a few words for her dead husband. They proceed to say how this was Lolth’s will and that he basically would have died no matter what. Mayrina, in fact, did not like this

- Used the wand to bring back her husband as a zombie, only to refuse to give him to her and has decided to find uses for him (aka brought him into battle as a meat shield)

- They did not bat an eye when Astarion wanted to kill the monster hunter in the swamp. In fact, they knew the moment that this man brought up hunting a vampire that he had to die. Uses his cross bow to this day while still not being proficient

- Got Loviatar’s Blessing

- Gave Astarion the Necromancy of Thay book because why not

- Persuaded the ogre’s to work for them for food and occasionally gold. Every time they asked for gold, Cassian would convince them that they’d get it “next time”. When confronted by them later before leaving, Cassian then threatened them into leaving. They never gave them any gold

- Stole the Githyanki egg and gave it to the lady wanting it

- Argued with Vlaakith and nearly got everyone killed because of it

- Helped Mol cheat against Raphael in chess and managed to get away with it

- Could tell that Jahira had put a truth serum in their drink, and decided “I’ll still drink this. Why not”

- Decided to help He Who Was bring judgement upon Madeline. How they decided to do this was to intimidate her into stabbing herself repeatedly. It was the punishment her friends had gotten, so they deemed it fair that she do the same. He Who Was took back his body and was upset at the new stab wounds, so they fought. By all this, Cassian was only upset that they had to kill the raven

- Stuck their hand in a weird, fleshy wall

- Convinced the Orthon to kill his whole group, his displacer beast and then himself somehow. They aren’t sure how that one worked themself

- Somehow managed to convince the weird doctor guy and his nurses to also kill themselves. They just didn’t want

- Also convinced Ketheric not to fight them when down in the colony. Went straight to the Myrkul boss fight after confronting him down there

- Stole so much from the temple they offered to help in Wyrm’s crossing

- Immediately got into shenanigans by trying to steal shit from the nobles, but only Gale got caught

- Helped a little girl use a necromancy spell to try and resurrect her brother. Instead the whole graveyard was resurrected. The first of many graveyard shenanigans

- They sex in the graveyard. They do not regret this

- Dug up a grave in front of the child of said dead person. Stole from the grave. The child and the lady watching over the graveyard weren’t pleased

- Stole from someone’s family mausoleum because if they’re looting graves why not

- Again tried to steal from a grave and got attacked by Kobolds??? Cassian is no longer welcome in the graveyard

- While wearing the gloves they promised to get for a lady, they convinced her that they didn’t have them and when she asked them to pay, they threatened her. They did not have to pay

These are just the ones that I remember. This game has been so fun and wild. The drow options can be so wild

[satashiiwrites]

Scintillation, Chapter 1

welp, time to start reposting this to AO3. There’s been some minor cleanup in this chapter compared to RT.

Title: Scintillation, Chapter 1

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe

Pairings: Tony Stark/James “Bucky” Barnes, Erik Killmonger/T’Challa, one sided Steve Rogers/James “Bucky Barnes, Tony Stark & Ho Yinsen

Fic summary:

Everything changed for Tony Stark in a cave in Afghanistan. For years he’s been dealing with the fallout of the shrapnel imbedded in his chest—both physical and mental—in his own ways. He’s got an arc reactor in his chest and demons that stalk him in his mind as he becomes Iron Man and eventually an accepted part of the Avengers during the attack on New York City.

All he has to do is keep giving people what they want. That’s the lesson learned.

Die, resurrect, live as much as you can. Wash, rinse, repeat.

He thought he’d known why he was the way he was… but he and everyone else missed one tiny little detail caused by his repetitive brushes with death.

Or, a guide coming online as he almost dies yet again at the hand of a friend shatters the controls put upon the Winter Soldier and sends Sentinel James Buchanan Barnes fully online and into a feral rage in the middle of Siberia.

Steve’s lucky T’Challa’s there to rescue him from his best friend gone feral.

Tags/warnings: sentinel/guide, alternative universe, canon levels of violence (murder, battles, Afghanistan), graphic sex, incest (Erik/T’Challa), dubious consent, bonding sex, prior child abuse, PTSD and mental health issues, not Wanda friendly (ever), Steve and Natasha don’t start out nice (but will eventually be happier), Erik holds grudges like the champion grudge-holder he is, childhood poverty, mind manipulation, spirit animals. Biological manipulation/drug use (heart-shaped herb, Extremis)

Much later, Tony wonders if Yinsen knew exactly what he was doing when he did it. Did he know that he’d both saved and damned Tony in ways that he would be unraveling for the rest of his life and possibly the next?

He liked to think that Yinsen hadn’t.  That it’d been his instincts as a sentinel latching onto a guide in distress and allowing them to bond in an environment so unbelievably hostile to two men joining as sentinel and guide. The echoes what remained of Yinsen were hard to let go of, even if the doctors that T’Challa insisted he speak with insisted that letting go of them would be better for him. 

