#i though this meme would fit quite well

[blindecho6]

[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

[mtkay13]

Gonna post TWO hoboxus today because I CAN! (still desperately trying to catch up with my twitter posts LOL help I'm terrible at this)

From a meme based on art by KOTTERI, the author of Veil (among amazing other things). Find them on twitter @_K0TTERl_!

More musing below, as per usual! (Be ready it's a LONG one again)

I really hesitated with how I wanted to do this. The original had this gorgeous red poster that seemed like a perfect fit for WKX:

(@_K0TTERl_)

Either I went for the imagery of ZZS wistfully gazing upon the mysterious and eccentric WKX, which would definitely have been more aesthetic and undeniably fitting, or I went the semi-humorous route of channelling the "WKX fell for that ugly hobo and his gorgeous shoulder blades" meme-ified side of their dynamic.

Well, clearly that's where I ended up going, but I feel like explaining a bit.

For me, this picture was three-folds:

First part is the meme; it's kind of funny, kind of ridiculous, and sets the tone of what TYK starts off as; rather absurd, with its reasonable dose of dark humor, and the (at first seemingly improbable) meeting and love story between a silly dying hobo and a strange, suspicious, hedonistic gentleman. It felt thematically appropriate for TYK to twist the original image and put the obviously uglier one on the poster since TYK relies heavily on genre subversion to begin with.

Secondly, there is WKX. So, controversial opinion (/jk) but I don't think WKX was necessarily convinced or even really thought that ZZS was "a beauty" underneath his alleged mask. It was probably a mix of various feelings and teasing/provoking which lead to this joke. First, everything he expresses throughout the book and in extra 4; the fascination for this man who seemed too hide great strength and was of no known identity--who was probably more than what he seemed.

(I'm gonna push it just a little bit ((but isn't that the fun of literary interpretation)), but the "beauty under the mask" is not only physical. It could be a way to say, I think that beneath your raunchy, ridiculous attitude, beneath your gross appearance, beneath the pretense that you're a nobody, that you're a peasant, you're probably someone of great importance and great accomplishments, someone much stronger than you pretend to be--someone like me, perhaps, even. The shoulder blades references are, besides of course WKX *actually* noticing them, the observation of how ZZS moves, of how agile his body is, etc...)

Anyway-- the entire point of this intro is to say that to me, this isn't actually referring to that whole side of their dynamic (or not entirely), but rather to that passage that I am STILL OBSESSED WITH where Wen Kexing recognizes ZZS just from the way he's sitting in a restaurant, and that makes him feel things not entirely positive:

Zhou Zishu stepped into an inn alone. He chose a seat by a window, ordered a few side dishes and a jug of mulled rice wine, and drank it slowly while soaking in the sunshine. As soon as Wen Kexing walked in, he saw Zhou Zishu from behind. He didn’t know why, but he thought that this view was quite special—he could always pick it out of a crowd. Zhou Zishu did not sit with his back straight. Most of the time, he lounged indolently at an angle that looked exceptionally comfortable. Wen Kexing thought that it seemed as though nothing weighed on him; seeing him was enough to ease the heart. Wen Kexing unconsciously halted his steps. He stared at Zhou Zishu’s relaxed silhouette for a while, with no trace of an expression in his face or eyes. His heart swelled with some strange feeling—strange, in that it was no feeling at all. He felt as though this man was mocking him with this wordless posture; he who rushed around for one thing or another, who was burdened with so many cares, yet obstinately put on a devil-may-care persona. Zhou Xu—as carefree as duckweed, he thought, with a body like willow catkins. In all the world, with its boundless perspectives, where could you find someone who walked their path alone and never allowed anything to trouble them? Yet he was not apathetic—he had his joy, his anger, his sorrow—and they came in a flash as quickly as they went. Within the blink of an eye, he had forgotten it already.

(Tian Ya Ke, chapter 18, TL by Lianzi) (have I quoted this already??? If not I should have I love this passage so much)

AND THEN QUOTING ANOTHER PASSAGE (LOL), TL by me this time:

From the moment he'd noticed his shoulderblades, felt this rush of excitement, to when he'd started liking who Zhou Zishu was, when he'd thought——so this is the Commander of Tian Chuang. Suddenly, he'd felt as if he'd met his other self. Both of them, lone wolves caught in a hunter's trap, struggling for freedom to no avail, until they had resolved to coldly gnawing off their own legs in the end. He'd felt compelled to follow him around, watched him, until he suddenly realised—if Zhou Zishu could live like this, then surely, so could he?

(Full passage in this other post LOL)

So yes, THIS. Those two things. That's it. Need I say more? HAH OF COURSE I DO I ALWAYS HAVE TO (help)

More seriously--the way WKX is captivated by ZZS' apparent carefreeness and freedom, all the different feelings (or absence thereof, as he puts it, which I interpret as so distant from what he's used to feel that it almost feels like nothing at all) is what I was going for here.... By not showing his face at all LMAO

The envy, the frustration--the impression of being mocked, but also the longing, how it inspired him to follow along and try to be free like he was.

-cough- yes, so that was point 2 out of 3.

Now lastly, about ZZS himself and my representation of him as hoboxu. I think (?) I've written enough about him that I think I can keep this succint. I love how priest often makes a point of expliciting, in the book, how he's so often smiling, and how he's always incredibly energetic in the morning, as if the night of pain had never happened. I like to think that hoboxu is both a carricature of a ridiculous character that ZZS has fun embodying---but also a liberated expression of his deeper self.

WKX feels like he's mocking him, but ZZS is also mocking himself relentlessly, when he feels like the outside resembles the inside finally, when he feels ridiculous in these new robes, when he allows himself the most outrageous behavior---and then there's mocking life itself, mocking jianghu, mocking everything that he nonetheless deeply cherishes. It's almost... gently mocking, affectionate mocking of everything because his own life has become a joke yet he's still going to enjoy it to the fullest--drinking to his heart's content, rolling in the mud and visiting touristy sites (or so he intended).

In the end... the world is still in his own hands. He chose everything, chose the way he lived, the way he (would have) died and still has the power to dissappear at will--but he stays. Stays and endures what he pretends annoys him, because he can't help himself, because he's ridiculous and is aware of it and may as well have some fun while being so.

I can't seem to ever have enough of this, of this vibe. I wanted to have him laugh at and with WKX, at and with the people seeing him, at and with himself, at and with the narrative.

SO YEAH HAH THATS HUM THAT'S IT. You know what they say, it's only a fun meme if there's an essay behind it (noone says that help 😭😭😭😭)

I hope you had fun reading it and have a nice weeked 🤪

[smoochhyuka]

What about bf!anton with a loud s/o hes so soft spoken how would he be

Such a cute idea! I am a little bit of a loud person myself, so this is quite self-indulgent, haha.

Anton with a loud s/o

You compliment each other perfectly.

○o。content warnings! SFW, gn!reader, established relationship, mention of alcohol, reader is described as loud, talkative, earnest, free-spirited and a little crazy/quirky, edited for spelling

You both struggle with volume, you're just on the polar opposites of the spectrum. Therefore, you can relate to each other well, always being told you're too quiet/loud, being criticized for your voices, or being teased about it.

Still, it might seem odd that someone as gentle and introverted as Anton would date someone as loud and chaotic as you, but you compliment each other perfectly.

He loves how enthusiastic you are, even about the littlest things, although you often startle him with your sudden outbursts.

"ANTON, look at that cute squirrel over there!" you squeal, tugging at his hand. Your boyfriend, clutching his heart with the other, breathes out heavily. He opens his eyes again after the initial shock, missing the squirrel. (the drama)

You never fail to hype him up. If he shows you something, whether it be a new song, something he decorated or his new muscle growth -- you're not afraid to praise him to the heavens and back. At first, he's shy about it, but later on in the relationship he'll take the praise, he might even make a few snarky remarks.

Since you're so honest about your feelings and thoughts, Anton also feels comfortable speaking a lot more openly about them around others, knowing it's okay to show vulnerability.

Thinks it's cute when you're acting a little crazy, dancing around the house or yapping until his ears bleed. He's seriously memorized by you, he's never bored. Sometimes he'll just sit on the sofa, cuddling a pillow or a plushie, and watch you/listen to you with a big grin on his face.

You always throw in a few compliments or confessions too, just so casually, it always makes his heart pound.

Your laugh is funnier than the joke itself. It's insane sounding, and he's living for it, always recording you when you're in a fit of laughter. Every time he misses you on tour, or if he's low on energy, he will just listen to these recordings.

Speaking of laughing, you two always have something to at least giggle about. Every week, you have a new running gag, meme or catchphrase you two repeat until everyone is sick of you two.

Around you, he feels so alive, you encourage him so much to step out of his comfort zone. He gets embarrassed easily, but when you're around, all shame leaves his body. Because you won't judge him, and everyone who does gets shut down by you.

He will match your energy after a few drinks, though, sometimes even surpassing you. You'll run around the streets, blasting music, dancing on park benches until the sun rises.

Naturally, some days he's quieter than the others, and he can always rely on you to make up for it, making sure he's heard. If it's an especially awful day (e.g. he's sick or in a bad mood), he'll just whisper to you what he wants, and you're announcing it to everyone in a 2-mile radius.

You always listen to him. Sometimes, especially in group settings, people tend to just not to hear him and not really care about what he said in the first place, but you always lean in when he says something and ask him to repeat himself if you didn't catch it. And you actually engage with it as well! Or bring it up later in the conversation, if it's relevant.

If you're speaking too loud in a setting where it's inappropriate, he'll grab your hand and squeeze it a few times, or maybe rub your lower back/shoulders if you didn't get the hint. He knows how humiliating it is to get called out publicly, so he'll always try to get you to relax by caressing you first.

He calls you his "little megaphone", my "crazy boy/girl", "professional yapper" or my "background/white noise" (lovingly <3)

As an introvert, he loves to have quiet moments, where he can just engage in some brain-dead activity... "brain-dead activity" = watching trash TV while listening to s/o's commentary. If he ACTUALLY needs some time for himself, he'll go write some music in his studio, knowing you won't join him (you are aware he can't write music while you're spinning around in a chair behind him, talking about lunch).

His social battery doesn't decrease with you. Everyone is surprised when Anton tells them (looking refreshed and energized, mind you) that you two spent the whole weekend together. They can't believe he didn't die from feeling overwhelmed.

He worries so much when you're quiet, or talk a lot more quietly, and he misses your chatter. It's a constant distraction, but in a good way. A vacation kind of distraction. He will talk in your place, filling the silence with random topics, hoping you might get distracted by your issues as well.

You learn to enjoy the quiet moments in life, and he gets more courageous. <3

[thecursedanon]

Rainy Day

Characters: Lee!Yuji, Ler!Nanami, Sukuna(only in Yuji's head), Megumi, Nobara, Inumaki (because I love this little dork, okay? lol) Genre: Comfort <3 Word Count: 3166 Summary: Yuji Is super down today, that and he's not been sleeping well due to the nightmares he's been having. His friends, concerned about him go to Nanami with their concerns, and the stoic teacher takes it upon himself to cheer Itadori up. A/N: Hey, Curse here! This was originally intended to be part of the Amusement Park Aftermath fic, but I couldn't organically fit it in so I split them up... so that's why there are similarities in the setting. Enjoy!

Though the mood had been upbeat and calm in the days before, today it seemed as though a rain cloud loomed over Jujutsu Tech-- both figuratively and literally. Everyone seemed a bit more somber today.

Even Yuji wasn’t immune to the effects as he gazed out his window at the bleak gray sky, winds whipping the trees around and causing the leaves to drift around with reckless abandon.

He sighed softly, leaning over and resting his face on his palms as he watched the gloominess outside from the edge of his bed.

He heard his door open, but didn’t turn around or acknowledge it. Nobara and Megumi had been peeking in on him periodically to make sure he was still alive, clearly unused to the pink haired teen being a recluse.

“He’s still moping.” Megumi sighed.

“Should we go get Gojo sensei?” Nobara asked.

“We want to cheer him up, not make him worse.”

“I dunno, he seems pretty good at this kind of thing...”

Inumaki poked his head into the room with them, signing as he spoke. “Bonito flakes…” Megumi is right… “Mustard Leaf.” Gojo would just overwhelm him more.

“Well, do you have a better idea?”

Inumaki paused, the blonde tapped his chin as he became deep in thought. Nobara shot Megumi a look that screamed; ‘this is who we’re taking ideas from?’ as she gestured to the other teen.

“Tuna mayo?” Maybe Nanami can help?

“If Gojo can’t help, what makes you think Nanami sensei can?”

“He’s right.” Megumi nodded in agreement with Toge’s idea. “Nanami is our best bet. If something serious is going on, Yuji might be more comfortable talking to Nanami about it.”

Inumaki nodded his head, looking quite pleased with himself as Nobara sighed. “Fine, let’s go find him…” With that, the trio headed to Nanami’s classroom and explained the worrying situation to him.

“That explains why he hasn’t been blowing my phone up this morning…” He sighed softly. Yuji had a bad habit of spamming his phone with an overabundance of positive texts, or any and all memes he found that he thought were funny… most of the time they weren’t.

“I’ll go talk to him,” He nodded, standing up from his desk. “Thank you for coming to me.”

Back In Yuji’s room, he had actually started to doze off watching the rain fall down his window when there was a knock at his door. He sighed, trying to ignore their efforts.

There was another knock, this one softer and a bit more hesitant than the first. 

“Guys, I’m not dead in here. you can stop checking on me.” He called out, half asleep.

“Itadori?”

Yuji perked up at the sound of the voice. “Nanamin?”

“Is it alright if I come in?”

The pinkette nodded, but realized he couldn’t see him. “Yeah, you can come in.” he responded, turning around to look at the door.

Nanami walked in and closed the door behind him, assessing Yuji carefully for any signs of distress. “I haven’t heard from you In a while… I wanted to check in on you.” He said, his voice softer than usual.

Itadori smiled a little, and when he did, Nanami could see just how exhausted the teen looked. “Yeah, sorry… I haven’t been on my phone.”

That in and of itself was alarming.

The blonde teacher approached him cautiously. “Yuji, you look like you haven’t been sleeping.” He observed out loud. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Itadori brushed off his concern, trying to shake off the fatigue. “Just didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Watching too many Jennifer Lawrence movies, again?” There was a note of teasing on his words as he spoke to the pink haired boy. (Okay, more than a note.)

Yuji felt his face heat up. “Noooo…” He subtly nudged his chair to conceal a stack of Jennifer Lawrence movies he had in fact been watching the night before. 

Nanami, of course, saw this. He let out a small chuckle as he idly picked up one of Itadori’s blankets from the floor, folding it as he spoke. “Yuji, if something is bothering you… you know you can talk to me, right?” He asked, glancing up at the teen as he neatly set it down on the bed. “Even if you think it’s something minor…”

Yuji bit his lip and looked back out the window. “Yeah… I know that…It’s just my thoughts are so scrambled right now… I don’t even know how to start talking about what’s bothering me...”

Nanami frowned, picking up another blanket and approaching the pinkette with it. He carefully draped it around him and sat down next to him. “I understand…”

A memory flickered to the forefront of his mind, he recalled saying something similar to his best friend when he was Yuji’s age. Haibara had responded by looking for the fluffiest, most comforting blanket he could find in their dorm room and damn near smothered Kento with it as he wrapped him up in it and hugged him tightly.  

It was times like this that he wished Yu had still been alive, he’d be much better at this sort of thing than he was… “I’m sorry.” Kento said softly, his hands firmly grasping his students shoulders. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Yuji looked at the window, the rain and wind had kicked up even more outside. “Can I… have a hug?”

Nanami nodded, not hesitating to engulf him in a big protective hug at his request. “Of course you can.”

Yuji smiled, the warmth from the blanket and the warmth radiating from the tight hug was soothing to him. He wrapped his arms around Nanami in response, resting his head on his shoulder. 

As he sat there with him, the room silent save for the rain falling outside and the soft breathing, he felt his racing thoughts slowing down a bit… making more sense rather than being incoherent whispers speaking over each other.

But that soon became a problem too, as the reason for his anguish presented itself.

He was sad.

He was really fucking sad… He missed his grandpa. He was exhausted from trying to put on a brave front all the time, when the truth of the matter was; he was still just a scared, sad kid who missed the only family he had ever truly had...

As Nanami sat there holding the student, he felt him begin to tremble in his arms. “Itadori?” He asked softly, holding the teen tighter to try to silently reassure him he was okay.

“I’m… sorry…” Came the small, whimper of a reply. Small sobs escaped his shaking form as he buried his face in the blonde’s chest, his tears soaking into the blue fabric.

“Hey… don’t be sorry.” Kento responded, keeping his tone low and gentle in an attempt to soothe the boy. “It’s okay… shh… you’re okay.” He began rubbing circles into the pinkette’s back as he spoke. “I’m here with you and I’m not going anywhere…”

If Yuji hadn’t have already been crying, he would have been now. He clung onto his mentor like a scared child as he sobbed harder.

It became clear to Nanami just how much pain the boy was in, his muffled cries sounding anguished and terrified. It absolutely broke his heart, he wasn’t sure how to take the pain away from the usually bright light hearted teen, and he desperately wanted to.

“I’m so tired of being scared, Nanami!” he cried into his chest.

“Yuji… It’s going to be okay, you have nothing to be afraid of here. I’ll protect you.” The usually stoic teacher whispered in response.

“But who will protect you?” Itadori whimpered, burrowing further into his protective hold. “I can’t lose you too!!”

“Yuji…” Nanami felt his heart twist at the student’s outburst, he wished more than anything he could say that he wouldn’t lose him, and that everything would be okay in the end… but he knew from his own experience that wasn’t the case. He knew how cruel this line of work was… it didn’t discriminate with the lives it claimed.

“I can’t lose you…!” The boy sobbed, his frame shaking like a leaf in the blonde teacher’s strong arms. “P-Please…!”

“Shhh… hey, listen to me okay? I have no intentions of going anywhere.” Kento whispered, gently rocking Itadori in his arms. “Why are you so worried about me? I haven’t died yet.”

“I…” Yuji pulled back, looking up at Nanami with tears falling down his face. That also broke his heart. “I-I’ve been having these nightmares… Where y-you… you…”

“Shhh…” Nanami reached forward and gently pulled the crying pinkette back into his warm embrace, stroking his hair gently as he guided his head to rest against his chest. “Yuji, they’re just bad dreams… do you hear that? My heart is still beating. I’m still here. You’re okay… I’ve got you.”

This seemed to soothe some of anguish the boy was feeling, his sobs becoming small whimpers as he began to calm down at the sound of Nanami’s heartbeat in his ear.

They sat there In silence together for a while, the only other sound in the room was the rain hitting Yuji’s window and his sniffles and whimpers.

But soon those would silence too, and Itadori would slowly pull away from Nanami again. His eyes were puffy from all the crying he’d done, and his face was tear stained. “N-Nanamin?”

“Yes?”

“Th-Thank you…”

The blonde smiled softly at him, gently wiping away some of the remaining tears from his face. “Of course…” 

Yuji giggled a bit as Kento grazed against his neck when wiping his tears away, causing the blonde to pause and give him a confused look. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” Itadori said quickly, smiling nervously as his mentor stared at him.

Oh?

Nanami smirked, ghosting his fingers along Itadori’s neck, causing him to squeak and recoil with a giggle. “Nothing? Are you sure about that?”

“Nanami…”

“Itadori… you wouldn’t happen to be… ticklish, would you?”

“W-Well would you look at the time? I’m gonna be late for my training session with Gojo and-- ACK!”

“Oh no you don’t.” Kento grabbed onto the pinkette before he could escape, pulling him back into his arms and pinning him against him. “Even if you did have training with Gojo right now, which you don’t because he’s out of town… I’m not letting you off the hook that easily.”

“Wh-What did I do?”

“I told you I’d protect you… that includes from yourself and your sadness.”

“But Nanamin… I’m not sad any--eeeeehehehehehe!” Yuji’s protests were interrupted by a squeal followed by adorably bubbly giggles as Nanami began to tickle him.

“Oh please, don’t insult my intelligence… I know you’re still sad, you’re just not crying anymore.” Nanami rolled his eyes fondly at the boy, squeezing at his side teasingly.

“Nahahahahanami! Ihihihit tickles!” Itadori whined, but despite his complaints he made no attempts to get away.

Nanami chuckled at his reactions, sneaking his hand underneath Yuji’s shirt to lightly tickle his bare side. “Does it now~? How unfortunate for you… because I have no intentions of stopping until you feel better~”

Yuji giggled harder as he leaned into Nanami’s hold. “Ihihihihi’m not sahahahahad anymore!”

“Itadori, It’s okay to be sad…” Nanami said soothingly, skittering his fingers up and down his ribs as he spoke. “It’s okay to feel what you’re feeling… but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you suffer through it alone.”

The most adorable thing about this whole thing? Yuji wasn’t resisting, he was actually angling himself in ways that would give Nanami more access to his ticklish spots… which he found utterly adorable.

“Itadori, you know… you could at least pretend to want to get away~” Kento chuckled in amusement at his student.

“I dohohoho want to get ahahaway!” Yuji lied… because If he really wanted to get away, he totally could.

“Oh, you do, hm? Is that why you’re rolling around like a puppy trying to get me to scratch its belly?” Nanami couldn’t help but tease the boy, his fingers drifting to Yuji’s stomach. “Is this what you were looking for~?”

Itadori squealed as he felt Nanami’s fingers lightly dance across his toned stomach, practically melting in his mentor's hold as he laughed harder. “EHEHEHEHEEK!”

It’s now coming to Itadori’s attention that he may… and I repeat; may be… enjoying this. (He is.) 

Sure, every once In a while he’ll get the occasional poke here and there, or Gojo will be… well, Gojo… and tickle the absolute snot out of him but… Nanami’s tickles are much more gentle and affectionate. It’s almost relaxing in a sense… plus he never knew his parents, and his grandfather wasn’t exactly the most physically affectionate so it’s kind of healing to his inner child right now to be tickled by someone he views as a father figure.

Also, he just really loves playing around with him like this… this isn’t a side anyone sees of Nanami.

Did I mention Yuji is an adorable ball of sunshine yet? because he totally is.

“Ah, that was definitely what you wanted…” Nanami teased, his fingers tracing teasingly along his stomach, producing the most adorable giggles he’s heard in a very long time.

“Nahahahahanamin! Nohohohoho! Nahahat the behehehelly!” Yuji squealed, covering his face as his half hearted protests fell on deaf ears.

“Not the belly? why not? It seems like as good a spot as any…” Nanami hummed thoughtfully, pretending to consider it for a moment. “Hmm… Nope, sorry. I think I’m going to stay right here for a bit longer, you’re a tough kid, you can take it.”

Yuji squealed again as his stomach was tickled with more vigor.

‘Seriously, brat? He’s not kidding… You really are like a dog who wants his stomach rubbed. The only thing you’re missing is the damn leg kick.’ Sukuna taunted Yuji internally.  

‘Suhuhuhukuna shuhuhuhut up!’ Poor Yuji couldn’t even escape the teasing in his mind.

‘You know you could easily get this to stop, don’t you? Just allow me control and--’

‘Absolutely nahahahat!’

‘Why not? Don’t tell me… you actually ENJOY this, do you?’

‘Ihihihim not gonna lehehehet you hurt him!’

‘How pathetic… you truly are an annoying brat.’

“Nahahahanamihihihi plehehehease!”

The blond relented his attack, allowing the pinkette to catch his breath. “Are you feeling any better yet?” He asked gently, keeping his unofficial son trapped in his grasp as he calmed down.

Yuji nodded, giggling a bit still. “Y-Yeah.. thanks dad.”

Oh fuck.

He didn’t just…

Nanami froze as he heard those words come out of Itadori’s mouth.

Itadori panicked inwardly, his distress making Sukuna chuckle in amusement in the back of his mind. “I-I mean… yeah, thanks dad.” He said much more sarcastically this time, hoping that Nanami would go for it.

He did not. 

“Yuji… did you just… call me dad?”

Yuji felt himself tear up, fearful that he just ruined the relationship he had with Nanami. “Y-Yeah, but I meant it in a joking way.”

Kento frowned, he knew by the way the boy’s voice quivered that he was lying. “Yuji…”

“I-I’m sorry.” Yuji shook his head and closed his eyes, trying to contain his emotions. “I-I didn’t mean to… I-It… It jus-- EEK!”

Yuji shrieked as Nanami resumed his ticklish attack, now holding the teen’s arms above his head and tickling under his arms.

“NAHAHAHAHANAMI?? AHAHAHAHAHAHA! WHYHYHYHYHY ARE YOU TICKLING MEHEHEHE??”

“Because you’re sad again.” Nanami answered simply.

“AHAHAHAHAREN’T YOU MAHAHAHAD AT MEHEHE??”

Nanami leaned down a bit so he could speak directly into Yuji’s ear. “Why would I be mad?” His voice was low and calm, as if he wasn’t completely annihilating Yuji with tickles right now.

“BEHEHEHECAUSE IHIHIHI CALLED YOU-- EeEeEeEeEEEEK!” Yuji shrieked as Nanami blew a raspberry against his neck, cutting him off. “NAHAHAHAHA!!”

“I seem to have missed the part where you did something to make me mad…” Nanami smiled a bit, his fingers not slowing their pace against Itadori’s ticklish armpit whatsoever.