Tony can’t forget.  What are we, after all, but the sum total of our experiences and memories?  To forget would be anathema to him.  He’s never taken the easy way and he won’t this time.

The only way out is through.  He’s made it through worse. 

Read chapter 1 here on AO3

[punksarahreese]

hii cj id love to know more about the bottom right moodboard (red haired norma is everything actually)

Red haired Norma my beloved <3

TW for mention of Ava’s suicide and Cornelius being a sketchy guy, a sex offender, and literal criminal 🥴

***

So this AU would take place after the events of 5x1. Ava doesn’t die on the operating table, Connor and Latham managed to repair the damage done to her carotid and surrounding tissue, though she needed a pretty substantial patch and stent. Ava lost a lot of blood and they still didn’t know if she would have any deficits to nerve or muscle function in her neck/face.

She was transferred to the ICU but by then the truth had gotten out and so she was under 24h guard with a member of CPD there at all times. Connor was at a crossroads because obviously he couldn’t forgive her for what she did but she was so vulnerable and almost died under his scalpel hours before. She had, for all intents and purposes, killed herself in his arms and that was something he could never forget. His feelings for her and the anger he felt mixed with shame that he didn’t see anything like this coming.

No one else was ready to forgive Ava, for obvious reasons. She’s a criminal in their eyes and they were just waiting for her to wake up and be sent to the prison hospital so everyone could have some peace of mind. Ava woke up days later, completely alone aside from Kim sitting in a chair by the doorway. She couldn’t find her voice, whether it be physical or psychological, and all she could do was cry silently. To Ava this was worse than death, no one knew the truth and she was still stuck in that damn hospital.

Once she was stable and they were sure she wouldn’t code on the way there she was airlifted to a federal prison where she was in a solitary hospital cell. It took weeks for her to get the energy to stand and she did have minor nerve damage that meant the impaired side of her face didn’t quite move right. That and the still healing cut on her throat reminded her of what she had done and how she failed.

When she could talk she was interrogated for hours, labelled homicidal by everyone in the hospital for what seemed like obvious reasons. Yet after over an hour of questioning she broke, tearfully explaining what happened to lead up to this.

She explains that Cornelius Rhodes had been involved in some FBI level fraud and corruption. She had found out by accident when she was in his office asking for money, he had left her alone for a while when an issue came up in the store and she happened to catch some emails pulled up on his computer. He caught her though, and Cornelius was quick to threaten her into silence.

It got worse as time went on. After a while he had collected information that might impact her career, such as her borderline personality disorder diagnosis and some violence charges in her youth that had been buried. He claimed that if Ava didn’t do as he said he would not only ruin her reputation as a doctor but target her family as well. He would force her to be a middle man in his illegal activity, making her do hand offs for money laundering and keeping her on a short leash when she was allowed out of his sight. The reason Ava didn’t have any friends in Chicago was not avoidance, rather it was Connor’s own father forcing her into solitude to cover his own ass.

He forced himself on Ava too, threatening to lie to Connor about them being together if she didn’t do as he wanted. Even more, Cornelius threatened his own son’s life to keep Ava under his control. He saw how attached she was to Connor and had no qualms about abusing that knowledge. None of their “relationship” was consensual, contrary to rumours that spread after the gala.

The final straw had been whispers of Cornelius running underground trafficking dens. He was flaunting Ava to his associates, pushing her into meetings and making suggestive remarks, bringing her to hidden locations full of girls. He was taunting her, threatening to sell her body instead of keeping her for himself. It was more terrifying than any of his previous threats and it caused her to fall into a BPD split so severe all she could do was lash out. That’s why she gave him the insulin and that’s why she tried to end her own life; she felt trapped and abused and had no escape.

A thorough investigation of Cornelius and his associates confirmed Ava’s statement. Her first degree charges were dropped and instead changed to a manslaughter charge, though no one outside was informed due to the circumstances. She underwent over a year of psychiatric rehabilitation in prison and sought out every type of reform she could. Threats on her life kept coming as more of Cornelius’ associates realized she had been the one to rat them out. It got to the point where the FBI agreed she could not be released for her own safety.

As her parole date approached she was prepared to be released into witness protection. She was to assume a new identity and everyone was informed that Ava Bekker had died in federal prison at 16:22. A lot of people at med were actually pleased to hear that news, still under the impression that Ava had been a cold blooded killer as the information about Cornelius’ crimes were on a need to know basis due to their sensitivity.

Ava dyed her hair and changed the way she dressed and acted. She changed her name and even her family believed she was dead. She could no longer practice medicine for the time being and was moved to Texas under WITSEC supervision. Her face and neck were permanently scarred from the damage she did that day and her psyche was no better. It felt impossible to rebuild her life when she felt that no one in the entire world knew or cared that Ava Bekker was still alive.

So this AU is about Ava being moved under witness protection and changed her identity to keep her safe from Cornelius’ posthumous wrath :)