“BUHUHUHUT IHIHI… IHIHI CALLED YOUHUHU DAHAHAD-- AIEEE!”

Itadori was interrupted by another raspberry against his neck. “And?”

“IHIHIHIHIM SOHOHOHORRYEEEEHEHEHEHE!” Yuji shrieked again as he dealt another massive raspberry against his neck. Before he could form semi coherent sentences again, Nanami laid him down on his back on his bed and pinned his arms down above his head.

“Yuji Itadori… If you apologize to me again, you’re going to regret it.” Nanami said sternly, though his green eyes sparkled as his gaze remained gentle on the teen. “My cursed technique isn’t just useful for inflicting pain…It can also be used to make ticklish troublemakers even more ticklish…”

Yuji took a moment to catch his breath, and tried to collect his thoughts before responding. “N-Nanamin… Why aren’t you mad at me…?”

“I told you, you haven’t said anything to upset me.”

“But… I called you… D-Dad… That doesn’t upset you?”

Nanami smiled. “No… It doesn’t.” He let go of Itadori’s arms, and just let him lay there instead.

Yuji frowned, tears quickly flooding his eyes as he looked away. “You can’t possibly mean that… you’re just trying to reassure me-EEEE--” the pinkette squealed and began cackling again as Nanami blew a raspberry on his stomach.

“New rule, every time you apologize for no reason or overthink, I’m going to tickle you.” Kento smirked, watching as the boy composed himself again.

“B-But…”

“Yuji… I’m not just trying to reassure you. I meant that.” Nanami’s voice was gentle as he spoke. “If calling me Dad makes you happy then… you can call me that any time you want.”

Itadori sat up slowly, his eyes still sparkly with tears. “Y-You… really don’t mind?”

“Of course not.” Kento reached forward and wiped Yuji’s tears. “I happen to care about you.”

Welp. That did it… again.

Yuji started sobbing again, leaning forward and burying his face in Nanami’s chest as he ugly cried

Kento pulled him into a comforting hug, rubbing soothing circles into his back. “Shh… It’s okay now… You’re safe.”

‘You truly are a pathetic creature, you know that?’

‘That may be… but at least I’M loved sooo… suck it.’

After a few more minutes Yuji began to calm down, and he pulled back from Nanami. “Thank you… I needed that.” He smiled, wiping his eyes.

“You don’t have to thank me for comforting you, you know…” Nanami mused. “I really don’t mind.”

“Heh… Yeah I guess you’re right… sorry-- EEHEHEHE!” Yuji shrieked as Nanami reached forward and tickled his stomach, after using ratio to make him even more ticklish, of course.

“You never learn, do you?” Nanami sighed, though his words may have come out as disappointed, the playful glimmer in his eyes betrayed him.

It seemed It was going to take some time for Yuji to learn not to be so apologetic and overthink so much, and Nanami was content to keep tickling him until he got that message through his skull… Yuji was also content to let it happen.

[bagopucks]

J. Hughes - It’s Out There

✄————————————

Jack Hughes x Reader

Requested✨

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: a bit of ass grabbing💕, talk of ED, general angst (not proofread)

—————————————

The horror stories weren’t exactly true, but they also weren’t far off. College is what one makes of it. That I learned early on. I kept up with the work, I built a steady routine, I put forth my best effort. Things so far had been fine. I had enough time for my major and my life.

Taylor on the other hand.. she wanted to party. I loved her. I truly did, but sometimes her complaining stressed me out. We were roommates, and I always offered my best advice and a helping hand when she needed it. But she never put forth her own effort. Jack often heard about her when I needed time to complain.

Today though, I had gotten her to sit down with me and study. I promised breaks here and there, and even a late dinner. We’d both missed out on lunch for finals, neither of us were exactly hungry considering the stress. We were in need of food. But more importantly, we were in need of better help.

I managed well with our other classes we had together. I let her copy my notes and we discussed and reviewed, but when it came to math, we were both scattered.

So we decided to take a brief break.

I leaned back against the wall, sitting on my bed, while Taylor mirrored me from her own bed. I texted Jack, while she no doubt scrolled through social media.

I enjoyed the silence. Not interrupted or broken by anything but the quiet flow of air through the AC in the room. Occasionally Taylor would send me something on Instagram, and our silence shifted into both of us scrolling through our social media apps and sending each other things.

I sent her a video of a French bulldog, I received a post in return that I couldn’t quite make out from the small notification. So I opened it.

“Jack Hughes Finally Off The Market?”

It wasn’t anything more than one of those meme pages, but the photo of Jack and I kissing at his favorite cafe in the city- that was what caught me off guard. I felt my stomach turn, my entire being feeling like it fell through the floor.

It had been pitch black that night. Nobody had even been on that street when we came out. How did somebody get a photo?

“Tay,” I glanced at the likes. There were enough to make me nauseous. I decided to check the comments, hopeful that perhaps somebody would point out how it was a joke. I knew that was unlikely though.

“Where’d you find this?” Fear gripped my heart as I read through comments.

‘Can’t see her face :|’

‘Great content bud’

‘Fuck her’

‘Don’t worry guys, it’s me’

‘Hands couldn’t even fit around that ass’

‘I’ll bet she’s pretty’

A different degree of reactions all around. My gaze remained on some longer than others.

“Just on Instagram. Since you started dating Jack I just.. I don’t know, guess I started keeping up with the hockey stuff.”

Taylor looked up at me, and I looked up at her. I was pale, she looked careless.

“Hun.. I wouldn’t worry. It’s a meme page. Nobody takes their stuff seriously.”

Taylor had a point, but at the end of the day.. that was still a photo of me and Jack. Whether people believed it or not, to me, that was very clearly, me and Jack.

“Why don’t we skip the next break and get back to studying.. okay?”

I was reluctant to agree, but Taylor eventually pried my attention away from my phone. Or at least she thought she did.

The rest of our night was spent studying. We had gone out to grab something to eat from the nearest fast food place, and ate together watching the hockey team of my hometown city play. The Devils didn’t have a game scheduled for a few days, so I took it as an opportunity to check up on my other team of interest.

After the hockey game, we had both called it a night. With the lights out, and the only sound being the occasional thump of footsteps or somebody in a room around us, my mind wandered. It wandered to the point that I had grabbed my phone again to check for any news.

Nothing.

The internet still seemed oblivious.

I went back to the post to look at it. There were more comments and likes, but nobody had considered it a real possibility yet.

I spent hours awake, staring at the screen, turning it off only to give in and turn it back on, waiting for my entire world to crumble around me.

I fell asleep somewhere around four am.

When I woke up, I forced myself away from my phone to focus on my last final. I told Jack that I would visit him after it was completed and I was off for spring break. I had that to look forward to, but every time I thought of Jack, I thought of that post. So I pushed it to the back of my mind as I entered my professor’s classroom and set my phone by others on the front desk.

I’d attest to the fact that my mind wandered a few times, but I would also say I thought the exam went well. Taylor promised to meet me in the mess hall when we were both done.

I stepped out of the classroom and flipped my phone in my hand. With spring break beginning officially for me, I only had one other thing to stress about.

Opening my Instagram was like stepping into a whole new world. I followed the Devils, the NHL page, ESPN, and a few others. Mostly just for news on Jack when it came out. But this time, the news about Jack made me sick.

I slowed to a halt in the hallway, before my body went into autopilot.

The first post in front of me was the New Jersey Devil holding a bottle of champagne in a photo. The caption was a mess of words in my head. A congratulations.. with my account tagged.

I forced myself to lower my phone as I jogged through the halls and out the first exit I found.

When I got outside, my pace slowed, and I lifted my phone again.

I opened the Devils story first. Another congratulations post to Jack.. and me. My name. Next to Jack’s. Something the media team was no doubt doing to try and poke fun at the situation. It was all in good fun for them. I could understand, but at the same time it made me want to throw up. They hadn’t even spoken to Jack or me. They didn’t even ask if we wanted to remain private. Instead they simply confirmed everything. As the story played through, the next one for the NHL opened. It was a repost, with a message that said, ‘welcome to the NHL WAGS FAM.’ With my account tagged.

I could not imagine the page doing it for another player, but this was Jack Hughes. This was one of their most followed guys in the league. They’d cover every moment of his life if it meant more money and a bigger following.

ESPN had a more formal address on the topic, but it was still about Jack and I nonetheless.

I blacked out. I blacked out so hard that I barely even noticed I was in my dorm until I heard the door click shut behind me. Panic was the only thing I had really felt before. Until I looked at the posts. The posts, then the comments.

There were a select few who congratulated, but the majority? The huge crowds? They hated me. It made a sense of dread bubble up in my throat, until a quiet cry escaped. Girls insulted me in every photo posted, guys asked why Jack went after me, some even said I was nothing but a distraction. People made fun of me for being a secret, they tore me down for not setting my life aside to follow him and his hockey dreams.

How did they even know about my life so quickly? How did they know where I went to college?

I made a split second decision. I grabbed a duffel bag from my closet and began to throw clothing inside. I was certain that I had forgotten things along the way, but there was nothing a quick visit to the convenience store couldn’t fix. I put my laptop in the bag, as well as various chargers I hadn’t bothered to ravel up.

I was panicked, and the one person I wanted to see was an hour away. Taylor called me a few times while my phone laid on my bed, but I hadn’t called her back until I was out of my dorm room and headed for the car.

“Hey! We were supposed to meet up.” Taylor’s voice called through the phone. I sniffed quietly. I hadn’t begun crying yet, but my nose was running nonetheless.

“I have to go into New Jersey early.” I spoke through a shaky voice. I tossed my bag into the back seat of my car before climbing into the front. I was quick to turn the vehicle on, and Taylor’s voice cut out as my phone Bluetooth connected to the car.

“Is it bec- of that post?”

“Jack and I are out. All of the sports media has confirmed it. Tay, I don’t know what to do.” I backed out of my spot before I tore out of the parking lot.

“It’s gonna be okay. I’m sure Jack will have it handled.”

“Jack?” I asked. Incredulous. “I love Jack, but I highly doubt he’ll have any of this shit handled.” He’d never been through it before. We were both amateurs at this, and now we were sinking together. I needed him. I assumed he needed me.

“Okay well.. I’m sure everybody’s happy for you guys.. yeah?”

“No! No, they’re not! They keep commenting on how shitty I am! And in that post last night, everybody was all over my ass! My ass!” My loss and hopelessness caused me to get choked up.

I’d always had a rough relationship with food ever since I was a teenager. People told me I was too skinny or too big. People told me that being insecure because I was skinny didn’t count. They invalidated my feelings while at the same time telling me my ass wasn’t big enough, or my cup size was awfully small. Then others would come back and say my ass was too big or my boobs might be distracting.

Depending on the comments, some days I ate, others I did not.

When I met Jack, I was healthier than before, but I still struggled. He always reassured me. Told me I was beautiful. That he loved me, thought I was perfect, and that gaining or losing a couple pounds meant nothing as long as I was healthy.

He made me feel safe eating huge greasy burgers and shoveling cake into my mouth on a Friday movie night. Likewise, he validated my feelings when all I wanted was a chicken salad and maybe a piece of bread or two. He always said, ‘as long as you’re healthy.’ And every once in a while he made sure I wasn’t hungry either. Especially after I ate salads. After he’d seen me put away pretty nice sized meals, he always made sure I had enough to eat. And that I was comfort able enough to eat.

It was amazing how a few social media comments could tear down so many walls I’d built, but it was deeper than that to me. These were Jack’s fans. If they didn’t like me, then why should he? Had he been lying to me all this time?

“Your beautiful ass?” Taylor tried to make a joke. A tear finally fell down my cheek.

“What if Jack hates me?” My bottom lip quivered. “He hasn’t reached out.. what if he’s breaking up with me?” The mere thought made me want to pull over and turn around.

“What is he doing today?” Taylor asked expectantly. I had to think about it.

“Media stuff?” The thought brought a moment of relief to my lungs.

“Exactly. You’ve had days before where he doesn’t text until late in the evening and it’s never bothered you.” Taylor’s voice gave me the encouragement to continue on.

“I know this didn’t happen in time like you guys planned it, but it’s all going to be fine. The crazy fan girls will always be mean, but people are going to get over it.”

“Yeah.. but what if they hate me forever?”

“They might. But oh well, right?”

Taylor was right. But that still didn’t make me feel any better. I gripped the steering wheel tighter.

“When does Jack get home?”

“I think.. I don’t know? Maybe around three?” I breathed out a sigh.

“So you’ll be there before him?”

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you go see him at the arena?”

“And bother him? After all this?”

“If it’s a media day, you know he won’t be that busy. And it’s better than torturing yourself at his place for hours.”

She was right.

“I’ll have to think about it..”

“Don’t think too much.”

As if I hadn’t been overthinking everything that day already. Our conversation ended with mutual good lucks, and the familiar monotone beep of a dead line. I sighed, wiped the tears from my cheeks, and focused on the road ahead.

My hour in the car was spent flipping through radio stations, trying to find music that was loud enough to distract me or soft enough to calm me. Nothing worked. My jaw was clenched most if not the entire time. My face hurt. My cheeks hurt. My fingers felt stiff every time I pulled a hand from the wheel.

And entering Jersey didn’t help. It felt like a smack upside the head. A loud call back to my horrible reality. I felt like everybody outside the car was staring in. Everybody knew who I was. Everybody hated me. They were all looking at my body.

By the time I had pulled into Jack’s own apartment community, I felt like I was suffocating trying to choke back tears. I parked in the lot outside of his complex. I gave it five minutes. Then another five. Then another five.

I grabbed my phone and opened TikTok this time. I typed Jack’s name into the search and hit enter. The first video eased my mind. Somebody saying how beautiful I was.. how happy they were for Jack.

The next broke my heart. Comparing me to the first girl. To the hot girl. The skinny girl. The perfect girl. I’d seen videos here and there before of people saying how they thought Jack and his ex had been such a beautiful couple. People said they ‘missed’ her. Like they ‘knew’ her. I never let it cut too deep, because they didn’t know I existed.

Now it was blatant. Now they said things like that, because she was better than me.

I put my car in reverse.

Taylor was right. I’d torture myself if I didn’t see Jack.

Closing the distance between myself and the arena was like beating a new nail into my coffin with each mile. It only stressed me out more. But I hoped Jack would take it all off my shoulders. If he had time.

The thought that he’d be too busy also occurred to me, but even being in the same building as him, I decided, would be soothing.

I had pulled into the private parking area before climbing out of my car. My face was red, but I had since stopped the tears. My heart was set on Jack. Nothing else could distract me.

I walked through the double doors at the bottom, stepping right into one of the many entrances. I was quick to find the hall that led to the private facilities. I walked past maintenance closets, and equipment rooms, before my swift pace was brought to an abrupt halt by a body stepping out of the lounge.

I gasped. He grabbed me by the shoulders. When I looked up, my eyes caught Jesper. His gaze softened from surprise to sympathy. We stared at each other, both uncertain of what to say. He spoke first.

“Jack was worried when you didn’t text him that your final was over.” He spoke, as if having an ‘A-ha’ moment. He let me go. I reached to rub my eyes again, fearful that something was still there.

“He didn’t text me all day.” I countered.

“Well.. he didn’t want to distract you. They won’t stop asking him about you.” My brow furrowed in question.

“He’s in with reporters right now.” Jesper gestured down the hall. I assumed he meant Jack was in the locker room. “They won’t let you go.” Tears welled up in my eyes again.

“We can wait for him together?” I nodded.

Jesper walked me into the lounge and grabbed me a bottle of water.

“I was shocked when it came out.. I know you and Jack were trying really hard not to be public.” Jesper sat down on the couch, and patted the empty cushion next to him. I sat beside him as he handed me the bottle of water.

“I shouldn’t have kissed him that night we went out.” I breathed out, shaking my head. I unscrewed the bottle cap and took a sip of the liquid. It helped refresh my dry throat.

“Can’t limit your happiness to closed doors.” Jesper had a point, but if I had limited my happiness to closed doors, I wouldn’t be miserable right now.

“Bratter?” My head shot in the direction of the door at the sound of a Swiss accent. I raised a brow at Nico in the doorway, dressed in a sweater covered in a colorful floral pattern. Nico looked right back at me, staring me down with that, ‘stays between us’ kind of expression.

“What the hell are they making you do in there?” Jesper asked, slinging an arm over the back of the couch.

“Some spring skit.. I don’t know. I acted really bad so they wouldn’t use me for it.” Nico quickly peeled the sweater off. “Your turn.” He stepped into the room and tossed the sweater at Jesper.

The blonde looked rather displeased, but he swiftly grabbed the sweater and stood up.

“You sit with her and wait for Jack then.. okay?” Nico and Jesper exchanged looks before the Swiss man nodded, then the Swede left the room.

“So,” Nico turned back to me. He fixed his hair, pursing his lips. “Jack’s pretty tense.” He plopped down on the couch next to me, my body jolting slightly at the way the sofa bounced. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit, Nico.” I glared at him. He was trying his best.

“Right… everything’ll iron out.” He pulled his phone from his pocket. “You wanna play chess while we wait?” I glared at him once again. How could a man so thoughtful like Nico be so… lost when it came to this stuff? Because he’s been single for far too long. Jack always tried setting him up, but Nico was never interested. Said there were too many cultural differences.

“I have air hockey on here too.” He gave me that dumb lopsided smile. That smile that I always rolled my eyes at. Now I just wanted to wipe it off his face and tell him he was no help. But I gave in. I needed a distraction. I pulled my legs up onto the couch and turned my body to face Nico. He opened the game and set his phone down between us.

He started the game. I was better than him at it.

“People being mean to you?”

“You have no idea.”

“I checked some of the comments on the Devils post.” I glanced up at him before looking back down at the phone.

“It’s not good.” I shrugged.

“People make fun of my eyebrows sometimes.” I looked back up at him. Nico looked sincere, yet his eyes were still focused on the phone. I had to look back down. If he scored, it would only interrupt the flow of our conversation.

“Kids used to do it a lot in school. I used to ask my sister to fix them for me.” Somehow, the idea of a tiny Nico asking to have his brows waxed was amusing, but I held in my laughter for the sake of his ego. “Kids called me angry birds. I didn’t know what it meant for the longest time. But I knew I just hated my eyebrows.”

I wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but it felt great to be understood nonetheless.

“Now everybody’s calling you a bunch of things, and I know it’s hard. But I’d suggest listening to what the people who love you say. They know better than anybody else.”

I scored on Nico. We both looked up at each other, and I offered him a sad smile.

“Means the world to hear, Nic. Sorry for calling you the Eagle from the muppets.”

His brows knit together in confusion. But I didn’t have time to explain the subtle joke before we both heard quiet complaining in the hall. Jack’s ever gentle voice laced with tension and stress. Maybe even shaking.

“Where’s Nico?”

“God- I just wanna talk to Nico!”

I quickly stood up and took the bottle of water with me as I stepped out into the hall. Jack was gone. My gaze flickered about until he emerged from a room, he must have been on a pretty aggressive hunt for his captain. Jack stopped though when he spotted me. The emotions returned. He looked as stressed as I’d felt before. Now I only felt overwhelmed and sad.

“Babe?” Jack slowly made his way down the hall to meet me by the lounge door. He was gentle when he pulled me into a hug, dipping his head to rest against my shoulder while I wrapped my arms around his neck, careful not to spill my water.

“It’s all gone to shit.” I whispered.

“I’m so sorry..” Jack mumbled in response. Neither of us could have been prepared for this. And it wasn’t either of our faults.

“Jack don’t apologize.” I pulled back, feeling the familiar sting of tears in my eyes.

“I’m done for the day.. I got done early. Let’s just go home.. please.” He sounded as desperate to get out of there as I was to get to him. I nodded.

——————

Jack drove us back to his apartment. I didn’t care enough about my car to be away from him for too long, but I had grabbed my bag. He let me inside before himself, but we never left each other’s eyesight. The second Jack pushed the door shut, his arms were around me. I reached a hand up to hold the back of his head, my other hand resting overtop of his own that lay on my stomach.

“They asked me so many things about you.” Jack mumbled.

“Jack.. baby.. you don’t think..” was now even the time to bring it up? I sighed. “I’m not too big for you.. am I? Or too small? Or too anything?”

Jack pressed a kiss to my shoulder.

“You’re just right. You always have been. Always will be.” He slowly pulled away to walk around in front of me. “Are they saying stuff about your body?” He looked so disgusted by the fact, but Jack was more worldly innocent than one might assume. He never wanted to expect the worst from others.

“I guess so..” I shrugged, rubbing one of my arms. My body language said enough. He could always tell when I was uncomfortable.

“You shouldn’t look.” Jack reached out to rest his hands on my upper arms.

“I know that, Jack. I just- I guess I just wanted them to like me.” I looked down.

“Hey, hey.” Jack moved one of his hands to rest his fingers beneath my chin, tilting my head up. “They will. They’re gonna love you.” His brow furrowed as his eyes searched for my own. But I still couldn’t be bothered to make eye contact. “Babe.. babe look at me.” He wasn’t demanding. He was gentle. Encouraging. He was always so kind to me. Even his behavior in this moment brought tears to my eyes. I looked at him though, and I watched his heart break in slow motion. I watched his eyes grow solemn.

“It’ll just take time. Just give it time.” Jack pulled me into another hug, his arms wrapped tightly around my body as one hand laid between my shoulder blades and the other pressed into the small of my back. I buried my face in his chest. I wanted nothing more than to go back to the day before, when nobody knew about me. When I was just me.. just a university student.

“Jack,” I whispered into his chest. I slowly lifted my head. He looked down at me. His expression showed nothing but devotion. He was ready to pull the stars from the sky if I said the word. “We’ll be with each other through this.. right?”

“Stay with me through spring break…” the offer was a surprise, but one I wasn’t opposed to. We both needed each other, and time away from my college campus was never a bad thing.

“I think I can do that.” I sniffled as I slipped my hands between our bodies, resting them on his chest. Being in his arms was the most comforting thing in the world. Going through this whole ordeal seemed a lot less stressful when I knew it would be spent with him.

“I love you.” Jack whispered, a grin forming on his lips as his hands wandered to my hips, only to eventually find my backside. I jumped at the feeling. “I want you to love yourself too. Please don’t let people convince you you’re not perfect.” Jack’s words were easier said than done.

“I wish you’d just see yourself the way I saw you.. god you’re such an Angel to me.” He pressed a kiss to my head. My heart fluttered as my temperature rose. “They’ll see you that way one day too.” Those promises were debatable, but believing them made me relax. Maybe if I just lived in Jack’s world for a little while.. his positive reality, it would be better in the long run.

Despite the fact that we still had hours left in the day, neither of us seemed too interested in going anywhere or doing anything. Jack and I ended up in bed together. We both had the bare minimum on.. bodies mark-less but heads full of love. I could still feel Jack’s lips pressed against each of my insecurities, and his hands massaging circles into my muscles. Likewise I swore I could still feel his skin beneath my hands. His silky hair between my fingers. Every dip and curve of his muscles committed to memory.

Jack kept me away from my phone in the most effective way.

Moments ago, lips had trailed my shoulders and my arms, down my chest and around my stomach and sides. He’d put the work in on my thighs too, so gentle and sweet. He never left a mark. It wasn’t that kind of night. His kisses were passionate, but not lustful. He was so full of love.. so heartfelt in each of his movements. Jack was one of a kind.

I laid, curled into his side, my head resting in the space between his arm and his chest, just beneath his shoulder.

“Ya know.. I saw a girl today say she missed your ex.” I spoke quietly, afraid to disturb the peace. But it was on my mind nonetheless.

Jack tensed. He shuffled, then picked his head up to look down at me.

“I don’t.” He scoffed. “She was horrible.”

I turned my head to look at him, but Jack rested his head against the pillow again before I could see his eyes.

“What was she like?”

“Nothing like you. She came around at a busy time.. right after the draft. I was too distracted to really pay attention to all the red flags. She was mean.”

“Does it bother you when people say they miss her?”

“It would if there was something to miss.” Jack moved his shoulders to shrug before halting when he realized my head was there. “It would be a different story If it was you.”

“What?”

“If it was you.. I’d miss you too. I was so worried you’d back out when you saw everything today. I didn’t want to lose you.. but by the time I could speak to anybody, our whole social team just put it out there.” Jack slowly turned onto his side, my head fell to the bed. He wrapped his arm around me and I quickly turned to mirror him.

“I would never leave over something like this. You mean too much to me.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page then.” The sound of my phone ringing from the floor had me slowly turning to get up, but I only got my back turned to Jack before he pulled me against his chest. I yelped out a laugh.

“Jack.” I reached to pry his hand from my stomach.

“No phones.. please?” I sighed. The chances of somebody actually needing me were slim, so I let the call go unanswered.

“Alright. You win baby.” I carefully rolled over, pulling his hand from my body and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. Jack smiled. He loved a lot of things, but being pampered was one of his favorites. I pressed another kiss to the back of his hand, then one to his wrist, before playfully biting and kissing all the way up his arm. Kissing him everywhere just like he’d done to me before. Jack broke into a fit of giggles by the time I reached his forearm. After I got to his shoulder, I raised my lips to his own, pressing a much deeper kiss there to silence him.

When I pulled away, Jack’s baby blues eyed me. I kissed his jaw. “God.. they’re gonna love you so much.” He whispered, shaking his head. Astounded.

“They just don’t know you yet.. but they will.”

“As long as they don’t love me more than you do.”

“Nobody can love you more than I do.”

✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾

[aayakashii]

hihi! I absolutely love ur hcs and fics!! (I may or may not have downloaded Tumblr just from your fics on AO3 👉👈)

anyways- I wanted to ask if you have any hcs for unlikely friendships among the ghouls? Like maybe Lyca and Mido would get along well, or Leo and Rui?

also do you have any hcs for Towa's flower nicknames for the other ghouls? (Like how he calls MC "dandelion", Edward "Rafflesia", etc)

OH MY GOD??????????? this is literally the sweetest ask I have ever gotten seriously seriously thank you so much for liking my fics AND DOWNLOADING TUMBLR BECAUSE OF THEM??? OMG 😭 THIS IS SURREAL...... I hope we get to interact a lot more here now!!!! >:3

Now now about your request, it's actually something I've never thought about!!

Off the top of my head, I think these are some good friends:

Haru and Tohma: two tired men who work a lot and bond because of their exhaustion 🤝 Haru could go to the vault whenever he is suffering from heat exhaustion after spending too much time under the sun and Tohma could take his walks around Jabberwock’s fields! Mutual benefits!

Lyca, Kaito and Luca: @ghoulspaw had the great idea that Kaito and Luca would be the best boys to play with Lyca >:3 and I think they'd be quite understanding (Kaito would take a while to warm up to him because he's a wuss) and Luca could help Lyca with his studies!!!

Alan and Lyca: I promise not all of them will involve Lyca. But I JUST KNOW Lyca would be :O!!!!!! after seeing Alan and how strong he is. Cue new sparring buddy for Alan!!!!

Kaito and Sho: I think this is either a bit canon or someone else already had a headcanon??? But Kaito bakes sweets I think?? AM I THINKING OF A FIC I READ???? But anyway, Sho and him could exchange recipes! Leo would hate it though because he hates Kaito but That's Not About Him.

Ed and Zenji: come on. You can't tell me Ed doesn't see ghosts. Zenji would be more than happy to watch youtube with Ed and would force him to like every video he posts AND subscribe. And hit the bell.

Ren and Kaito: they would be that meme that's a bunch of ppl thinking "wow these people are a bunch of freaks! I'm the only normal one here." Except they would think "wow this guy is a loser. Thank goodness I'm not like that!" In the end, they are both losers and Ren will worsen Kaito's gambling addiction by introducing him to a bunch of gacha games.

Okay if you have more ideas please let me know because this was actually so much fun LMAO

Regarding Towa's nicknames, I genuinely think that him nicknaming people comes from a place of disdain. Like, his nicknames aren't necessarily based on the language of flowers. Sometimes, he just associates the characteristic of the plant with the character's personalities.

Edward is Rafflesia because rafflesia is the corpse flower, which smells rotten and like dead bodies. Ren is Wolfsbane because it's extremely poisonous, even to the touch. PC is Dandelion because it's a weed and it's weak, and Towa made it very clear that he thinks PC is cute because she's weak.

I don't actually know why Kaito is Coriander, but given that some people are born with the genes that make coriander taste like soap, maybe it's a nod to the fact that not everyone likes him (since he's not very well liked in Frostheim)???? Genuinely have no idea

As for Zenji, I imagine Towa associated him with Iris based on one of the flower's meaning, which is "bearer of messages and a symbol of deep sentiments" which... fits Zenji, his role in Hotarubi and his love for his baby brother quite well.

And I THINK that he doesn't refer to Haru as a flower/herb because he genuinely likes and respects Haru (unlike Ren and Ed) and doesn't think of him as someone weak and pathetic (unlike PC and Kaito).

SO.......... KNOWING ALL THAT...... now let's get into the name ideas *rubs hands* not all of them will be associated with the flower's meanings btw!!

Alan: anthurium! It's the strongest flower >:)

Sho: basil or thyme merely because of how useful they are in cuisine hehe

Taiga: with how much Taiga raids Jabberwock, Towa probably already got a nickname for him, but if it was me, I'd say petunia because one of its meanings is trouble and he's always causing Haru trouble.

Romeo: mandrake. Because he screams a lot LMAO and mandrake is that root that, in myths, people say screams when you uproot it.

Haku: lotus!!! One of its meanings is mystery and I think it fits him since he's allllll mysterious

Subaru: wisteria, I can't associate him with any other flower 😭

Lyca: lupine, for obvious reasons. It's a legume and it means wolf!!!!

Jiro: okay this name is UGLY but: rhododendron. It's means "beware" in Victorian flower language!

I genuinely didn't have any other ideas for the other ghouls so if you think of any, tell meeeeeeeee this was such a fun ask I love these types of requests!!!!

ALSO THANK YOU FOR JOINING TUMBLR AGAIN........ STILL CANT BELIEVE IT 😭

[anisespice]

tall fem reader?

tall fem reader!!! thanks for the request, anon :)))

hq ver.

pairing: college!tr x tall!fem!reader

warnings: mature language, MDI, suggestive language, reader mentioned in chifuyu’s but not present, mild mild mild cat-call in hanma’s - just crack overall, honestly lol feel free to let me know if i missed anything!

notes: planned to make this a whole x whoever you want type beat, BUT figured just doing a headcanon broken into different heights would be more efficient lol plus MORE CONTENT - gonna make a pt. 2 with some hq men, but for now — t.rev! :))) hope you enjoy <3 !!

tagged: @fantasycantasy , @illegalspacecow

small — ♡

When it came down to a relationship, MIKEY wasn’t shallow enough to let physical appearances stop him from pursuing someone he wanted—He liked what he liked, fuck what anybody else had to say about it. The blonde never had issue with your drastic height difference, seeing it as more of a perk than anything else. His best friend was tall, so why not his girlfriend? It just meant whenever he walked down the street, he’d look like a total badass with his two attractive beanpoles at his side.

However, a lot of the buzz on campus mostly centered around Mikey’s height rather than yours. It never bothered him, but it certainly got you tight anytime someone tried to uplift you whilst putting him down in the process.

“A shrimp like him wouldn’t know how to handle all that leg of yours, mama. Lemme take you out tonight, show you a good time with someone who’s more on your level, whaddya say?”

Barf.

Mikey would merely give them a dead-stare; unbothered king. You, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate to knock them down a size or two.

“First of all, your busted-looking ass could never be on the same level as me. Second of all, where my man lacks in height, he makes up for elsewhere, so he handles me very well, thank you. You’re probably the type to just shove it in without any sort of technique, thinking that’s enough to get a girl to finish. My man won’t bust once until I’ve came up to four times, the fuck can you offer me besides being six-foot? Hm? That’s right, not a damn thing. Remember that next time you talk shit, dirt-neck.”

Read him straight to filth. And God forbid Mikey had his gang with him anytime some scrub tried to spit game, best believe they’d dog the guy until he scurried away in humiliation. It always filled him with great adoration for you wherever you checked someone in his defense, your entire relationship giving off the same energy as that one meme with Kevin Hart’s character being protectively held by the lady. It’d been put in the groupchat a number of times just to tease the delinquent, but he’s unashamed at the fact you could easily pick his ass up. If anything, he was all for it, even requested piggy-back rides from you more often than his right-hand man—Draken’s back appreciates your sacrifice.

Now let someone try and spit game at him.

“Yeah, normally guys feel emasculated when their girlfriend’s taller than them, y’know? I’m surprised you don’t, though. No offense, [_____] just doesn’t seem like a good fit for you. I mean, must be tough to lay in the same bed, or even put her in your lap without feeling smothered or crushed. Wouldn’t it be much better to have someone a little smaller-”

“She could sit on me until my pelvis collapsed, and I would thank her. And, full offense, if I was single, still wouldn’t pick you even if you put a gun to my head. Keep my girl’s name out your mouth, you don’t deserve to breathe the same air let alone be on first name basis. Now, quit wasting my time—Do you have the notes from yesterday’s lecture or not?”

You don’t play about him. He don’t play about you. Period.

And as far as sharing a bed, cuddling or otherwise, Mikey was a sucker for being held like a damn squishmellow. Didn’t matter if you took up most of the leg space, dude would be wrapped around you like a python, so snug and warm you’d be lucky to even escape his grasp for food or the bathroom. Once he’s sleep, he’s SLEEP, and then you become the squishmellow.

“Mikey, I will be right back, turn me loose-”

“Zzzzzz…” out like a light. Drooling and everything, face smushed up against your boobs, just content. You’d think he’d been working the graveyard shift. And God forbid he ended up laying on top of you, sprawled out starfish style…you for sure weren’t going anywhere then.

Even if you expressed this dilemma after he woke up, the blonde merely yawned. “Just pick me up and carry me with you…”

“You’re smoking crack if you think I’m gonna haul your ass with me into the bathroom. I love you and all that, but we ain’t at the stage where I can comfortably use it with you in room.”

He shrugged. “Mm. Guess you don’t have to go that bad. G’night.”

“Mikey.”

“Shh, I’m sleeping…”

A gremlin. But, your gremlin. ♡

—

medium — ♡

CHIFUYU still can’t believe he bagged you, frfr.

There’d be moments where you’d catch him staring, as if he figured you’d disappear the second he took his eyes off you.

It’d get a little creepy sometimes, but it was endearing all the same. He wasn’t the shortest guy, though he wasn’t the tallest either, and standing next to you was a constant reminder of that. Not that he held any resentment toward you for it, he absolutely loved your height. However, there was always some form of insecurity that would resurface anytime someone called attention to it.

And today, his best friend and co-worker, Baji, would not only be the culprit, but an unlikely source of reassurance.

While they were stocking up inventory, the ravenette couldn’t help but notice the stool his friend was using to put a box in a particular high place. Wearing a mischievous grin, Baji pointed. “Oi. You should take that home with you. That way your girl won’t have to strain her neck when she kisses you.” He snorted, thinking he was the funniest man alive.

Normally, something that lame wouldn’t phase him, but guess today he was feeling a little more sensitive. With a grunt, the former blonde coolly spoke, “Maybe you should shut the hell up, and stock the damn shelves.”

“Whoa. What’s up your ass?” Baji furrowed his brows, walking over to lightly kick at the stool’s metal leg, making it jerk. Chifuyu sharply gasped, latching onto an empty shelf to steady himself. He exhaled, relieved, then shot a glare. But, Baji wasn’t perturbed.

Chifuyu sighed. “Nothing. I’m fine...”

“Fine my left nut. You don’t get short like that unless there’s something on your mind,” not the best way to phrase that, but at least he was genuine. Chifuyu rolled his eyes, coming down off the stool to brush past the ravenette.

“Not in the mood, alright?”

Baji was left standing there, dumbfounded.

The entire vibe had been thrown on its head, and he didn’t understand why. Awkwardly, he went back to assorting through the contents within the nearest box, bottom lip stuck out in thought as he briefly glanced at Chifuyu’s back mere feet away. It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He knew not to pry, but curiosity always won gold in the end. Baji replayed the conversation in his head, using his impeccable deductive reasoning to draw his own conclusions.

And then suddenly, an epiphany.

Without a hint of warning, the ravenette quickly walked over and slapped his friend in the middle of his back. Chifuyu yelped, nearly dropping the box in his hands before whipping around to fix Baji with a wide, incredulous look. “T-The hell?!”

“So. She dumped ya, huh? [Sigh] Look man, don’t beat yourself up, a lot of guys fumble the bag from time to time. If ya need a shoulder to cry on…don’t use mine, but ‘tora might let you-”

“Hah?? What are you—[_____] didn’t dump me, dumbass!”

Baji blinked. “Oh. My bad, jus’ figured that’s why you’re in your feelings.”

“And you thought the best thing to do was to hit me, then tell me to cry on someone else?” Chifuyu squinted when the arsonist gave a shrug. He sighed again, carefully setting the box down. “It’s not about [______]. Well, technically. The other day we had lunch with a few of her friends. They apparently have been dying to meet me for some time. And things were going great until…”

Chifuyu trailed off, leaving Baji in suspense.

He grunted. “‘till what? Jus’ say it, bet it isn’t even that bad-”

“They were shocked to see her with someone who barely came up to her elbows.”

Silence filled the storage room. Chifuyu continued to keep his eyes trained elsewhere while his counterpart merely stared for what felt like hours, but only seconds. And then…

“Pfft.”

Chifuyu looked up and sneered, blushing furiously as he threw a chew toy from one of the boxes at the fiend. “Hey! Don’t laugh! Do you have any idea how humiliating that is??”

Baji, to his dismay, effortless caught the toy, even squeaking it a couple times just to annoy him more. Taking a moment to collect himself, the ravenette still wore his sharp grin as he spoke through airy giggles. “So? Who cares what they have to say?”

“I do! They’re [_____]’s friends, everyone knows their approval is just as crucial to the relationship as the parents…if not more.”

“Mm. Pretty sure you’re overthinking this.”

Chifuyu gave a sarcastic laugh, “Pretty sure I’m not.”

“Alright. Lemme school ya on how women operate when they get in their little cliques.” Baji dusted off his hands, missing the eye roll the former blonde gave once again. With his pointer held high, he declared, “If majority of the friend group is taken, they’re just being protective. No doubt they’ve been there for every heartbreak, every fight, ‘nd jus’ don’t think anyone’s good enough for [_____]. Jus’ gotta keep your head down, and don’t give ‘em any reason to be weary. Simple.”

With a slow, skeptical nod, Chifuyu pursed his lips at his fellow delinquent. It wasn’t unlikely, so at least he’s correct in that regard. However, the line between facts and feelings began to blur the further Baji continued.

“But, if majority of them are single, then you’re screwed either way —Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”

“Wow, that’s so helpful. You sure schooled me, Baji-san.”

“‘m serious. You gotta watch out for the single ones in the friend group. They’re all passive aggressive, try to get under your skin, push your buttons. Then, before you know it, they’re in your head, get you so worked up only for them to turn around and play victim, saying you can’t take a joke, and now you’re the fucking bad guy! Classic textbook emotional manipulation—Don’t fall for it. ‘cause they’ve got it down to a science, I’m telling ya.”

Chifuyu’s eyes widen at the sudden intensity that overtook the room, taking a small step back when Baji jabbed his finger at him, as if he were warning him of some conspiracy. “Uh…you good?”

Baji took a moment’s pause. Then, he cleared his throat.

“Sorry, got a little carried away. All’s I’m saying is, don’t sweat. Lotta chick’s pick on the best friend’s new fling, t’s like a war tactic—Poking at our fragile egos ‘nd all that. But, seems like you did fine, otherwise you’d be crying all over ‘tora right now.” Baji shrugged.

Chifuyu blinked, now his turn to be dumbfounded. “Huh.”

He frowned. “‘Huh’? I jus’ gave you some killer, black-pilled insight on cracking their code of conduct, and all I get is a dry-ass ‘huh’? Tsk. I’m charging you next time, goddamn freeloader.”

Chifuyu glared, but softened soon after. After taking his words into consideration, the former blonde couldn’t help but feel lighter. “It’s just... didn’t expect that to actually make me feel better.”

Baji scrunched his nose. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean? Oi, don’t ever doubt my knowledge. It may be selective, but I got it when it counts. Besides, thanks to me you won’t take that stool home after all.”

“I wasn’t planning to take it home in the first place.”

“Right. Keep telling yourself that, elbows.”

“Hey!”

—

large — ♡

“Hey, baby, those legs go all the way up?”

It was moments like this where you detested not being able to blend in with the average crowd. Attention always seemed to gravitate toward you no matter how hard you tried to avoid it, like being covered in honey while trying to walk in front of a herd of bears. And it didn’t help that you were currently wearing heels tonight, accentuating your legs even more in the little, black cocktail dress you sported. You were headed to a party a mutual friend of yours was throwing, and you wanted to surprise your man by wearing the new Jimmy Choos he bought you, knowing how much he loved how your legs with the extra height on them—Evidently, so did the prowling degenerate on the streets.

You had elected to ignore them. HANMA seemed to have other plans as he came to a complete stop in his tracks, slowly turning around to walk up on the moron who had the nerve to open his mouth. Low, golden eyes gazed down at the waste of space, face calm but a murderous aura oozed off him like pheromone, suffocating the slimy bastard into submission as he attempted to shrink away. But, he wasn’t about to let him get away so easily.

A wide, eerie grin spread across his face. “Could’ve sworn I just heard you cat-call my girl right in front of me. But, you wouldn’t be stupid enough to do that. Right?”

The guy nervously looked back for reinforcements but his buddies were already long gone. Hanma’s grin immediately dissolved from his face, kissing his teeth before grabbing the guy by the front of his collar and twisting. “Fuckin’ hate repeating myself.”

Hanma wound his arm back, dead set on knocking the guy into an early grave until you intervened at the last second. By grabbing onto the balled up fist, you brought it to your lips to place a tender kiss on the inked skin. You felt his muscles relax, but he still held the offender by his shirt, only slightly playing attention to you cooing in his ear.

“Baby, you promised no fighting tonight, remember?”

“I know, doll, but this fucker,” he shook the guy around in his tight grasp, unhinged grin making its appearance once more at the sound of him blubbering, “deserves to have his shit rocked for even looking at you. I’m just gonna teach ‘em a little lesson about manners, that’s all. I’ll be quick.”

You scoffed, “You and I both know you don’t do quick.”

Hanma snickered. “First time for everything, right?”

“Shuji.”

Tugging on his arm, you were able to redirect all of his focus onto you, sinister eyes melting into sweet caramel as his pupils dilated the second they locked on yours. It always did something to him whenever you came up to eye-level. Sure, you were already pretty tall but the heels nearly had you towering him. It gave him a weird sensation, one that made him want to drop everything and worship you like the deity you were. Especially in situations like this.

Hanma felt like the smaller one for once. It drove him insane.

You fixed him a stern look. “Drop him.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, he discarded the guy onto the pavement like an old can, wild eyes eagerly watching you and waiting for your next request. Taking his free hand into yours, interlacing your fingers, you led the rest of the way by pulling him from the nobody now cowering near a bush, no doubt rethinking his life choices while you kept onward to your destination. You didn’t get all spruced up to not be seen tonight, and you’ll be damned if any more time got wasted on some loser he’d put in a coma after one hit. After a short moment of silence, you expected Hanma to be mad at you for not letting him knock someone’s teeth loose. But when you glanced back at him, you should’ve known you’d be greeted with absolute smugness as you shook your head in mirth.

You elected to ignore the obvious tent in his pants…but he’d surely plan for you to do otherwise later on.

[vargaslovinghours]

EleVeN!11!!1! (1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 10½)

Fuzzy Edgar forever. I don’t remember the context now, maybe there wasn’t any to begin with haha, he’s just so cute with slightly longer hair! And upset :)

Some Diaryfic snuggles ♥ Scriabin can be so sweet to him at the worst time ah, I love Edgar’s hard on his arm and Scriabin’s pulling his hair out of his injured eye 💕

While I was very inspired by the Red Flags meme going around (we’ll get there), I was just as inspired by Mixed Messages - this exchange is so silly and them to me. He’s just trying to flirt back, you don’t have to make it harder! That’s just what Scriabin does haha

🥐 🖕 D:’

What else did you expect Scriabin to do with texting capabilities?? I’m still very enamoured with the thought of Scriabin using emojis and Edgar using emoticons - they are sort of different generations!

Here’s the Red Flags! So gd catchy, damn lol. I was specifically inspired by the X is on a date with themself edits, it was so tempting to consider a Ladyverse version as well haha. Edgar’s uncomfortable smiles were so incredibly fun hehe ♪

Y’see because with that many eyes- you get it

Edgar’s little “Or do I??” makes me laugh haha, anything to get out of this situation!

Waiter Jake ❤️💕💖💞💗 Rescue him!

Very inspired by this one specifically, he’s totally innocent! Not offputting at all! ♥

Alright well good luck with that bye. I love Edgar being menaced into continuing this date hehe ♫

Scriabin just keeping on the pressure for this date to keep going! Slight neg in “Couldn’t you have dressed up a little nicer though? ✨” pft

Brief aside with Scriabin!Edgar out drinking with my OC Mint who has very openly had a crush on the Vargases for a while now, thanks Mint

Honestly it was all just an excuse to turn him down and have Scriabin call Edgar his “landlord” haha; I was feeling nostalgic and went back to reread some old YuGiOh fics and had been so long away that I forgot that was a term used in the fandom to refer to the bodies of people the various Yamis would take over hehe ♪ It felt very fitting!

I can call him that but don’t you call him that >:(

Angy Scriabin!Edgar, the usual

Handplates re/reading doodles!! Hghgh!!! The theses of these stories of codependent relationships cut me to my very core I’ll have you know 💕 I managed to avoid falling down the rabbit hole of Handplates!Vargas but I was this close, lemme tell you. The subtle shift in phrasing changes so much ;; I love them dearly

A kind-of leftover WOY style Scriabin, since I made his hair all pointy in my first doodles - the WOY style is quite soft and round! He looks very silly hehe

Another song that is, yes, unironically in my Vargas playlist. This is a Nny song to me and you can pry it from my cold dead correct hands. That beautiful facial hair ♪

More Handplates/Vargas, this time obviously inspired by my holiday request 💕💖💞 I honestly rather like how calm Gaster seems whenever he’s in Edgar’s vicinity, he is a fairly unassuming human haha. Is it because he doesn’t laugh very often? Oh no that’s sad actually haha

I’m not done with Blank Slate Ch. 4 just yet - hopefully soon! - but this lineup stands out to me especially since I made it while rereading Handplates. Specifically after Gaster is pulled out of the Void - Gaster having to face the people he loves who have no memory of him really spoke to me in a Blank Slate way - the scenario of being able to completely start over and have never done anything to hurt your loved ones, at the expense of never having done anything to them, as far as they’re concerned, ah! It hurts so beautifully!! That’s one of the central themes I’m chasing so it was so cool to see in that context! Very inspiring ♥

So remember how in my Sims post, one Vargas family ended up with two Todds? Well what if that but actually

Twin Todd AU, just try and stop me

The saddest little twins y’ever did see ahh 💔 Having to share Shmee because there’s just the one of him! Who has a greater need :’0

I actually went and skimmed the SQUEE! comics to get a better grasp on the Casils, I’d forgotten basically everything haha. It seemed in keeping that if they could barely keep track of the one Todd, they wouldn’t bother even differentiating between two :’) Taking Todd shifts to better share the load

At least they have each other! More helpful than a stuffed bear who eats trauma? On par at least?

I also happened to catch this screenshot of the Todds gossiping about their shadow-dad, though I’m not sure who had seen him :0 By now I have found an adoption memory-loss prevention mod - thank goodness :D - but it wasn’t installed at the time! :0 Blue Todd is the Todd who’d already been the Vargases’ kid, Red Todd is newly-adopted Todd :)

Greetings in order! One of the Todds came by to scout out this strange new person

It’s a name to go by, if nothing else

Reporting back from the field, he has served his big narrative influence hehe ♥

Uh, yeah, about that- While I don’t doubt you were seeing double at times, uhm-

Surprise! Double the sons!

Only so much space in this apartment! They’re probably used to sharing a space to sleep weh, the implications of this AU are sad! I have no one to blame but myself haha

I have never been able to give up this twisted love I have for Edgar getting flustered about incredibly silly things and Scriabin chiding him with just his name haha ♥ Real twins do not delegitimize whatever the hell you two are to each other 💕

Who me? An affinity for how names shape identity and what it means to be a whole separate person? In love with this story in particular? You must be mistaken. But really, what would their name(s) be? I also love the subtle differences even just here - one Todd speaks up for the other! Dynamics ✨

1994, 2004, basically the same year innit. Scriabin is so much more on the up-and-up about the latest technology than Edgar, that old man

In which the offscreen is me lol, I was so blown away by how much more advanced the Sims 2 was from the Sims 1 ♥ Scriabin doesn’t need a box with a program in it, he has the absolute funnest toy in the world already!

And isn’t that the most important part ♪

Scriabin immediately makes himself and hooks up with every Sim he can, Edgar uncomfortable and totally not watching a~ny of the animations hehe ♪ Honestly though, the thought of Scriabin being genuinely excited to virtually get it on with any-and-every delights me haha

Look. Look, okay, look- If I could choose what to be inspired by, I would but sometimes

Obviously Scriabin would be a long Furby lol, this exchange can be summarized to “Scriabin no D:” “Scriabin yes >:D”

He’s complaining that Edgar ignoring him sleeping is boring haha

I did briefly lose my mind over how the Furbish word for “I/me/my/mine” is all the same - linguistically it makes sense, self-possessive, but in this, in their context ♥

Based on that one Wojak format - looks into the camera like “Yes. I am in your head. Insanity tracks” pfft

And it’s @jaspravex with the steel chair!! I hadn’t drawn any of them in like a month and then all of a sudden- I was 1000% not expecting to be hit with such a huge wave of inspiration but gosh and dang did this line of thought light me up. The implication! The jealousy! Wow that’s a lot all at once I wasn’t expecting ♥ Somehow these two never ended up on my shipping chart, dynamics I swear haha ✨

There’s September through February for the fourth go ‘round! Wild when I put it like that :0 Like clockwork, these lads ♪

[inkcoffinz]

Is there a reason why you feminise England, in a subtle way that would make he himself believe he isn't man enough? I understand what his personality is like, yet I don't get why at the same time you haven't made him cover his boobs and have made him a secret slut who's gotten pregnant with a lot of kids, it seems like you're humiliating in a way that I personally find weird. I'm sorry, I don't want to feel this way about your characterization so I felt like I have to let you know about it

Before I say anything, I just want to thank you for your criticisms, anon! I am always thankful to get others opinions.

As for the topic at hand, I in no way have said nor wanted to imply that Arthur doesn’t think he is “Manly” enough, but quite the opposite. He is a proud trans man who is very certain on his identity, and his whole journey is trying to show that to the people around him. He doesn’t doubt his identity as a man at all- it’s just historically the others around him have.

As for the feminization topic, I also don’t mean for it to come off that I try to feminize him, because I don’t want it to come off that way. He truly isn’t feminine. He doesn’t cover his breasts, yes, but that’s mostly because historically there wasn’t the ability to be able to. I do have some drawings where he does have top surgery that take place in the modern time (like his birthday art for example). It just depends when the drawing takes place. He also, yeah, does have a lot of kids (the majority of them are actually adopted though). I don’t truly think that Arthur is a ‘slut’. The meme image that drew where he had that shirt was chosen just because he was the best fitting for the role, but I can see how it comes off as weird and I apologize for that. Most of his kids as well are adopted (like America, Canada, etc) and I think the only biological ones he has are Stomaria, Sealand and Hong Kong.

Lastly, I would just like to say that I myself am a trans man with no top surgery and drawing Arthur that way gives me a lot of personal comfort to see a character like me. My headcanons were never for the purpose to be hateful or malicious, but I will be more mindful in the future as to not come off that way! Thanks for reading! 🙌

[adobe-outdesign]

for pokemon reviews, have you done diglett/dugtrio and their alolan forms?

Diglett is what I'd consider to be a quintessential Gen 1 design—no frills, barely any detail, just a wack-a-mole creature with a face. Visually, it's honestly pretty bland, but it helps compensate for this with its "gimmick", if you can call it that: you never see its entire body, with it being perpetually stuck half underground at all times. What the lower body even looks like is a meme in and of itself, even referenced by PMD:

However, I'd also consider this a result of Gen 1 design, and not in a good way this time. Diglett poking halfway out of the ground worked fine on a Gameboy game, because there were no backgrounds, or anything you could define as "ground" in general. But in recent games, Diglett and its dirt keep being rendered as separate from the ground, which really kills the entire concept. I'm not a game dev, but shouldn't it be possible to make it so the dirt part of Diglett's model automatically picks up the ground texture of wherever it spawns? It's 2024, I feel like we can do better than this. Or hell, just don't model in the dirt mound at all if that's too hard to do.

I'm not really that big on Dugtrio, just because this style of "copy/paste the same Pokemon twice" is... well, pretty boring. I'm not even opposed to the idea of multiplying Diglett to evolve it (it kind of ties back into the wack-a-mole thing, and really, what else would you do with it), but the design could've changed more in the process—different faces/expressions, different colors, different body lengths, that kind of thing.

For example, when their lookalikes Wiglett evolve, they change their position relative to the ground, change color, and change facial proportion. It's not a lot, but it's enough to differentiate the two, which is what I feel is missing here.

Speaking of being boring, Alolan Diglett is mostly just regular Diglett but with three blond hairs added. To its credit, I do get what they were going for progression-wise here, and it does change as much as it can about the base design; different, much more saturated colors and dark gray dirk and rocks resembling that of the volcanic minerals in a place like Alola, which is a nice touch. Still, I feel like you could've just skipped this one and done the Cubone thing, with regular Diglett just evolving straight into Alolan Dugtrio, and not really lost much.

I do find myself liking Alolan Dugtrio just a little more than the original. This might be a hot take, but if the original is going to be slightly silly, I'd rather just take the version that goes all the way with the silly. It also fixes the progression issue I had with regular Dugtrio, changing A. Diglett's individual hairs into long flowing surfer-dude manes.

As alluded to in the 'dex, the "hair" here isn't hair at all, but actually metallic whiskers. This in turn is a nod to Pele's hair, a type of volcanic formation found in Hawai'i, which is technically not also hair but is actually glass.

I like this concept, but at the same time, something about the line never quite sat 100% right with me. I think it's because Pele's hair doesn't really have anything to do with the Diglett line to begin with (I thought it maybe formed on the ground, but from what I understand it's actually partially airborne). Like, A. Marrowak turns into a fire dancer because of the bone, A. Vulpix is an arctic fox, G. Corsola is bleached coral, etc. Whether it be visually or conceptually, there's generally a connection between the original 'mon and the new theme, whereas here it just feels kind of random. You could technically slap that hair on any Pokemon and have it make as much sense, though it at least fits Dugtrio from a visual standpoint.

As a whole, Diglett is a fun 'mon with standard visuals but a neat visual quirk, even if it doesn't translate well into the games. Dugtrio is fairly bland, A. Diglett is fine but still kind of bland, and A. Dugtrio at least cranks the silliness up to 100.

Between all three Diglett and Diglett-related 'mons, I think I like Wiglett the best; it's a little plain and could've gotten the eel thing across better, but it has a fitting concept and evolves in a distinct way, which is something I like the actual Diglett line is lacking a bit.

[pandoa]

rook hunt is ripped with muscles and here's why

because some of you guys don't give him enough credit and my brain is rotting; let me live

i'll get straight to the point, i've tried out archery to see what it's like in the past—learned the basics and such—and for those who have never held a bow in their life, let me tell you it gets extremely tiring after shooting for more than an hour or so. so imagine how strong you must be to be shooting bows and arrows since you were a child. that is Rook Hunt, who was practically born from the womb with an archery set in his hand /j

bows have different draw weights that affect the speed, force, and distance that is needed to shoot an arrow. typically, children use bows with a 10-pound draw weight, as young adults and adults use bows with 20 pounds or more. to put this into some sort of perspective, i remember my stamina with the 20-pound bow lasted me about half an hour until my arms began to weaken and shake with how out-of-shape i am but anyways 💀

i've heard that the typical draw weight for hunting is about 40 pounds. and assuming with how long Rook has been an archer, i can imagine that he is physically well-fit enough to exceed the 20-pound draw weight and move onto more efficient bows for hunting like the 40-pound.

think about how developed your muscles must be if you began shooting with 10-pound bows since you were just a kid, moving onto 20 pounds as you get older, and eventually using the 40-pound draw weight as you gain more strength and hunting skills. knowing with how much Rook uses his bows and arrows, it's safe to assume that he most likely hones these skills by practicing archery quite often (i can see him going out to practice at least once a day; don't quote me on that though, this is just a thought i have considering that other hobbies also require daily practice to maintain a person's skill).

there are so many muscles involved in a human body's shoulders, back, chest, and arms that you must use when drawing a bow. exercises focusing on the muscles needed for archery are often done to strengthen an archer. this is where Rook's very toned figure comes in lol.

with the numerous muscles needed to carry out his hobby on a constant basis, Rook would need a strong set of biceps and shoulder muscles to keep up with the bow's general weight and stamina for however long he goes out hunting for. bro has built up muscles, man. built up muscles.

in game, though, i will admit his body does look on the more slim and slender side. i can see why some people in the fandom don't see him as a character with buff arms, but i would like to respectfully disagree. Rook Hunt has scrumptious arm and back muscles i'd shamelessly stare at as his magic hands do whatever wonderous things they do with his bow OH AND GUYS HIS LEGS I MEAN-

ahem. anyways.

i know many in the fandom tend to bully this observant hunter—with his questionable haircut and uh huntsman habits of his—however, these targets for harmless memes cannot overshadow the fact that Rook Hunt is ripped. from head to toe, this man is most likely relatively high among the list of twst characters that are incredibly strong (with Jack trumping them all) and is probably covered in toned muscles, which he maintains with his hunting.

this isn't even me simping anymore; it's just simple logic if we all go by what we know about the Pomefiore vice housewarden. i'll defend this man with my life—and that includes writing a useless essay on why Rook is more muscular and buff than we may think lmao

so in conclusion, Rook has beefy arms that the world is not prepared to talk about just yet. the end.

[magpie-come-east]

Another one for the ask meme, Ranni 🙂

favorite thing about them

Ranni has such a depth of character she is an absolute delight.

I love that she is blunt and honest. Basically the moment you find her in her estate she admits to masterminding the Night of Black Knives. I love that she is very indulgent and permissive of the player in a way that makes it obvious she's just kind of playing with you/Rogier. I love that she's outwardly so cold and conniving. But the more you learn about her the more her naturally warm demeanor slips through. She loves her mother and protected her. She protected Rykard. Blaidd is her brother, and Iji is her childhood friend. She tries to tell the Tarnished off from becoming her Lord, because she knows the path she must take will be lonely and dark. She doesn't want to subject anyone to the ordeal she feels she must undertake. Yet when the Tarnished persists, she declares she is happy to have them for a Lord. She expressly tells the Tarnished to tell Iji and Blaidd she loves them.

Beyond that, I love her design and dialogue. She's so charming to listen to, and her sense of humor is biting and sharp. I rave about the Omen Twins to excess, but Ranni is definitely my favorite character along with them.

Lastly, her ending speaks to me as someone who isn't religious whatsoever. Now, I do not think her story and ending is an endorsement of atheism, nor do I think Ranni is an atheist character. But I find her ending to be the most realistic and true to life. The responsibility of making a better world is in our hands, whether or not we believe in a higher power.

least favorite thing about them

Literally nothing. I support women's wrongs.

favorite line

SOOOO MANYYYY

This is farewell, my dear. Tell Blaidd, and Iji... I love them.

Though he was created a vassal for an Empyrean, He was a colossal failure, on the part of the Two Fingers. Blaidd, and Iji both... Art willing to give too much to me.

Mmm yes. Truly the words of a heartless asshole that doesn't care about anyone or anybody. The AFFECTION with which she calls Blaidd a colossal failure. She knows he loves her genuinely, such that he would follow her to his own doom rather than heed his creator. It destroys me.

Oh? A dogged fellow, aren't we? Or is it merely thy habit, to talk to dolls? Fine...fine. I hadn't expected any soul to recognize me in this guise. But now the cat is out the bag, I cannot allow thee thy freedoms.

Affording thyself opportunity to grope about for the cursemark's location, no doubt? Very well... There's nothing wrong with a well-laid scheme.

No sense in arguing, I see. Thou'rt a wild one, indeed. Torrent hath quite the ruffian chosen...

Man, she's just so endearing. Scathing and clever and deadpan.

brOTP

Ranni and Rykard - my beloved scheming sibling duo.

Ranni and Blaidd - These two don't interact much. But they're both so charming individually it's impossible not to imagine the sibling bickering they do.

Ranni and Tarnished/Champion - I know I'm biased because of my own Age of Stars ER OC, but I've always generally viewed Ranni's relationship with her Elden Lord to be more platonic than romantic.

OTP

Ranni x Tarnished/Champion - Okay, just because I personally see Ranni and her Champion as platonic doesn't mean there aren't also romantic hints in there. One of my favorite moments of the game is when you find her body after she's slain her Two Fingers. You give her the ring and when she awakens she expresses that she is pleased to have you for a Lord:

So, it was thee, who would become my Lord. Perhaps I needn't have warned thee. I am pleased, however. Thou'rt a fitting choice.

nOTP

I don't have a serious Ranni nOTP.

random headcanon

Ranni targeted Godwyn (and presumably his line) in the Night of Black Knives because he was Marika's favorite child and the most prestigious of the Golden Lineage. She didn't know about Morgott and Mohg at the time. But even if she had, she would have gone for Godwyn despite the Omen Twins probably being better targets.

Her doll body is practically immobile, or it takes a great deal of concentration and skill to move it. She has to 'sleep' frequently because if can feel like her soul is just trapped in a stationary coffin of a vessel.

unpopular opinion

I believe the Age of Stars is objectively the most ideal ending to the game.

I genuinely struggle to understand why people don't like her. Like I can get people not favoring the Age of Stars, but to actually dislike Ranni? I don't understand it. I feel like if we were honest with ourselves and analyzed her 'crimes' in comparison to the other royal/Demigod characters in the game, she'd be one of the more innocent/righteous ones. But even if she wasn't, she's a fantastic and engaging character and nearly every complaint i see about her is shallow and not worth consideration.

song i associate with them

Barefoot by KD Lang

She's Got a Gun by KUURO

My Tears Are Becoming a Sea by M83

Dark All Day by Gunship

[nocturius8015ficore]

**UPDATED VERSION September 21**

Nocturius: Oh? What is it? A fanfiction on tumblr, how quaint!! :O

I did that one for the 1 month anniversary of my Fi-Core facebook page. I was pleasantly surprise to have the beginning of a community and nice interactions with other -Core pages. English is my second language (after French) so I was very insecure about writing actual fanfiction but after a bit of RP with some of my followers, I decide to try it anyway. It's just fanfictions, not a 5000$ writing contest...

So, I wanted to celebrate that anniversary with my followers, the story is a little bit 4th wall-breaking meta but roughly, it's just a sweet moment between Parja and Fi.

PS: The ''comlink party'' was just a Fi-Core facebook page thingy of us sharing ''glimmik music'' posts and talking osik around it. XD

tagging: @the-rain-on-kamino (tell me folks if you want me to tag you in the next one!)

-----

Fandom: Star Wars Republic Commando books by Karen Traviss

Characters: Fi Skirata and Parja

Rating: Family-friendly ** Fairly accessible to people who don't know RepCom **

Topic: Slice of life, anxiety, romance

Pitch: Fi is missing her wife after a few weeks of busy work. He fear she might be losing interest about their relationship.

It has been weeks since Parja got back from town. She has been busy at her workshop while Fi stayed with the aliit.

‘’ I should have gone with her. ‘’ said Fi to himself.

During winter, there wasn’t a lot of back and forth between locations. Clan Skirata lived in a hidden base called Kyrimorut. This was his home now. A real home. With family and friends. Everything Fi’s ever had dreamt for.

Well, almost. Niner, Darman and Delta squad were still stuck as Imperial Commandos. Still no news of Sev.

Fi was getting nervous, Parja was about to come back in any minute. He made an effort to look his best. Freshly shaved, tooth brushed, combed his mid-long haircut. However, his nervousness turned into actual anxiety.

‘’ Fierfek…What if she is getting bored of me already? ‘’

Parja and him were married since nearly the day the Republic turned into the Empire. But he was still injured back then. Nowadays, he technically didn’t need her to nurse him anymore. Getting better gave him very mixed feelings though. She used to take care of him like a devoted mom when he was in his worst state. Unable to walk, talk nor feed himself. It wasn’t the kind of love story he had imagined for himself. He was torn between his longing for attention and his wish to be fit for her. Be seen as a real man. He didn’t want pity-love, but would have taken it anyway. Clones usually weren’t that lucky.

Then she arrived. In full Mandalorian armor like most Mandalorian women did it for traveling. Fi looked at her and didn’t even try to hide his smile.

‘’ Don’t stand like this, help me with the grocerie’s bags! ‘’ she said, mildly amused, taking off her helmet.

‘’ Yes ma’am! ‘’

He was distracted by the sight of her thick braids and the cute kama around her thighs but snapped out his mind to help her.

‘’ What have you done while I was gone? ‘’

‘’ I’m… I’ve been useless. I only wrote and shared memes on my datapad... ‘’

‘’ No need to worry about it, that’s ok. Did you have fun? Did you make any new friends? ‘’

‘’  Mhh, yes actually! ‘’ said Fi, grinning. ‘’ I didn’t expect much at first, but the Facebook Star Wars coremunity is quite nice! I met other clones, kept in touch with Atin and Scorch on their -Core-pages.  Met sweet civilians like Jack, Amanda and Lacy who liked my post daily. I even met friendly Imperials! One of them was kind enough to share a comicbook with us. Another one sent us a barrel of spotchka and did a thingy with my avatar's face and his as a token of friendship.’’

‘’ That’s great! I couldn't be there for your comlink private party you threw the other day, but I brought something for you and your friends. Look in the box.‘’

Fi looked on the table and saw a big white box which smelled very nice.

‘’…Is that what I think it is? ‘’

‘’ Yep. Uj cakes with cinnamon and honey! You may share it with all your followers and the ones who are yet to come when they read that fic.‘’

She took one of the cakes, took a bite and fed the rest playfully to her overjoyed husband. Then she kissed him on the nose.

‘’ Happy 1 month anniversary to your Fi-Core page! ‘’

He kissed her on the forehead as she hugged him. His heartbeats went even faster when he felt her fingers unstrapping his armor plates.

‘’ ...and let’s have that private party! ‘’ she whispered to his ear.''

Fi-Core/Nocturius 5th of February 2024/ updated 21 September

[extratrrestrial]

TYPEFACES I THINK THE MOBSAI MAIN CAST WOULD USE

Decided to be insane and come up with some headcanons on the typefaces each character would use. Please shout at me about it on the psychohelmet forum if you get the chance. I've copied and pasted the headcanons under the read more for your viewing pleasure.

I wanted to share my headcanons for the different fonts (using this term very generally) each of the mobsai main cast would use (if we are imagining that they were given free rein to do so for some reason, and also that they wrote using a latin alphabet, obviously) which I just made up off the top of my head right now.

Anyway, here we go:

Mob - Calibri

I think this one makes a lot of sense, just off the bat. I really don't think Mob would be a serif sort of guy, he's too plain and unassuming for that. What better than to make him a very default font. I honestly don't think you can even get more default than calibri. It even sounds a little lame when you say it. Despite that, it's a pretty dependable font, it appears everywhere, and I would argue is very powerful due to its universality and legibility on any-sized devices. But don't just take my word for it, here's what Microsoft has to say about it: "Its proportions allow high impact in tightly set lines of big and small text alike. Calibri’s many curves and the new rasteriser team up in bigger sizes to reveal a warm and soft character." I would argue that this clearly reflects Mob's welcoming character and desire to understand and empathise with any number of characters within the show.

Reigen - Arial

Again, I do feel like this just makes sense to me. Reigen is also a real sans-serif sort of guy, he's the greatest psychic of the 21st century, he's spice city's bro! Arial I feel is also a little more professional than calibri, while still being quite similar in appearance, which I feel reflects the influence Reigen has over Mob's character and development within the story. Described by Microsoft as an "extremely versatile" typeface, especially "for display use in newspapers, advertising and promotions", I think this works well for Reigen's character. It's also a pretty dyslexia friendly font, which I think would be a fun fact he'd shoot at Mob.

Dimple - Papyrus

This one was a little tricky. I wanted it to look dated, considering Dimple's been dead for some time, while also being a little flashy to reflect his desires for godhood. I settled on papyrus because, well, look at it. It's definitely what I'd consider a meme typeface (which I think is fitting for a sentient fart, honestly), but it's also loud without being too out there, and a popular and fun font to use. It's unapologetic and real, which I think Dimple represents as a character, and the complete opposite of a font like calibri. It also looks good in green.

Ritsu - Times New Roman

Ritsu is absolutely a serif guy, through and through. He's always on that 12pt Times New Roman shit, even if he's just writing a casual email to someone. Ritsu is someone who takes things seriously, and has a reputation he wants/needs to uphold. I'm sure he read somewhere that TNR (I'm not writing that shit out again) was the professional font and just made it his whole personality or something. It looks good, so I'm not complaining. I've also heard that TNR is a good font to make study notes in, because you remember it better (I think this was a myth uni students used to tell each other though) but I'm sure he stands behind this fact wholeheartedly.

Teru - Blackadder ITC

Just listen to what Microsoft has to say here in its overview of this font: "Blackadder ITC font is an elegant, yet menacing display face is perfect for theatrical uses and scare tactics." Not only is it elegant and swirly, but works well with his flashy appearances and fashion choices throughout the show. It's impressive and makes a scene when it appears, and walks the line between impressive and gaudy very well for someone as in-TERU-sting as Hanazawa. I do think he'd switch around fonts a little, but this would be his favourite for sure.

Serizawa - Roboto

This one was also hard, and I'm not sure I did him justice. I think, given Serizawa's lack of real-life experience outside of a terrorist organisation as well as his time online, I wanted to go with a font that was professionally acceptable, but still a bit of an outlier. Roboto is also the default font on android devices, and all other google services, which I figured would reflect the 'shut in' phase of his life. It's sorta plain, but does the job and follows the rules without asking too many questions. I think if we were talking specifics, he'd be Roboto Mono.

Tome - Courier New

I need to preface this explanation by saying I love Tome. More than almost all of the characters in this show. She reminds me a lot of myself as a kid. This one's personal. Tome is obsessed with proving the existence of aliens, or any sort of extraterrestrial and paranormal activity. She starts the Telepathy club to research these phenomena, she's absolutely committed (apart from in that one episode) to show the world she's right, to have her friends take her interests seriously. I think she'd want to use a font that was interesting to look at, while still being serious-enough to reflect her passion for pursuing the truth. She probably watched the X-Files as a kid and really wanted to type up some legit-looking reports on the unexplained. No I'm not projecting.

Shou - Comic Sans MS

I mean, what did you expect. He uses Comic Sans for all his reports and thinks he's the funniest guy ever for doing so. He also just likes how it looks, I think he'd be into superhero comics and would love to make any work he does look similar. Not only is it a funny text face, Microsoft also calls it "useful" due to its readability. I think that definitely mirrors Shou's extraversion and his role as a helpful figure, both to Ritsu and to his father at the conclusion of his arc. I also bet he logs on to Toichiro's desktop sometimes and changes his default email font to comic sans too, probably makes the fantastic five or whatever they're called piss themselves with laughter. Also a frequent Wingdings user, for sure.

Toichiro - Futura

Guess I have to put him in here too, since I talked about Shou. I chose Futura here for what it stands for, a purely geometric and efficient typeface which I feel reflects Suzuki's ethos of wanting to be the best and creating a world where 'supreme beings' rule over normal humans. The progressive feel Futura has here becomes skewed, not towards a bright future but towards a descruction of the old order and a rebuilding of an ESPer-led world. An incredibly popular font, which I feel is all about appearances and precision, it wants its letters to stand in line, breaking away from the old 'grotesque' style of former sans-serif fonts. Do you see my vision?

Sample of their fonts below:

[heartless-aro]

what's the story behind aardvarks and yellow roses?

Yellow Roses

Ok so yellow roses are a bit more straightforward to explain, so I’m gonna start there. Outside of the aromantic community, yellow roses traditionally symbolize friendship. Because of this symbolism, when the first aromantic flag (the four stripe flag with green, yellow, orange, and black, shown below) was published on the website for the National Coalition for Aromantic Visibility (NCAV), the flag included a yellow stripe which represented romantic friendship, friends with benefits, friendship dating, and queerplatonic relationships.

The redesigns of the flag also included a yellow stripe (to represent lithromantics) though I’m not sure whether this was at all inspired by the yellow stripe in the original flag (if anyone knows please lmk). Still, it’s an interesting piece of aro history for sure. We still see yellow being used to represent platonic attraction sometimes (notably, on the queerplatonic flag), so there could be some link there as well (though that’s a bit of speculation).

Before the “ace discourse” era on here, I also used to see yellow roses by themselves being used as a symbol of aromanticism by aromantics due to platonic love being intrinsic to how many people experience their aromanticism. It wasn’t as common of a symbol as, say, aardvarks or spades, but it was common enough to be recognizable as a symbol. It was especially used as a symbol of platonic love and attraction within the aro community, as one might expect. Here’s a screenshot of one instance of this that I found digging through old posts by @aromanticaardvark on Wayback Machine. The post is from 2015.

I’m not sure why, but I’ve always personally liked the yellow roses as an aro symbol even if I don’t entirely relate to the platonic love symbolism (in fact, I could be considered aplatonic, though I don’t often label myself as such).

I actually use the blue roses in my header as a nod to the old yellow rose symbol, in case anyone was curious about that. (I chose blue roses instead of yellow since, as I said, the platonic love symbolism isn’t particularly relatable to me. Plus blue roses are often used to symbolize unattainable or unrequited love, which I thought was fitting since I myself am unattainable, and any romantic feelings directed towards me will forever be unrequited).

Aardvarks

So, I’m about 90% sure that the aardvark symbol was started by @aromanticaardvark, who used to be one of the big name blogs in the aro community (though their blog has been inactive since 2016). Back when advice animal memes were a thing, the person behind the Aromantic Aardvark blog used to post aromantic-themed advice animal memes which featured an aardvark. (An example of one such meme originally posted on the Aromantic Aardvark blog in 2011 is shown below).

In 2015, Aromantic Aardvark received the anonymous ask “What does the aardvark have to do with it?” to which they replied “Nothing, really, it’s just alliterative. Aromantic Aardvark was founded when advice animals were a common meme here on tumblr, and my friend and I thought it’d be funny if there were an aromantic meme. That aspect of the blog eventually went away however, and it became more of a general resource/advice blog for aro spectrum people.” This would seem to imply that the use of aardvarks to symbolize aromantics originated on the Aromantic Aardvark tumblr blog.

This would make sense seeing as Aromantic Aardvark was one of the early aromantic blogs, and was even linked on the NCAV website back in 2014.

Aardvarks were used pretty commonly as an aromantic symbol for a while. Notably, the AroPlane forum, where a lot of early discussions about aromantic symbols and flag redesigns took place, used a drawing of an aardvark in its website banner (see below).

I’m honestly not quite sure when aardvarks started to decline in use as an aromantic symbol though.